Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

Two bulky sanitary towels had been rolled up in their own unromantic wrapping (“for Very Heavy Flow”): the sort of thing a young woman was unlikely to steal, especially if wearing skimpy clothing. Robin extracted them. There was nothing odd about the first. The second, however, emitted a small, crisp cracking noise as Robin bent it. Her excitement mounting, Robin turned it sideways and saw that it had been slit with what had probably been a razor blade. Wriggling her fingers into the tissue-like foam within, she felt a thick, folded piece of paper, which she eased out and unfolded.

The writing paper was exactly the same as that on which Kinvara had written her farewell note, with the name “Chiswell” embossed across the top and a Tudor rose, like a drop of blood, beneath it. A few disjointed words and phrases were scrawled in the distinctive, cramped handwriting Robin had seen so often in Chiswell’s office, and in the middle of the page one word had been circled many times.

251 Ebury Street

London

SW1W

Blanc de blanc

Suzuki

Mother?

Odi et amo, quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

Hardly breathing in her excitement, Robin took out her mobile, took several pictures of the note, then refolded it, replaced it in the sanitary towel and returned the package to the place it had been on the shelf. She attempted to flush the toilet, but it was clogged and all she achieved was that the water rose ominously in the bowl, refusing to subside, the cigarette butt bobbing there in swirling tissue.

“Sorry,” Robin said, opening the door. “Loo’s blocked.”

“Whatever,” said the impatient, drunk girl outside, “I’ll do it in the sink.”

She pushed past Robin and slammed the door.

Jimmy was still standing outside.

“Think I’m going to take off,” Robin told him. “I only really came t’see if that room was vacant, but soombody’s got in ahead of me.”

“Shame,” said Jimmy lightly. “Come to a meeting some time. We could use a bit of Northern soul.”

“Yeah, I might,” said Robin.

“Might what?”

Flick had arrived, holding a bottle of Budweiser.

“Come to a meeting,” said Jimmy, taking a fresh cigarette out of his pack. “You were right, Flick, she’s the real deal.”

Jimmy reached out and pulled Flick to him, pressing her to his side, and kissed her on the top of the head.

“Yeah, sh’iz,” said Flick, smiling with real warmth as she wound her arm around Jimmy’s waist. “Come to the next one, Bobbi.”

“Yeah, I might,” said Bobbi Cunliffe, the trade unionist’s daughter, and she bade them goodbye, pushed her way out of the hall and out into the cold stairwell.

Not even the sight and smell of one of the black-clad teenagers vomiting copiously on the pavement just outside the main door could dampen Robin’s jubilation. Unable to wait, she texted Strike the picture of Jasper Chiswell’s note while hurrying towards the bus stop.

52

I can assure you, you have been on the wrong scent entirely, Miss West.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Strike had fallen asleep, fully clothed, his prosthesis still attached, on top of the bedcovers in his attic bedroom. The cardboard folder containing everything pertaining to the Chiswell file was lying on his chest, vibrating gently as he snored, and he dreamed that he was walking hand in hand with Charlotte through an otherwise deserted Chiswell House, which they had bought together. Tall, slim and beautiful, she was no longer pregnant. She trailed Shalimar and black chiffon behind her, but their mutual happiness was evaporating in the damp chill of the shabby rooms through which they were wandering. What could have prompted the reckless, quixotic decision to purchase this drafty house, with the peeling walls and the wires dangling from the ceiling?

The loud buzz of a text arriving jerked Strike from sleep. For a fraction of a second he registered the fact that he was back in his attic room, alone, neither the owner of Chiswell House nor the lover of Charlotte Ross, before groping for the phone on which he was half lying in the full expectation that he was about to see a message from Charlotte.

He was wrong: it was Robin’s name he saw when he peered groggily at the screen, and it was, moreover, one in the morning. Momentarily forgetting that she had been out at a party with Flick, Strike sat up hurriedly and the cardboard file that had been lying on his chest slid smoothly off him, scattering its various pages across the floorboards, while Strike squinted, blurry-eyed, at the photograph Robin had just sent him.

“Fuck me backwards.”

Ignoring the mess of notes at his feet, he called her back.

“Hi,” said Robin jubilantly, over the unmistakable sounds of a London night bus: the clatter and roar of the engine, the grinding of brakes, the tinny ding of the bell and the obligatory drunken laughter of what sounded like a gaggle of young women.