Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

Sunlight falling through the barred windows cast striped patches onto the off-white walls, which were hung crookedly with art, some of which had been done by former patients. As Strike passed a series of collages depicting detailed farmyard scenes in felt, tinsel and yarn, a skeletal teenage girl emerged from a bathroom alongside a nurse. Neither of them seemed to notice Strike. Indeed, the girl’s dull eyes were focused, it seemed to him, inward upon a battle she was waging far from the real world.

Strike was faintly surprised to discover the double doors to the locked ward at the end of the ground floor corridor. Some vague association with belfries and Rochester’s first wife had led him to picture it on an upper floor, hidden perhaps in one of those pointed spires. The reality was entirely prosaic: a large green buzzer on the wall, which Strike pressed, and a male nurse with bright red hair peering through a small glass window, who turned to speak to somebody behind him. The door opened and Strike was admitted.

The ward had four beds and a seating area, where two patients in day clothes were sitting, playing drafts: an older, apparently toothless man and a pale youth with a thickly bandaged neck. A cluster of people were standing around a workstation just inside the door: an orderly, two more nurses, and what Strike assumed to be two doctors, one male, one female. All turned to stare at him as he entered. One of the nurses nudged the other.

“Mr. Strike,” said the male doctor, who was short, rather foxy in appearance and had a strong Mancunian accent. “How do you do? Colin Hepworth, we spoke on the phone. This is my colleague, Kamila Muhammad.”

Strike shook hands with the woman, whose navy trouser suit reminded him of a policewoman’s.

“We’re both going to be sitting in on your interview with Billy,” she said. “He’s just gone to the bathroom. He’s quite excited about seeing you again. We thought we’d use one of our interview rooms. It’s right here.”

She led him around the workstation, the nurses still watching avidly, into a small room containing four chairs and a desk that had been bolted to the floor. The walls were pale pink but otherwise bare.

“Ideal,” said Strike. It was like a hundred interview rooms he had used in the military police. There, too, third parties had often been present, usually lawyers.

“A quick word before we start,” said Kamila Muhammad, pulling the door to on Strike and her colleague, so that the nurses couldn’t hear their conversation. “I don’t know how much you know about Billy’s condition?”

“His brother told me it’s schizoid affective disorder.”

“That’s right,” she said. “He went off his medication and ended up in a full-blown psychotic episode, which by the sounds of it is when he came to see you.”

“Yeah, he seemed pretty disturbed at the time. He looked as though he’d been sleeping rough, as well.”

“He probably had been. His brother told us he’d been missing around a week at that point. We don’t believe Billy’s psychotic anymore,” she said, “but he’s still quite closed down, so it’s hard to gauge to what degree he’s engaged with reality. It can be difficult to get an accurate picture of someone’s mental state where there are paranoid and delusional symptoms.”

“We’re hoping that you can help us disentangle some of the facts from the fiction,” said the Mancunian. “You’ve been a recurring motif in his conversation ever since he was sectioned. He’s been very keen to talk to you, but not so much to any of us. He’s also expressed fear of—of repercussions if he confides in anyone and, again, it’s difficult to know whether that fear is part of his illness or, ah, whether there’s someone who he genuinely has reason to fear. Because, ah—”

He hesitated, as though trying to choose his words carefully. Strike said:

“I’d imagine his brother could be scary if he chose to be,” and the psychiatrist seemed relieved to have been understood without breaking confidentiality.

“You know his brother, do you?”

“I’ve met him. Does he visit often?”

“He’s been in a couple of times, but Billy’s often been more distressed and agitated after seeing him. If he seems to be similarly affected during your interview—” said the Mancunian.

“Understood,” said Strike.

“Funny, really, seeing you here,” said Colin, with a faint grin. “We assumed that his fixation with you was all part of his psychosis. An obsession with a celebrity is quite common with these kinds of disorders… As a matter of fact,” he said candidly, “just a couple of days ago, Kamila and I were agreeing that his fixation with you would preclude an early discharge. Lucky you called, really.”

“Yeah,” said Strike drily, “that is lucky.”

The redheaded male nurse knocked on the door and put his head in.

“That’s Billy ready to talk to Mr. Strike.”

“Great,” said the female psychiatrist. “Eddie, could we get some tea in here? Tea?” she asked Strike over her shoulder. He nodded. She opened the door. “Come in, Billy.”