Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“But… no, this is wrong,” said Billy. The haunted expression had returned to his face. “Where’s the little girl? She was already there. She was with us in the car. I remember them taking her out when we got to the hill. She was crying for her mum.”

“It—it wasn’t a girl,” said Izzy. “That was just Freddie’s—well, it was his idea of humor—”

“It was a girl. They called her by a girl’s name,” said Billy. “I remember.”

“Yes,” said Izzy miserably. “Raphaela.”

“That’s it!” said Billy loudly, and heads turned across the restaurant. “That’s it!” Billy repeated in a whisper, his eyes wide. “Raphaela, that’s what they called her—”

“It wasn’t a girl, Billy… it was my little—it was my little—”

Izzy pressed the napkin to her eyes again.

“So sorry… it was my little brother, Raphael. Freddie and his friends were supposed to be babysitting him, with my father away from home. Raff was awfully cute when he was little. He’d been woken up by them, too, I think, and the girls said they couldn’t leave him in the house, they should take him with them. Freddie didn’t want to. He wanted to leave Raff there on his own, but the girls promised they’d take care of him.

“But once they were up there, Freddie was awfully drunk and he’d had a lot of weed and Raff wouldn’t stop crying and Freddie got angry. He said he was ruining everything and then…”

“He throttled him,” said Billy, with a panicked expression. “It was real, he killed—”

“No, no, he didn’t!” said Izzy, distressed. “Billy, you know he didn’t—you must remember Raff, he came to us every summer, he’s alive!”

“Freddie put his hands round Raphael’s neck,” said Strike, “and squeezed until he was unconscious. Raphael urinated. He collapsed. But he didn’t die.”

Billy’s left hand was still gripping his right tightly.

“I did see it.”

“Yeah, you did,” said Strike, “and, all things considered, you were a bloody good witness.”

The waitress returned with their meals. Once everyone was served, Strike with his rib-eye steak and chips, the two women with their quinoa salads and Billy with the soup, which was all he seemed to have felt confident ordering, Izzy continued her story.

“Raff told me what had happened when I got back from the holidays. He was so little, so upset, I tried to bring it up with Papa, but he wouldn’t listen. He just sort of brushed me off. Said Raphael was whiny and always… always complaining…

“And I look back,” she said to Strike and Robin, her eyes filling with tears again, “and I think about it all… how much hate Raff must’ve felt, after things like that…”

“Yeah, Raphael’s defense team will probably try and use that kind of thing,” said Strike briskly, as he attacked his steak, “but the fact remains, Izzy, that he didn’t act on his desire to see your father dead until he found out there was a Stubbs hanging upstairs.”

“A disputed Stubbs,” Izzy corrected Strike, pulling a handkerchief out of her cuff and blowing her nose. “Henry Drummond thinks it’s a copy. The man from Christie’s is hopeful, but there’s a Stubbs aficionado in the States who’s flying over to examine it, and he says it doesn’t match the notes Stubbs made of the lost painting… but honestly,” she shook her head, “I don’t give a damn. What that thing’s led to, what it’s done to our family… it can go in a skip for all I care. There are more important things,” said Izzy croakily, “than money.”

Strike had an excuse for making no reply, his mouth being full of steak, but he wondered whether it had occurred to Izzy that the fragile man beside her was living in a tiny two-roomed flat in East Ham with his brother, and that Billy was, properly speaking, owed money from the sale of the last set of gallows. Perhaps, once the Stubbs was sold, the Chiswell family might consider fulfilling that obligation.

Billy was eating his soup in an almost trancelike state, his eyes unfocused. Robin thought his deeply contemplative state seemed peaceful, even happy.

“So, I must’ve got confused, mustn’t I?” Billy asked at last. He spoke now with the confidence of a man who feels firm footing in reality. “I saw the horse being buried and thought it was the kid. I got mixed up, that’s all.”

“Well,” said Strike, “I think there might be a bit more to it than that. You knew that the man who’d throttled the child was the same one burying the horse in the dell with your father. I suppose Freddie wasn’t around much, being so much older than you, so you weren’t completely clear who he was… but I think you’ve blocked out a lot about the horse and how it died. You conflated two acts of cruelty, perpetrated by the same person.”

“What happened,” asked Billy, now slightly apprehensive, “to the horse?”

“Don’t you remember Spotty?” asked Izzy.

Amazed, Billy set down his soup spoon and held his hand horizontally perhaps three feet off the ground.

“That little—yeah… didn’t it graze the croquet lawn?”

“She was an ancient, miniature spotted horse,” Izzy explained to Strike and Robin. “She was the last of Tinky’s lot. Tinky had awful, kitschy taste, even in horses…”