Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

There was a great ringing in Robin’s ears. Raphael was spitting oaths in English and Italian, screaming threats, thrashing and twisting as Strike helped bend him over the table for Wardle to cuff him, but she stumbled away from the group as though in a dream, backwards towards the kitchen area of the galley, where pots and pans were hanging and white kitchen roll sat, ludicrously ordinary, beside a tiny sink. She could feel her lip swelling where Raphael had hit her. She tore off some kitchen roll, ran it under the cold tap and pressed it to her bleeding mouth, while through the porthole she watched uniformed officers hurrying through the black gates, taking possession of the gun and of the struggling Raphael, whom Wardle had just dragged onto the bank.

She had just been held at gunpoint. Nothing seemed real. Now the police were stomping in and out of the barge, but it was all noise and echo, and now she realized that Strike was standing beside her, and he seemed the only person with any reality.

“How did you know?” she asked thickly, through the cold wodge of tissue.

“Twigged five minutes after you left. The last three digits on that number you showed me on those supposed texts from Matthew were the same as one of the burner phone numbers. Went after you but you were already gone. Layborn sent panda cars out and I’ve been calling you nonstop ever since. Why didn’t you pick up?”

“My phone was on silent in my bag. Now it’s in the canal.”

She craved a stiff drink. Maybe, she thought vaguely, there really was a bar somewhere nearby… but of course, she wouldn’t be allowed to go to a bar. She was facing hours back at New Scotland Yard. They would need a long statement. She would have to relive the last hour in detail. She felt exhausted.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Called Izzy and asked if Raphael knew anyone in the vicinity of that fake address he was trying to get you to. She told me he’d had some posh druggie girlfriend who owned a barge. He was running out of places to go. The police have been watching his flat for the last two days.”

“And you knew the gun was empty?”

“I hoped it was empty,” he corrected her. “For all I knew, he’d checked it and reloaded.”

He groped in his pocket. His fingers shook slightly as he lit a cigarette. He inhaled, then said:

“You did bloody well to keep him talking that long, Robin, but next time you get a call from an unknown number, you bloody well call it back and check who’s on the other end. And don’t you ever—ever—tell a suspect anything about your personal life again.”

“Would it be OK if I have two minutes,” she asked, pressing the cold kitchen roll against her swollen and bleeding lip, “to enjoy not being dead, before you start?”

Strike blew out a jet of smoke.

“Yeah, fair enough,” he said, and pulled her clumsily into a one-armed hug.

ONE MONTH LATER

EPILOGUE

Your past is dead, Rebecca. It has no longer any hold on you—has nothing to do with you—as you are now.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

The Paralympics had been and gone, and September was doing its best to wash away the memory of the long, Union-Jacked summer days, when London had basked for weeks in the world’s attention. Rain was pattering against the Cheyne Walk Brasserie’s high windows, competing with Serge Gainsbourg as he crooned “Black Trombone” from hidden speakers.

Strike and Robin, who had arrived together, had only just sat down when Izzy, who had chosen the restaurant for its proximity to her flat, arrived in a slightly disheveled flapping of Burberry trench coat and sodden umbrella, the latter taking some time to collapse at the door.

Strike had only spoken to their client once since the case had been solved, and then briefly, because Izzy had been too shocked and distressed to say much. They were meeting today at Strike’s request, because there was one last piece of unfinished business in the Chiswell case. Izzy had told Strike by phone, when they arranged lunch, that she had not been out much since Raphael’s arrest. “I can’t face people. It’s all so dreadful.”

“How are you?” she said anxiously, as Strike maneuvered himself out from behind the white-clothed table to accept a damp embrace. “And oh, poor Robin, I’m so sorry,” she added, hurrying around the other side of the table to hug Robin, before saying distractedly, “Oh yes, please, thank you,” to the unsmiling waitress, who took her wet raincoat and umbrella.

Sitting down, Izzy said, “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” then grabbed a napkin from the table and pressed it firmly to her tear ducts. “Sorry… keep doing this. Trying not to be embarrassing…”

She cleared her throat and straightened her back.

“It’s just been such a shock,” she whispered.

“Of course it has,” said Robin, and Izzy gave her a watery smile.