Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“Good boy, yes, good boy,” Robin crooned, and the Labrador, less enthusiastic about the chase, allowed her to secure a tight grip on its collar. “Come on, come with us,” said Robin, and she half dragged it, with Strike still leaning on her, towards the overgrown croquet lawn where they now saw a torch bobbing ever nearer through the darkness. A shrill voice called:

“Badger! Rattenbury! Who’s that? Who’s there?”

The silhouette behind the torchlight was female and bulky.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Chiswell!” called Robin. “It’s only us!”

“Who’s ‘us’? Who are you?”

“Follow my lead,” Strike muttered to Robin, and he called, “Mrs. Chiswell, it’s Cormoran Strike and Robin Ellacott.”

“What are you doing here?” she shouted, across the diminishing space between them.

“We were interviewing Tegan Butcher in the village, Mrs. Chiswell,” called Strike, as he, Robin and the reluctant Badger made their laborious way through the long grass. “We were driving back this way and we saw two people entering your property.”

“What two people? Where?”

“They entered the woods back there,” said Strike. From the depths of the trees, the Norfolk terrier was still frenziedly barking. “We didn’t have your number, or we’d have called to warn you.”

Within a few feet of her now, they saw that Kinvara was wearing a thick, padded coat over a short nightdress of black silk, her legs bare above Wellington boots. Her suspicion, shock and incredulity met Strike’s total assurance.

“Thought we ought to do something, seeing as we were the only people who witnessed it,” he gasped, wincing a little as he hobbled up to her with Robin’s assistance, self-deprecatingly heroic. “Apologies,” he added, coming to a halt, “for the state of us. Those woods are muddy and I fell over a couple of times.”

A cold breeze swept the dark lawn. Kinvara stared at him, flummoxed, suspicious, then turned her face in the direction of the terrier’s continued barking.

“RATTENBURY!” she shouted. “RATTENBURY!”

She turned back to Strike.

“What did they look like?

“Men,” invented Strike, “young and fit from the way they were moving. We knew you’d had trouble with trespassers before—”

“Yes. Yes, I have,” said Kinvara, sounding frightened. She seemed to take in Strike’s condition for the first time, as he leaned heavily on Robin, face contorted with pain.

“I suppose you’d better come in.”

“Thanks very much,” said Strike gratefully, “very kind of you.”

Kinvara jerked the Labrador’s collar out of Robin’s grip and bellowed, “RATTENBURY!” again, but the distantly barking terrier did not respond, so she dragged the Labrador, which was showing signs of rebellion, back towards the house, Robin and Strike following.

“What if she calls the police?” Robin muttered to Strike.

“Cross that bridge when we come to it,” he responded.

A floor-to-ceiling drawing room window stood open. Kinvara had evidently followed her frantic dogs through it, as the quickest route to the woods.

“We’re pretty muddy,” Robin warned her, as they crunched their way across the gravel path that encircled the house.

“Just leave your boots outside,” said Kinvara, stepping into the drawing room without bothering to remove her own. “I’m planning to change this carpet, anyway.”

Robin tugged off her wellies, followed Strike inside and closed the window.

The cold, dingy room was illuminated by a single lamp.

“Two men?” Kinvara repeated, turning again to Strike. “Where exactly did you see them coming in?”

“Over the wall at the road,” said Strike.

“D’you think they knew you’d seen them?”

“Oh yeah,” said Strike. “We pulled up, but they ran into the woods. Think they might’ve bottled it once we followed them, though, don’t you?” he asked Robin.

“Yes,” said Robin, “we think we heard them running back towards the road when you let the dogs out.”

“Rattenbury’s still chasing someone—of course, that could be a fox—he goes crazy about the foxes in the woods,” said Kinvara.

Strike’s attention had just been caught by a change to the room since the last time he had seen it. There was a fresh square of dark crimson wallpaper over the mantelpiece, where the painting of the mare and foal had hung.

“What happened to your picture?” he asked.

Kinvara turned to see what Strike was talking about. She answered, perhaps a few seconds too late:

“I sold it.”

“Oh,” said Strike. “I thought you were particularly fond of that one?”

“Not since what Torquil said that day. I didn’t like having it hanging there, after that.”

“Ah,” said Strike.

Rattenbury’s persistent barking continued to echo from the woods where, Strike was certain, it had found Barclay, struggling back to his car with two kit bags full of tools. Now that Kinvara had released her hold on its collar, the fat Labrador let out a single booming bark and trotted to the window, where it began whining and pawing at the glass.

“The police won’t get here in time even if I call them,” said Kinvara, half worried, half angry. “I’m never top priority. They think I make it all up, these intruders.