Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

A family shuffled into the waiting room, the father sniffing and the mother sobbing. The son, who looked barely older than six, stared at Strike’s missing leg as though it was merely one more horrible detail in the nightmarish world he had suddenly entered. Strike and Robin glanced at each other and left, Robin carrying Strike’s tea as he swung along on his crutches.

Once settled beside Jack again, Strike asked, “How did Chiswell react when you told him everything you’d got on Winn?”

“He was delighted. As a matter of fact, he offered me a job.”

“I’m always surprised that doesn’t happen more often,” said Strike, unperturbed.

Just then, the anesthetist and surgeon converged at the foot of Jack’s bed again.

“Well, things are looking up,” said the anesthetist. “His X-ray’s clear and his temperature’s coming down. That’s the thing with children,” he said, smiling at Robin. “They travel fast in both directions. We’re going to see how he manages with a little less oxygen, but I think we’re getting on top of things.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Robin.

“He’s going to live?” said Strike.

“Oh yes, I think so,” said the surgeon, with a touch of patronage. “We know what we’re doing in here, you know.”

“Gotta let Lucy know,” muttered Strike, trying and failing to get up, feeling weaker at good news than he’d felt at bad. Robin fetched his crutches and helped him into a standing position. As she watched him swinging towards the waiting room, she sat back down, exhaled loudly and put her face briefly into her hands.

“Always worst for the mothers,” said the anesthetist kindly.

She didn’t bother to correct him.

Strike was away for twenty minutes. When he returned, he said:

“They’ve just landed. I’ve warned her how he looks, so they’re prepared. They should be here in about an hour.”

“Great,” said Robin.

“You can head off, Robin. I didn’t mean to balls up your Saturday.”

“Oh,” said Robin, feeling oddly deflated. “OK.”

She stood up, took her jacket off the back of the chair and collected her bag.

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll probably try and get a kip in now we know he’s going to be all right. I’ll walk you out.”

“There’s no need—”

“I want to. I can have another smoke.”

But when they reached the exit, Strike walked on with her, away from the huddled smokers, past the ambulances and the car park that seemed to stretch for miles, roofs glimmering like the backs of marine creatures, surfacing through a dusty haze.

“How did you get here?” he asked, once they were away from the crowds, beside a patch of lawn surrounded by stocks whose scent mingled with the smell of hot tarmac.

“Bus, then cab.”

“Let me give you the cab fare—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Seriously, no.”

“Well… thanks, Robin. It made all the difference.”

She smiled up at him.

“’S’what friends are for.”

Awkwardly, leaning on his crutches, he bent towards her. The hug was brief and she broke away first, afraid that he was going to overbalance. The kiss that he had meant to plant on her cheek landed on her mouth as she turned her face towards him.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be silly,” she said again, blushing.

“Well, I’d better get back.”

“Yes, of course.”

He turned away.

“Let me know how he is,” she called after him, and he raised one hand in acknowledgment.

Robin walked away without looking back. She could still feel the shape of his mouth on hers, her skin tingling where his stubble had scratched her, but she did not rub the sensation away.

Strike had forgotten that he had meant to have another cigarette. Whether because he was now confident that he would be able to take his nephew to the Imperial War Museum, or for some other reason, his exhaustion was now stippled with a crazy light-heartedness, as though he had just taken a shot of spirits. The dirt and heat of a London afternoon, with the smell of stocks in the air, seemed suddenly full of beauty.

It was a glorious thing, to be given hope, when all had seemed lost.

27

They cling to their dead a long time at Rosmersholm.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

By the time Robin found her way back across London to the unfamiliar cricket ground, it was five in the afternoon and Matthew’s charity match was over. She found him back in his street clothes in the bar, fuming and barely speaking to her. Matthew’s side had lost. The other team was crowing.

Facing an evening of being ignored by her husband, and having no friends among his colleagues, Robin decided against going on to the restaurant with the two teams and their partners, and made her way home alone.

The following morning, she found Matthew fully dressed on the sofa, snoring drunkenly. They argued when he woke up, a row that lasted hours and resolved nothing. Matthew wanted to know why it was Robin’s job to hurry off and hold Strike’s hand, given that he had a girlfriend. Robin maintained that you were a lousy person if you left a friend alone to cope with a possibly dying child.