Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“I know the fucking feeling!”

Fuming, Strike stabbed off the call.

“Cormoran?” Robin called through the door. “Everything OK?”

“No, it’s fucking not!”

He opened the office door.

In one part of his brain, he registered that Robin was wearing the green dress he had bought her two years ago, as a thank you for helping him catch their first killer. She looked stunning.

“Knight’s got a placard with Chiswell’s face on it. He’s planning something with a bunch of mates. I knew it, I fucking knew this would happen now Winn’s bailed on him… I’ll bet you anything he’s heading for your reception. Shit,” said Strike, realizing he didn’t have shoes on and doubling back. “And Hutchins has lost them,” he shouted over his shoulder. “The stupid tit didn’t tell me he’s ill.”

“Maybe you can get Barclay back?” suggested Robin.

“He’ll be on the Tube by now. I’m going to have to fucking do it, aren’t I?” said Strike. He dropped back into the sofa and slid his feet into his shoes. “There are going to be press all round that place tonight if Harry’s going to be there. All it needs is for a journo to twig what Jimmy’s stupid fucking sign means, and Chiswell’s out of a job and so’re we.” He heaved himself back to his feet. “Where is this thing, tonight?”

“Lancaster House,” said Robin. “Stable Yard.”

“Right,” said Strike, heading for the door. “Stand by. You might have to bail me out. There’s a good chance I’m going to have to punch him.”

29

It became impossible for me to remain an idle spectator any longer.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

The taxi that Strike had picked up in Charing Cross Road turned into St. James’s Street twenty minutes later, while he was still talking to the Minister for Culture on his mobile.

“A placard? What’s on it?”

“Your face,” said Strike. “That’s all I know.”

“And he’s heading for the reception? Well, this is bloody it, isn’t it?” shouted Chiswell, so loudly that Strike winced and removed the phone from his ear. “If the press see this, it’s all over! You were supposed to stop something like this bloody happening!”

“And I’m going to try,” said Strike, “but in your shoes I’d want to be forewarned. I’d advise—”

“I don’t pay you for advice!”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” promised Strike, but Chiswell had already hung up.

“I’m not going to be able to go any further, mate,” said the taxi driver, addressing Strike in the rearview mirror from which dangled a swinging mobile, outlined in tufts of multi-colored cotton and embossed with a golden Ganesh. The end of St. James’s Street had been blocked off. A swelling crowd of royal watchers and Olympics fans, many clutching small Union Jacks, was congregating behind portable barriers, waiting for the arrival of Paralympians and Prince Harry.

“OK, I’ll get out here,” said Strike, fumbling for his wallet.

He was once again facing the crenellated frontage of St. James’s Palace, its gilded, diamond-shaped clock gleaming in the early evening sun. Strike limped down the slope again towards the crowd, passing the side street where Pratt’s stood, while smartly dressed passersby, workers and customers of galleries and wine merchants moved aside courteously as his uneven gait became progressively more pronounced.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, pain shooting up into his groin every time he put his weight onto the prosthesis as he drew closer to the assembled sports fans and royal watchers. He could see no placards or banners of a political nature, but as he joined the back of the crowd and looked down Cleveland Row, he spotted a press pen and ranks of photographers, which stood waiting for the prince and famous athletes. It was only when a car slid past, containing a glossy-haired brunette Strike vaguely recognized from the television, that he remembered he had not called Lorelei to tell her he would be late to dinner. He hastily dialed her number.

“Hi, Corm.”

She sounded apprehensive. He guessed that she thought he was going to cancel.

“Hi,” he said, his eyes still darting around for some sign of Jimmy. “I’m really sorry, but something’s come up. I might be late.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, and he could tell that she was relieved that he was still intending to come. “Shall I try and change the booking?”

“Yeah—maybe make it eight instead of seven?”

Turning for the third time to scan Pall Mall behind him, Strike spotted Flick’s tomato-red hair. Eight CORE members were heading for the crowd, including a stringy, blond-dreadlocked youth and a short, thickset man who resembled a bouncer. Flick was the only woman. All bar Jimmy were holding placards with the broken Olympic rings on them, and slogans such as “Fair Play Is Fair Pay” and “Homes Not Bombs.” Jimmy was holding his own placard upside down, the picture on it turned inwards, parallel with his leg.

“Lorelei, I’ve got to go. Speak later.”