Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“Hello, Izz,” said Charlotte, forcing a smile. Strike could almost feel the effort it cost her to tug herself free of that tangle of ancient grudges and wounds in which their relationship had gradually strangled to death.

Again, he prepared to walk away, but the crowd parted and Prince Harry was suddenly revealed in all his hyper-real familiarity, some ten feet away from where Strike and the two women stood, so that moving away from the area would be done under the scrutiny of half the room. Trapped, Strike startled a passing waiter by reaching out a long arm and snatching another glass of wine from his tray. For a few seconds, both Charlotte and Izzy watched the prince. Then, when it became apparent that he was not about to approach them any time soon, they turned back to each other.

“Showing already!” Izzy said, admiring Charlotte’s belly. “Have you had a scan? D’you know what it is?”

“Twins,” said Charlotte, without enthusiasm. She indicated Strike, “You remember—?”

“Corm, yah, of course, we brought him here!” said Izzy, beaming and clearly unconscious of any indiscretion.

Charlotte turned from her old schoolfriend to her ex, and Strike could feel her sniffing the air for the reason that Strike and Izzy would have traveled together. She shifted very slightly, apparently allowing Izzy into the conversation, but boxing Strike in so that he couldn’t walk away without asking one of them to get out of his way. “Oh, wait, of course. You investigated Freddie’s death in action, didn’t you?” she said. “I remember you telling me about it. Poor Freddie.”

Izzy acknowledged this tribute to her brother with a slight tip of her glass, then peeked back over her shoulder at Prince Harry.

“He gets sexier every passing day, doesn’t he?” she whispered.

“Ginger pubes, though, darling,” said Charlotte, deadpan.

Against his will, Strike grinned. Izzy snorted with laughter.

“Speaking of which,” said Charlotte (she never acknowledged that she had been funny), “isn’t that Kinvara Hanratty over there?”

“My ghastly stepmother? Yes,” said Izzy. “D’you know her?”

“My sister sold her a horse.”

During the sixteen years of Strike’s on-off relationship with Charlotte, he had been privy to countless conversations like this. People of Charlotte’s class all seemed to know each other. Even if they had never met, they knew siblings or cousins or friends or classmates, or else their parents knew somebody else’s parents: all were connected, forming a kind of web that constituted a hostile habitat for outsiders. Rarely did these web-dwellers leave to seek companionship or love among the rest of society. Charlotte had been unique in her circle in choosing somebody as unclassifiable as Strike, whose invisible appeal and low status had, he knew, been subjects of perennial, horrified debate among most of her friends and family.

“Well, I hope it wasn’t a horse Amelia liked,” Izzy said, “because Kinvara will ruin it. Awful hands and a horrible seat, but she thinks she’s Charlotte Dujardin. D’you ride, Cormoran?” Izzy asked.

“No,” said Strike.

“He doesn’t trust horses,” said Charlotte, smiling at him.

But he did not respond. He had no desire to touch upon old jokes or shared memories.

“Kinvara’s livid, look at her,” said Izzy, with some satisfaction. “Papa’s just dropped a heavy hint he’s going to try and talk my brother Raff into taking over from me, which is fabulous, and what I hoped would happen. Papa used to let Kinvara boss him around about Raff, but he’s putting his foot down these days.”

“I think I’ve met Raphael,” said Charlotte. “Wasn’t he working at Henry Drummond’s art gallery a couple of months ago?”

Strike checked at his watch and then back around the room. The prince was moving away from their part of the room and Robin was nowhere to be seen. With any luck, she had followed the trustee who had dirt on Winn into the bathroom and was eliciting confidences over the sink.

“Oh Lord,” said Izzy. “Look out. Geraint Bloody—hello, Geraint!”

Geraint’s object, it soon became clear, was Charlotte.

“Hello, hello,” he said, peering at her through heavily smudged glasses, his lipless smile a leer. “You’ve just been pointed out to me by your niece. What an extraordinary young woman she is, quite extraordinary. Our charity’s involved in supporting the equestrian team. Geraint Winn,” he said, holding out a hand, “The Level Playing Field.”

“Oh,” said Charlotte. “Hello.”

Strike had watched her repel lecherous men for years. Having acknowledged his presence, she stared coldly at Geraint, as though quite puzzled to know why he was still in her vicinity.

Strike’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. Reaching for it, he saw an unknown number. This was his excuse to leave.

“Need to get going, sorry. ’Scuse me, Izzy.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Izzy said, pouting. “I wanted to ask you all about the Shacklewell Ripper!”

Strike saw Geraint’s eyes widen. Inwardly cursing her, he said, “Night. Bye,” he added to Charlotte.