Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

Strike dodged it and brought his left foot down hard on the placard, splintering the pole, but his amputated leg was not equal to bearing all his weight, especially as Jimmy’s second punch connected. As Strike crumpled, he hit Jimmy in the balls. Knight gave a soft scream of pain, doubled up, hit the falling Strike and both of them toppled over, knocking bystanders sideways, all of whom shouted their indignation. As Strike hit the pavement, one of Jimmy’s companions aimed a kick at his head. Strike caught his foot and twisted it. Through the mounting furore, he heard a third woman shriek:

“They’re attacking that man!”

Strike was too intent on seizing hold of Jimmy’s mangled cardboard banner to care whether he was being cast as victim or aggressor. Tugging on the banner, which like himself was being trampled underfoot, he succeeded in ripping it. One of the pieces attached to the spike heel of a panicking woman trying to get out of the way of the fight, and was carried away.

Fingers closed around his neck from behind. He aimed an elbow at Jimmy’s face and his hold loosened, but then somebody kicked Strike in the stomach and another blow hit him on the back of the head. Red spots popped in front of his eyes.

More shouting, a whistle, and the crowd was suddenly thinning around them. Strike could taste blood, but, from what he could see, the splintered and torn remnants of Jimmy’s placard had been scattered by the mêlée. Jimmy’s hands were again scrabbling at Strike’s neck, but then Jimmy was pulled away, swearing fluently at the top of his voice. The winded Strike was seized and dragged to his feet as well. He put up no resistance. He doubted he could have stood of his own accord.

32

… and now we can go in to supper. Will you come in, Mr. Kroll?

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Chiswell’s Mercedes turned the corner of St. James’s Street onto Pall Mall and set off along Cleveland Row.

“What’s going on?” growled Chiswell, as the car slowed, then stopped.

The shouting ahead was not of the excited, enthusiastic kind that royalty or celebrities might expect. Several uniformed officers were converging on the crowd on the left-hand side of the street which was jostling and pushing as it tried to move away from what appeared to be a confrontation between police and protestors. Two disheveled men in jeans and T-shirts emerged from the fray, both held in armlocks by uniformed officers: Jimmy Knight, and a youth with limp blond dreadlocks.

Then Robin bit back a cry of dismay as a hobbling, bloody Strike appeared, also being led along by police. Behind them, an altercation in the crowd had not subsided, but was growing. A barrier swayed.

“Pull up, PULL UP!” bellowed Chiswell at the driver, who had just begun to accelerate again. Chiswell wound down his window. “Door open—Venetia, open your door!—that man!” Chiswell roared at a nearby policeman, who turned, startled, to see the Minister for Culture shouting at him and pointing at Strike. “He’s my guest—that man—bloody well let him go!”

Confronted by an official car, a government minister, the steely, patrician voice, the brandishing of a thick embossed invitation, the policeman did as he was told. Most people’s attention was focused on the increasingly violent brawl between police and CORE, and the consequent trampling and pushing of the crowd trying to get away from it. A couple of cameramen had broken away from the press pen up ahead, and were running towards the fracas.

“Izzy, move up—get in, GET IN!” Chiswell snarled at Strike through the window.

Robin squeezed backwards, half-sitting in Izzy’s lap to accommodate Strike as he clambered into the back seat. The door slammed. The car rolled on.

“Who are you?” squealed the frightened Kinvara, who was now pinned against the opposite door by Izzy. “What’s going on?”

“He’s a private detective,” growled Chiswell. His decision to bring Strike into the car seemed born of panic. Twisting around in his seat to glare at Strike, he said, “How does it help me if you get bloody arrested?”

“They weren’t arresting me,” said Strike, dabbing his nose with the back of his hand. “They wanted to take a statement. Knight attacked me when I went for his placard. Cheers,” he added, as, with difficulty given how tightly compressed they all were, Robin passed him a box of tissues that had been lying on the ledge behind the rear seat. He pressed one to his nose. “I got rid of the placard,” Strike added, through the blood-stained tissue, but nobody congratulated him.

“Jasper,” said Kinvara, “what’s going—?”

“Shut up,” snapped Chiswell, without looking at her. “I can’t let you out in front of all these people,” he told Strike angrily, as though the latter had suggested it. “There are more photographers… You’ll have to come in with us. I’ll fix it.”

The car was now proceeding towards a barrier where police and security were checking ID and investigations.