Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“I heard, later, that Jasper had bundled her off into some kind of psychiatric clinic not long afterwards. That’s how families like the Chiswells deal with excessive emotion, I suppose,” said Della, taking another sip of wine. “Yet she stayed with him. Of course, people do stay, even when they’re treated abominably. He talked about her within my hearing as though she was a deficient, needy child. I remember him saying Kinvara’s mother would be ‘babysitting’ her for her birthday, because he had to be in Parliament for a vote. He could have paired his vote, of course—found a Labor MP and struck a deal. Simply couldn’t be bothered.

“Women like Kinvara Chiswell, whose entire self-worth is predicated on the status and success of marriage, are naturally shattered when everything goes wrong. I think all those horses of hers were an outlet, a substitute and—oh yes,” said Della, “I’ve just remembered—the very last thing she said to me that day was that in addition to everything else, she now had to go home to put down a beloved mare.”

Della felt for the broad, soft head of Gwynn, who was lying beside her chair.

“I felt very sorry for her, there. Animals have been an enormous consolation to me in my life. One can hardly overstate the comfort they give, sometimes.”

The hand that caressed the dog still sported a wedding ring, Strike noticed, along with a heavy amethyst ring that matched her housecoat. Somebody, he supposed Geraint, must have told her that it was the same color and again, he felt an unwelcome pang of pity.

“Did Kinvara tell you how or when she’d found out that her husband had been unfaithful?”

“No, no, she simply gave way to an almost incoherent outpouring of rage and grief, like a small child. Kept saying, ‘I loved him and he never loved me, it was all a lie.’ I’ve never heard such a raw explosion of grief, even at a funeral or a deathbed. I never spoke to her again except for hello. She acted as though she had no memory of what had passed between us.”

Della took another sip of wine.

“Can we return to Mallik?” Strike asked.

“Yes, of course,” she said at once.

“The morning that Jasper Chiswell died—the thirteenth—you were here, at home?”

There was a lengthy silence.

“Why are you asking me that?” Della said, in a changed tone.

“Because I’d like to corroborate a story I’ve heard,” said Strike.

“You’re mean, that Aamir was here with me, that morning?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, that’s quite true. I’d slipped downstairs and sprained my wrist. I called Aamir and he came over. He wanted me to go to casualty, but there was no need. I could still move all my fingers. I simply needed some help managing breakfast and so on.”

“You called Mallik?”

“What?” she said.

It was the age-old, transparent “what?” of the person who is afraid they’ve made a mistake. Strike guessed that some very rapid thinking was going on behind the dark glasses.

“You called Aamir?”

“Why? What does he say happened?”

“He says your husband went in person to fetch him from his house.”

“Oh,” said Della and then, “of course, yes, I forgot.”

“Did you?” asked Strike gently. “Or are you backing up their story?”

“I forgot,” Della repeated firmly. “When I said I ‘called’ him I wasn’t talking about the telephone. I meant that I called ‘on’ him. Via Geraint.”

“But if Geraint was here when you slipped, couldn’t he have helped you with your breakfast?”

“I think Geraint wanted Aamir to help persuade me to go to casualty.”

“Right. So it was Geraint’s idea to go to Aamir, rather than yours?”

“I can’t remember now,” she said, but then, contradicting herself, “I’d fallen rather heavily. Geraint has a bad back, naturally he wanted help and I thought of Aamir, and then the pair of them nagged me to go to A&E, but there was no need. It was a simple sprain.”

The light was now fading beyond the net curtains. Della’s black lenses reflected the neon red of the dying sun above the rooftops.

“I’m extremely worried about Aamir,” she said again, in a strained voice.

“A couple more questions and I’m done,” Strike replied. “Jasper Chiswell hinted in front of a roomful of people that he knew something disreputable about Mallik. What can you tell me anything about that?”

“Yes, well, it was that conversation,” said Della quietly, “that first made Aamir think about resigning. I could feel him pulling away from me after it happened. And then you finished the job, didn’t you? You went to his house, to taunt him further.”

“There was no taunting, Mrs. Winn—”

“Liwat, Mr. Strike, did you never learn what that meant all the time you were in the Middle East?”

“Yeah, I know what it means,” said Strike matter-of-factly. “Sodomy. Chiswell seemed to be threatening Aamir with exposure—”

“Aamir wouldn’t suffer from exposure of the truth, I assure you!” said Della fiercely. “Not that it matters a jot, but he doesn’t happen to be gay!”

The Brahms symphony continued on what, to Strike, was its gloomy and intermittently sinister course, horns and violins competing to jar the nerves.