Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“They won’t hear it from us,” Robin assured him.

Frowning slightly, Oliver opened his notebook and consulted the details he had jotted there in a small but legible hand.

“Well, forensics are fairly clear-cut. I don’t know how much technical detail you want—”

“Minimal,” said Strike. “Give us the highlights.”

“Chiswell had ingested around 500mg of amitriptyline, dissolved in orange juice, on an empty stomach.”

“That’s a sizable dose, isn’t it?” asked Strike.

“It could have been fatal on its own, even without the helium, but it wouldn’t have been as quick. On the other hand, he had heart disease, which would have made him more susceptible. Amitriptyline causes dysrhythmia and cardiac arrest in overdose.”

“Popular suicide method?”

“Yeah,” said Oliver, “but it’s not always as painless as people hope. Most of it was still in his stomach. Very small traces in the duodenum. Suffocation is what actually killed him, on analysis of the lung and brain tissue. Presumably the amitriptyline was a back-up.”

“Prints on the glass and the orange juice carton?”

Oliver turned a page in his notebook.

“The glass only had Chiswell’s prints on it. They found the carton in the bin, empty, also with Chiswell’s prints on, and others. Nothing suspicious. Just as you’d expect if it had been handled during purchase. Juice inside tested negative for drugs. The drugs went directly into the glass.”

“The helium canister?”

“That had Chiswell’s prints on it, and some others. Nothing suspicious. Same as the juice carton, like it had been handled during purchase.”

“Does amitriptyline have a taste?” asked Robin.

“Yeah, it’s bitter,” said Oliver.

“Olfactory dysfunction,” Strike reminded Robin. “After the head injury. He might not have tasted it.”

“Would it have made him groggy?” Robin asked Oliver.

“Probably, especially if he wasn’t used to taking it, but people can have unexpected reactions. He might’ve become agitated.”

“Any sign of how or where the pills were crushed up?” asked Strike.

“In the kitchen. There were traces of powder found on the pestle and mortar there.”

“Prints?”

“His.”

“D’you know whether they tested the homeopathic pills?” asked Robin.

“The what?” said Oliver.

“There was a tube of homeopathic pills on the floor. I trod on them,” Robin explained. “Lachesis.”

“I don’t know anything about them,” said Oliver, and Robin felt a little foolish for mentioning them.

“There was a mark on the back of his left hand.”

“Yes,” said Oliver, turning back to his notes. “Abrasions to face and a small mark on the hand.”

“On the face, too?” said Robin, freezing with her sandwich in her hand.

“Yes,” said Oliver.

“Any explanation?” asked Strike.

“You’re wondering whether the bag was forced over his head,” said Oliver; it was a statement, not a question. “So did MI5. They know he didn’t make the marks himself. Nothing under his own nails. On the other hand, there was no bruising to the body to show force, nothing disarranged in the room, no signs of a struggle—”

“Other than the bent sword,” said Strike.

“I keep forgetting you were there,” said Oliver. “You know all this.”

“Marks on the sword?”

“It had been cleaned recently, but Chiswell’s prints were on the handle.”

“What time of death are we looking at?”

“Between 6 and 7 a.m.,” said Oliver.

“But he was fully dressed,” mused Robin.

“From what I’ve heard about him, he was quite literally the kind of bloke who wouldn’t have been caught dead in pajamas,” said Oliver drily.

“Met’s inclining to suicide, then?” asked Strike.

“Off the record, I think an open verdict is quite likely. There are a few discrepancies that need explaining. You know about the open front door, of course. It’s warped. It won’t close unless you shut it with force, but it sometimes jumps back open again if you slam it too hard. So it could have been accidental, the fact that it was open. Chiswell might not have realized he’d left it ajar, but equally, a killer might not have known the trick to closing it.”

“You don’t happen to know how many keys to the door there were?” asked Strike.

“No,” said Oliver. “As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, Van and I had to sound only casually interested, asking all these questions.”

“He’s a dead government minister,” said Strike. “Surely you didn’t have to sound too casual?”

“I know one thing,” said Oliver. “He had plenty of reasons to kill himself.”

“Such as?” inquired Strike, pen poised over his notebook.

“His wife was leaving him—”

“Allegedly,” said Strike, writing.

“—they’d lost a baby, his eldest son died in Iraq, the family say he was acting strangely, drinking heavily and so on, and he had serious money problems.”

“Yeah?” said Strike. “Like what?”

“He was almost wiped out in the 2008 crash,” said Oliver. “And then there was… well, that business you two were investigating.”

“D’you know where the blackmailers were, at the time of—?”

Oliver made a swift, convulsive movement that nearly knocked over his coffee. Leaned towards Strike he hissed:

“There’s a super-injunction out, in case you haven’t—”

“Yeah, we’ve heard,” said Strike.