Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

Clutching her wine in both hands Della said:

“You have to find Aamir for me. If he thought I sanctioned Geraint telling him to go to Barrowclough-Burns for favors, it’s no wonder he—”

Her self-control was visibly disintegrating. She tried to set the wine down on the arm of her chair and had to feel for it with the other hand before doing so successfully, all the while shaking her head in little jerks of disbelief.

“No wonder he what?” asked Strike quietly.

“Accused me of… of smothering… controlling… well, of course, this explains everything… we were so close—you wouldn’t understand—it’s hard to explain—but it was remarkable, how soon we became—well, like family. Sometimes, you know, there’s an instant affinity—a connection that years couldn’t forge, with other people—

“But these past few weeks, it all changed—I could feel it—starting when Chiswell made that jibe in front of everyone—Aamir became distant. It was as though he no longer trusted me… I should have known… oh Lord, I should have known… you have to find him, you have to…”

Perhaps, Strike thought, the depth of her burning sense of need was sexual in origin, and perhaps on some subconscious level it had indeed been tinged with appreciation of Aamir’s youthful masculinity. However, as Rhiannon Winn watched over them from her cheap gilt frame, wearing a smile that didn’t reach her wide, anxious eyes, her teeth glinting with heavy braces, Strike thought it far more likely that Della was a woman possessed of that which Charlotte so conspicuously lacked: a burning, frustrated maternal drive tinged, in Della’s case, with unassuageable regret.

“This as well,” she whispered. “This as well. What hasn’t he ruined?”

“You’re talking about—”

“My husband!” said Della numbly. “Who else? My charity—our charity—but you know that, of course? It was you who told Chiswell about the missing twenty-five thousand, wasn’t it? And the lies, the stupid lies, Geraint’s been telling people? David Beckham, Mo Farah—all those impossible promises?”

“My partner found out.”

“Nobody will believe me,” said Della distractedly, “but I didn’t know, I had no idea. I’ve missed the last four board meetings—preparations for the Paralympics. Geraint only told me the truth after Chiswell threatened him with the press. Even then he claimed it was the accountant’s fault, but he swore to me the other things weren’t true. Swore it, on his mother’s grave.”

She twisted the wedding ring on her finger, apparently distracted.

“I suppose your wretched partner tracked down Elspeth Lacey-Curtis, as well?”

“Afraid so,” lied Strike, judging that a gamble was indicated. “Did Geraint deny that, too?”

“If he’d said anything to make the girls uncomfortable he felt awful, but he swore there was nothing else to it, no touching, just a couple of risqué jokes. But in this climate,” said Della furiously, “a man ought to damned well think about what jokes he makes to a bunch of fifteen-year-old girls!”

Strike leaned forwards and grabbed Della’s wine, which was in danger of being upended again.

“What are you doing?”

“Moving your glass onto the table,” said Strike.

“Oh,” said Della, “thank you.” Making a noticeable effort to control herself, she continued, “Geraint was representing me at that event, and it will go the way it always goes in the press when it all comes out: it will have been my fault, all of it! Because men’s crimes are always ours in the final analysis, aren’t they, Mr. Strike? Ultimate responsibility always lies with the woman, who should have stopped it, who should have acted, who must have known. Your failings are really our failings, aren’t they? Because the proper role of the woman is carer, and there’s nothing lower in this whole world than a bad mother.”

Breathing hard, she pressed her trembling fingers to her temples. Beyond the net curtains night, deep blue, was inching like a veil over the glaring red of sunset and as the room grew darker, Rhiannon Winn’s features faded gradually into the twilight. Soon all that would be visible was her smile, punctuated by the ugly braces.

“Give me back my wine, please.”

Strike did so. Della drank most of it down at once and continued to clasp the glass as she said bitterly:

“There are plenty of people ready to think all kinds of odd things about a blind woman. Of course, when I was younger, it was worse. There was often a prurient interest in one’s private life. It was the first place some men’s minds went. Perhaps you’ve experienced it, too, have you, with your one leg?”

Strike found that he didn’t resent the blunt mention of his disability from Della.

“Yeah, I’ve had a bit of that,” he admitted. “Bloke I was at school with. Hadn’t seen him in years. It was my first time back in Cornwall since I got blown up. Five pints in, he asked me at what point I warned women my leg was going to come off with my trousers. He thought he was being funny.”

Della smiled thinly.