Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

But Strike avoided family get-togethers, partly because he disliked Jack’s father, Greg, and partly because Lucy’s desire to cajole her brother into some more conventional mode of existence was enervating even without the presence of her sons, the eldest of whom Strike found especially like his father. Strike had no desire to have children and while he was prepared to concede that some of them were likable—was prepared to admit, in fact, that he had conceived a certain detached fondness for Jack, on the back of Lucy’s tales of his ambition to join the Red Caps—he had steadfastly resisted birthday parties and Christmas get-togethers at which he might have forged a closer connection.

But now, as dawn crept through the thin curtains blocking Jack’s bed from the rest of the ward, Strike saw for the first time the boy’s resemblance to his grandmother, Strike’s own mother, Leda. He had the same very dark hair, pale skin and finely drawn mouth. He would, in fact, have made a beautiful girl, but Leda’s son knew what puberty was about to do to the boy’s jaw and neck… if he lived.

Course he’s going to bloody live. The nurse said—

He’s in intensive fucking care. They don’t put you in here for hiccups.

He’s tough. Wants to join the military. He’ll be OK.

He’d fucking better be. I never even sent him a text to say thank you for his pictures.

It took Strike a while to drop back into an uneasy doze.

He was woken by early morning sunshine penetrating his eyelids. Squinting against the light, he heard footsteps squeaking on the floor. Next came a loud rattle as the curtain was pulled back, opening Jack’s bed to the ward again and revealing more motionless figures, lying in beds all around them. A new nurse stood beaming at him, younger, with a long dark ponytail.

“Hi!” she said brightly, taking Jack’s clipboard. “It’s not often we get anyone famous in here! I know all about you, I read everything about how you caught that serial—”

“This is my nephew, Jack,” he said coldly. The idea of discussing the Shacklewell Ripper now was repugnant to him. The nurse’s smile faltered.

“Would you mind waiting outside the curtain? We need to take bloods, change his drips and his catheter.”

Strike dragged himself back onto his crutches and made his way laboriously out of the ward again, trying not to focus on any of the other inert figures wired to their own buzzing machines.

The canteen was already half-full when he got there. Unshaven and heavy-eyed, he had slid his tray all the way to the till and paid before he realized he could not carry it and manage his crutches. A young girl clearing tables spotted his predicament and came to help.

“Cheers,” said Strike gruffly, when she had placed the tray on a table beside a window.

“No probs,” said the girl. “Leave it there after, I’ll get it.”

The small kindness made Strike feel disproportionately emotional. Ignoring the fry-up he had just bought, he took out his phone and texted Lucy again.

All fine, nurse changing his drip, will be back with him shortly. X

As he had half-expected, his phone rang as soon as he had cut into his fried egg.

“We’ve got a flight,” Lucy told him without preamble, “but it’s not until eleven.”

“No problem,” he told her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Is he awake yet?”

“No, still sedated.”

“He’ll be so chuffed to see you, if he wakes up before—before—”

She burst into tears. Strike could hear her still trying to talk through her sobs.

“… just want to get home… want to see him…”

For the first time in Strike’s life, he was glad to hear Greg, who now took the phone from his wife.

“We’re bloody grateful, Corm. This is our first weekend away together in five years, can you believe it?”

“Sod’s law.”

“Yeah. He said his belly was sore, but I thought he was at it. Thought he didn’t want us to go away. I feel a right bastard now, I can tell you.”

“Don’t worry,” said Strike, and again, “I’m going nowhere.”

After a few more exchanges and a tearful farewell from Lucy, Strike was left to his full English. He ate methodically and without pleasure amid the clatter and jangle of the canteen, surrounded by other miserable and anxious people tucking into fatty, sugar-laden food.

As he was finishing the last of his bacon, a text from Robin arrived.

I’ve been trying to call with an update on Winn. Let me know when it’s convenient to talk.

The Chiswell case seemed a remote thing to Strike just now, but as he read her text he suddenly had a simultaneous craving for nicotine and to hear Robin’s voice. Abandoning his tray with thanks to the kind girl who had helped him to his table, he set off again on his crutches.