Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

Now, when it might have been expected, she didn’t panic. There was no threat here, however horrifying the sight of that awful dummy, with the turnip head and the tube, this poor lifeless figure could not hurt her. Knowing that she must check that life was extinct, Robin approached Chiswell and gently touched his shoulder. It was easier, not being able to see his eyes, because of the coarse hair that obscured them like a horse’s forelock. The flesh felt hard beneath his striped shirt and cooler than she had expected.

But then she imagined the gaping mouth speaking, and took several quick steps backwards, until her foot landed with a crunch on something hard on the carpet and she slipped. She had cracked a pale blue plastic tube of pills lying on the carpet. She recognized them as the sort of homeopathic tablets sold in her local chemist.

Taking out her mobile, she called 999 and asked for the police. After explaining that she had found a body and giving the address, she was told that someone would be with her shortly.

Trying not to focus on Chiswell, she took in the frayed curtains, which were of an indeterminate dun color, trimmed with sad little bobbles, the antiquated TV in its faux wood cladding, the patch of darker wallpaper over the mantelpiece where a painting had once hung, and the silver-framed photographs. But the shrink-wrapped head, the rubber piping and the cold glint of the canister seemed to turn all of this everyday normality into pasteboard. The nightmare alone was real.

So Robin turned her mobile onto its camera function and began to take photographs. Putting a lens between herself and the scene mitigated the horror. Slowly and methodically, she documented the scene.

A glass sat on the coffee table in front of the body, with a few millimeters of what looked like orange juice in it. Scattered books and papers lay beside it. There was a piece of thick cream writing paper headed with a red Tudor rose, like a drop of blood, and the printed address of the house in which Robin stood. Somebody had written in a rounded, girlish hand.

Tonight was the final straw. How stupid do you think I am, putting that girl in your office right under my nose? I hope you realize how ridiculous you look, how much people are laughing at you, chasing a girl who’s younger than your daughters.

I’ve had enough. Make a fool of yourself, I don’t care anymore, it’s over.

I’ve gone back to Woolstone. Once I’ve made arrangements for the horses, I’ll clear out for good. Your bloody horrible children will be happy, but will you, Jasper? I doubt it, but it’s too late.

K

As Robin bent to take a picture of the note, she heard the front door snap shut, and with a gasp, she spun around. Strike was standing on the threshold, large, unshaven, still in the suit he had worn to the reception. He was staring at the figure in the chair.

“The police are on their way,” said Robin. “I just called them.”

Strike moved carefully into the room.

“Holy shit.”

He spotted the cracked tube of pills on the floor, stepped over them, and scrutinized the tubing and the plastic-covered face.

“Raff said he was behaving strangely,” said Robin, “but I don’t think he ever dreamed…”

Strike said nothing. He was still examining the body.

“Was that there yesterday evening?”

“What?”

“That,” said Strike, pointing.

There was a semi-circular mark on the back of Chiswell’s hand, dark red against the coarse, pallid skin.

“I can’t remember,” said Robin.

The full shock of what had happened was starting to hit her and she was finding it hard to arrange her thoughts, which floated, unmoored and disconnected, through her head: Chiswell barking through the car window to persuade the police to let Strike into last night’s reception, Chiswell calling Kinvara a stupid bitch, Chiswell demanding that they meet him here this morning. It was unreasonable to expect her to remember the backs of his hands.

“Hmm,” said Strike. He noticed the mobile in Robin’s hand. “Have you taken pictures of everything?”

She nodded.

“All of this?” he asked, waving a hand over the table. “That?” he added, pointing at the cracked pills on the carpet.

“Yes. That was my fault. I trod on them.”

“How did you get in?”

“The door was open. I thought he’d left it on the latch for us,” said Robin. “A workman shouted in the street and I thought it was Chiswell saying ‘come in.’ I was expecting—”

“Stay here,” said Strike.