Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“Enjoy yourself?” asked Lorelei in the taxi, at one in the morning.

“Not particularly,” said Strike, who was watching the headlights of oncoming cars.

He had had the impression that Robin had been avoiding him. After the relative warmth of their conversation on Thursday, he had expected—what? A conversation, a laugh? He had been curious to know how the marriage was progressing, but was not much the wiser. She and Matthew seemed amicable enough together, but the fact that they were renting was intriguing. Did it suggest, even subconsciously, a lack of investment in a joint future? An easier arrangement to untangle? And then there was Robin’s friendship with Vanessa Ekwensi, which Strike saw as another stake in the life she led independently of Matthew.

Blame sea-borne bacteria.

What the hell did that mean? Was it connected to the mysterious clinic? Was Robin ill?

After a few minutes’ silence it suddenly occurred to Strike that he ought to ask Lorelei how her evening had been.

“I’ve had better,” sighed Lorelei. “I’m afraid your Robin’s got a lot of boring friends.”

“Yeah,” said Strike. “I think that’s mainly her husband. He’s an accountant. And a bit of a tit,” he added, enjoying saying it.

The taxi bowled on through the night, Strike remembering how Robin’s figure had looked in the gray dress.

“Sorry?” he said suddenly, because he had the impression that Lorelei had spoken to him.

“I said, ‘What are you thinking about?’”

“Nothing,” lied Strike, and because it was preferable to talking, he slid an arm around her, pulled her close and kissed her.

8

… my word! Mortensgaard has risen in the world. There are lots of people who run after him now.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Robin texted Strike on Sunday evening to ask what he wanted her to do on Monday, because she had handed over all her jobs before taking a week’s leave. His terse response had been “come to office,” which she duly entered at a quarter to nine the following day, glad, no matter how matters stood between her and her partner, to be back in the shabby old rooms.

The door to Strike’s inner office was standing open when she arrived. He was sitting behind his desk, listening to someone on his mobile. Sunlight fell in treacle-gold pools across the worn carpet. The soft mumble of traffic was soon obliterated by the rattle of the old kettle and, five minutes after her arrival, Robin set a mug of steaming dark brown Typhoo in front of Strike, who gave her a thumbs up and a silent “thanks.” She returned to her desk, where a light was flashing on the phone to indicate a recorded message. She dialed their answering service and listened while a cool female voice informed her that the call had been made ten minutes before Robin had arrived and, presumably, while Strike was either upstairs, or busy with the other call.

A cracked whisper hissed in Robin’s ear.

“I’m sorry I ran out on you, Mr. Strike, I’m sorry. I can’t come back, though. He’s keeping me here, I can’t get out, he’s wired the doors…”

The end of the sentence was lost in sobs. Worried, Robin tried to attract Strike’s attention, but he had turned in his swivel chair to look out of the window, still listening to his mobile. Random words reached Robin through the pitiable sounds of distress on the phone.

“… can’t get out… I’m all alone…”

“Yeah, OK,” Strike was saying in his office. “Wednesday, then, OK? Great. Have a good one.”

“… please help me, Mr. Strike!” wailed the voice in Robin’s ear.

She smacked the button to switch to speakerphone and at once the tortured voice filled the office.

“The doors will explode if I try and escape, Mr. Strike, please help me, please come and get me, I shouldn’t have come, I told him I know about the little kid and it’s bigger, much bigger, I thought I could trust him—”

Strike spun in his desk chair, got up and came striding through to the outer office. There was a clunk as though the receiver had been dropped. The sobbing continued at a distance, as though the distraught speaker was stumbling away from the phone.

“That’s him again,” said Strike. “Billy, Billy Knight.”

The sobbing and gasping grew louder again and Billy said in a frantic whisper, his lips evidently pressed against the mouthpiece:

“There’s someone at the door. Help me. Help me, Mr. Strike.”

The call was cut.

“Get the number,” said Strike. Robin reached for the receiver to dial 1471, but before she could do so, the phone rang again. She snatched it up, her eyes on Strike’s.

“Cormoran Strike’s office.”

“Ah… yes, good morning,” said a deep, patrician voice.

Robin grimaced at Strike and shook her head.

“Shit,” he muttered, and moved back into his office to get his tea.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Strike, please.”

“I’m afraid he’s on another call right now,” lied Robin.

Their standard practice for a year had been to phone the client back. It weeded out journalists and cranks.