Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

Color flooded her face, which as he knew was normally cameo pale. She was heavily pregnant. Her condition had not touched her anywhere but the swollen belly. She was as fine-boned as ever in face and limbs. Less adorned than any other woman in the room, she was easily the most beautiful. For a few seconds they contemplated each other, then she took a few tentative steps forwards, the color ebbing from her cheeks as fast as it had come.

“Corm?”

“Hello, Charlotte.”

If she thought of kissing him, his stony face deterred her.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“Invited,” lied Strike. “Celebrity amputee. You?”

She seemed dazed.

“Jago’s niece is a Paralympian. She’s…”

Charlotte looked around, apparently trying to spot the niece, and took a sip of water. Her hand was shaking. A few drops spilled from the glass. He saw them break like glass beads on her swollen belly.

“… well, she’s here somewhere,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “She’s got cerebral palsy and she’s remarkable, actually, an incredible rider. Her father’s in Hong Kong, so her mum invited me, instead.”

His silence was unnerving her. She rattled on:

“Jago’s family like to make me go out and do things, only my sister-in-law’s cross because I got the dates mixed up. I thought tonight was dinner at the Shard and this thing was Friday, tomorrow, I mean, so I’m not dressed properly for royalty, but I was late and I didn’t have time to change.”

She gestured hopelessly at her plain black dress and her spike-heeled boots.

“Jago not here?”

Her gold-flecked green eyes flickered slightly.

“No, he’s in the States.”

Her focus moved to his upper lip.

“Have you been in a fight?”

“No,” he said, dabbing at his nose with the back of his hand again. He straightened up, lowering his weight carefully back onto his prosthesis, ready to walk away. “Well, nice to—”

“Corm, don’t go,” she said, reaching out. Her fingers did not quite make contact with his sleeve; she let her hand fall back by her side. “Don’t, not yet, I—you’ve done such incredible things. I read about them all in the papers.”

The last time they had seen each other he had been bleeding, too, because of the flying ashtray that had caught him in the face as he left her. He remembered the text, “It was yours,” sent on the eve of her wedding to Ross, referring to another baby she had claimed to be bearing, which had vanished before he ever saw proof of its existence. He remembered, too, the picture she had sent to his office of herself, minutes after saying “I do” to Jago Ross, beautiful and stricken, like a sacrificial victim.

“Congratulations,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face.

“I’m huge because it’s twins.”

She did not, as he had seen other pregnant women do, touch her belly as she talked about the babies, but looked down as though slightly surprised to see her changed shape. She had never wanted children when they had been together. It was one of the things they had had in common. The baby that she had claimed was his had been an unwelcome surprise to both of them.

In Strike’s imagination, Jago Ross’s progeny were curled under the black dress like a pair of white whelps, not entirely human, emissaries of their father, who resembled a dissolute arctic fox. He was glad they were there, if such a joyless emotion could be called gladness. All impediments, all deterrents, were welcome, because it now became apparent to him that the gravitational pull Charlotte had so long exerted over him, even after hundreds of fights and scenes and a thousand lies, was not yet spent. As ever, he had the sense that behind the green-and-gold-flecked eyes, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“They aren’t due for ages. I had a scan, it’s a boy and a girl. Jago’s pleased about the boy. Are you here with anyone?”

“No.”

As he said it, he caught a flash of green over Charlotte’s shoulder. Robin, who was now talking brightly to the mousy woman in purple brocade who had finally escaped Geraint.

“Pretty,” said Charlotte, who had looked to see what had caught his attention. She had always had a preternatural ability to detect the slightest flicker of interest towards other women. “No, wait,” she said slowly, “isn’t that the girl who works with you? She was in all the papers—what’s her name, Rob—?”

“No,” said Strike, “that’s not her.”

He wasn’t remotely surprised that Charlotte knew Robin’s name, or that she had recognized her, even with the hazel contact lenses. He had known Charlotte would keep tabs on him.

“You’ve always liked girls with that coloring, haven’t you?” said Charlotte with a kind of synthetic gaiety. “That little American you started dating after you pretended we’d broken up in Germany had the same kind of—”

There was a kind of hushed scream in their vicinity.

“Ohmigod, Charlie!”

Izzy Chiswell was bearing down upon them, beaming, her pink face clashing with her orange dress. She was, Strike suspected, not on her first glass of wine.