Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“The bit I don’t feel great about is when I told him I know he’s been ostracized by his family, barring one sister who’s still talking to him. It’s all on Facebook. It was when I mentioned his family dropping him that I nearly got my head taken off with a table lamp.”

“Maybe they’re upset because they think he’s with Della?” suggested Robin as Strike chewed his noodles.

He shrugged and made an expression indicative of “maybe,” swallowed, and said, “Has it occurred to you that Aamir is literally the only person connected with this case who’s got a motive? Chiswell threatened him, presumably with exposure. ‘A man of your habits.’ ‘Lachesis knew when everyone’s time was up.’”

“What happened to ‘forget about motive, concentrate on means’?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Strike wearily. He set aside his plate, from which he had eaten nearly all the noodles, took out his cigarettes and lighter, and sat up a little straighter. “OK, let’s focus on means.

“Who had access to the house, to anti-depressants and helium? Who knew Jasper Chiswell’s habits well enough to be sure he’d drink his orange juice that morning? Who had a key, or, who would he have trusted enough to let in in the early hours of the morning?”

“Members of his family.”

“Right,” said Strike, as his lighter flared, “but we know Kinvara, Fizzy, Izzy and Torquil can’t have done it, which leaves us with Raphael and his story of being ordered down to Woolstone that morning.”

“You really think he could have killed his father then driven coolly down to Woolstone to wait with Kinvara until the police arrived?”

“Forget psychology or probability: we’re considering opportunity,” said Strike, blowing out a long jet of smoke. “Nothing I’ve heard so far precludes Raphael being at Ebury Street at six in the morning. I know what you’re going to say,” he forestalled her, “but it wouldn’t be the first time a phone call had been faked by a killer. He could have called his own mobile with Chiswell’s to make it seem as though his father had ordered him down to Woolstone.”

“Which means that either Chiswell didn’t have a passcode on his mobile, or that Raphael knew it.”

“Good point. That needs checking.”

Clicking out the nib of his pen, Strike made a note on his pad. As he did it, he wondered whether Robin’s husband, who had previously deleted her call history without her knowledge, knew her current passcode. These small matters of trust were often powerful indicators of the strength of a relationship.

“There’s another logistical problem if Raphael was the killer,” Robin said. “He didn’t have a key, and if his father let him in, it would mean Chiswell was awake and conscious while Raphael pounded up anti-depressants in the kitchen.”

“Another good point,” said Strike, “but the pounding up of the pills has to be explained away with all of our suspects.

“Take Flick. If she was posing as the cleaner, she probably knew the house in Ebury Street better than most of the family. Loads of opportunities to poke around, and she had a restricted key for a while. They’re hard to get copied, but let’s say she managed it, so she could still let herself in and out of the house whenever she fancied.

“She creeps in in the early hours to doctor the orange juice, but crushing pills in a pestle and mortar is a noisy job—”

“—unless,” said Robin, “she brought the pills already crushed up, in a bag or something, and dusted them around the pestle and mortar to make it look as though Chiswell had done it.”

“OK, but we still need to explain why there were no traces of amitriptyline in the empty orange juice carton in the bin. Raphael could plausibly have handed his father a glass of juice—”

“—except that Chiswell’s prints were the only ones on there—”

“—but would Chiswell not find it odd to come downstairs in the morning to a pre-poured glass of juice? Would you drink a glass of something you hadn’t poured, and which appeared mysteriously in what you thought was an empty house?”

Down in Denmark Street, a group of young women’s voices rose over the constant swish and rumble of traffic, singing Rihanna’s “Where Have You Been?”

“Where have you been? All my life, all my life…”

“Maybe it was suicide,” said Robin.

“That attitude won’t get the bills paid,” said Strike, tapping his cigarette ash onto his plate. “Come on, people who had the means to get into Ebury Street that day: Raphael, Flick—”

“—and Jimmy,” said Robin. “Everything that applies to Flick applies to him, because she would’ve been able to give him all the information she had about Chiswell’s habits and his house, and given him her copied key.”