Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“It isn’t a crime to go to a hotel!” said Kinvara hysterically, and she turned to her solicitor, “This is ridiculous, Charles, how can they make a case against me because I went to a—”

“Mrs. Chiswell will answer any questions you’ve got about her birthday,” the solicitor told DCI McMurran, with what Robin thought was remarkable optimism, “but equally—”

The door of the observation room opened and hit Strike.

“No problem, we’ll shift,” Layborn told his colleague. “Come on, gang, we’ll go to the incident room. Got plenty more to show you.”

As they turned a second corner, they saw Eric Wardle walking towards them.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he said, grinning as he shook Strike’s hand. “Actually invited in by the Met.”

“You staying, Wardle?” asked Layborn, who seemed faintly resentful at the prospect of another policeman sharing the guests he was keen to impress.

“Might as well,” said Wardle. “Find out what I’ve been assisting in, all these weeks.”

“Must’ve taken its toll,” said Strike, as they followed Layborn into the incident room, “passing on all that evidence we found.”

Wardle sniggered.

Used as she was to the cramped and slightly dilapidated offices in Denmark Street, Robin was fascinated to see the space that Scotland Yard devoted to the investigation into a high profile and suspicious death. A whiteboard on the wall carried a timeline for the killing. The adjacent wall bore a collage of photographs of the death scene and the corpse, the latter showing Chiswell freed from his plastic wrapping, so that his congested face appeared in awful close-up, with a livid scratch down one cheek, the cloudy eyes half open, the skin a dark, mottled purple.

Spotting her interest, Layborn showed her the toxicology reports and phone records that the police had used to build their case, then unlocked the large cupboard where physical evidence was bagged and tagged, including the cracked tube of lachesis pills, a grubby orange juice carton and Kinvara’s farewell letter to her husband. Seeing the note that Flick had stolen, and a printout of the photograph of “Mare Mourning” lying on a spare bed, both of which Robin knew had now become central to the police case, she experienced a rush of pride.

“Right then,” said DI Layborn, closing the cupboard and walking over to a computer monitor. “Time to see the little lady in action.”

He inserted a video disk in the nearest machine, beckoning Strike, Robin and Wardle closer.

The crowded forecourt of Paddington station was revealed, jerky black and white figures moving everywhere. The time and date showed in the upper left corner.

“There she is,” said Layborn, hitting “pause” and pointing a stubby figure at a woman. “See her?”

Even though blurred, the figure was recognizable as Kinvara. A bearded man had been caught in the frame, staring, probably because her coat hung open, revealing the clinging black dress she had worn to the Paralympian reception. Layborn pressed “play” again.

“Watch her, watch her—gives to the homeless—”

Kinvara had donated to a swaddled man holding a cup in a doorway.

“—watch her,” Layborn said unnecessarily, “straight up to the railway worker—pointless question—shows him her ticket… watch her, now… off to the platform, stops and asks another bloke a question, making sure she’s remembered every bloody step of the way, even if she’s not caught on camera… aaaand… onto the train.”

The picture twitched and changed. A train was pulling into the station at Swindon. Kinvara got off, talking to another woman.

“See?” said Layborn. “Still making damn sure people remember her, just in case. And—”

The picture changed again, to that of the car park at Swindon station.

“—there she is,” said Layborn, “car’s parked right near the camera, conveniently. In she gets and off she goes. Gets home, insists the stable girl stays overnight, sleeps in the next room, goes outside next morning to ride within sight of the girl… cast-iron alibi.

“Course, like you, we’d already come to the conclusion that if it was murder, it must have been a two-person job.”

“Because of the orange juice?” asked Robin.

“Mostly,” said Layborn. “If Chiswell” (he said the name as it was spelled) “had taken amitriptyline unknowingly, the most likely explanation was that he’d poured himself doctored juice out of a carton in the fridge, but the carton in the bin was undoctored and only had his prints on.”

“Easy to get his prints on small objects once he was dead, though,” said Strike. “Just press his hand onto them.”