“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Invited,” lied Strike. “Celebrity amputee. You?”
She seemed dazed.
“Jago’s niece is a Paralympian. She’s…”
Charlotte looked around, apparently trying to spot the niece, and took a sip of water. Her hand was shaking. A few drops spilled from the glass. He saw them break like glass beads on her swollen belly.
“… well, she’s here somewhere,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “She’s got cerebral palsy and she’s remarkable, actually, an incredible rider. Her father’s in Hong Kong, so her mum invited me, instead.”
His silence was unnerving her. She rattled on:
“Jago’s family like to make me go out and do things, only my sister-in-law’s cross because I got the dates mixed up. I thought tonight was dinner at the Shard and this thing was Friday, tomorrow, I mean, so I’m not dressed properly for royalty, but I was late and I didn’t have time to change.”
She gestured hopelessly at her plain black dress and her spike-heeled boots.
“Jago not here?”
Her gold-flecked green eyes flickered slightly.
“No, he’s in the States.”
Her focus moved to his upper lip.
“Have you been in a fight?”
“No,” he said, dabbing at his nose with the back of his hand again. He straightened up, lowering his weight carefully back onto his prosthesis, ready to walk away. “Well, nice to—”
“Corm, don’t go,” she said, reaching out. Her fingers did not quite make contact with his sleeve; she let her hand fall back by her side. “Don’t, not yet, I—you’ve done such incredible things. I read about them all in the papers.”
The last time they had seen each other he had been bleeding, too, because of the flying ashtray that had caught him in the face as he left her. He remembered the text, “It was yours,” sent on the eve of her wedding to Ross, referring to another baby she had claimed to be bearing, which had vanished before he ever saw proof of its existence. He remembered, too, the picture she had sent to his office of herself, minutes after saying “I do” to Jago Ross, beautiful and stricken, like a sacrificial victim.
“Congratulations,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face.
“I’m huge because it’s twins.”
She did not, as he had seen other pregnant women do, touch her belly as she talked about the babies, but looked down as though slightly surprised to see her changed shape. She had never wanted children when they had been together. It was one of the things they had had in common. The baby that she had claimed was his had been an unwelcome surprise to both of them.
In Strike’s imagination, Jago Ross’s progeny were curled under the black dress like a pair of white whelps, not entirely human, emissaries of their father, who resembled a dissolute arctic fox. He was glad they were there, if such a joyless emotion could be called gladness. All impediments, all deterrents, were welcome, because it now became apparent to him that the gravitational pull Charlotte had so long exerted over him, even after hundreds of fights and scenes and a thousand lies, was not yet spent. As ever, he had the sense that behind the green-and-gold-flecked eyes, she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“They aren’t due for ages. I had a scan, it’s a boy and a girl. Jago’s pleased about the boy. Are you here with anyone?”
“No.”
As he said it, he caught a flash of green over Charlotte’s shoulder. Robin, who was now talking brightly to the mousy woman in purple brocade who had finally escaped Geraint.
“Pretty,” said Charlotte, who had looked to see what had caught his attention. She had always had a preternatural ability to detect the slightest flicker of interest towards other women. “No, wait,” she said slowly, “isn’t that the girl who works with you? She was in all the papers—what’s her name, Rob—?”
“No,” said Strike, “that’s not her.”
He wasn’t remotely surprised that Charlotte knew Robin’s name, or that she had recognized her, even with the hazel contact lenses. He had known Charlotte would keep tabs on him.
“You’ve always liked girls with that coloring, haven’t you?” said Charlotte with a kind of synthetic gaiety. “That little American you started dating after you pretended we’d broken up in Germany had the same kind of—”
There was a kind of hushed scream in their vicinity.
“Ohmigod, Charlie!”
Izzy Chiswell was bearing down upon them, beaming, her pink face clashing with her orange dress. She was, Strike suspected, not on her first glass of wine.
“Hello, Izz,” said Charlotte, forcing a smile. Strike could almost feel the effort it cost her to tug herself free of that tangle of ancient grudges and wounds in which their relationship had gradually strangled to death.
Again, he prepared to walk away, but the crowd parted and Prince Harry was suddenly revealed in all his hyper-real familiarity, some ten feet away from where Strike and the two women stood, so that moving away from the area would be done under the scrutiny of half the room. Trapped, Strike startled a passing waiter by reaching out a long arm and snatching another glass of wine from his tray. For a few seconds, both Charlotte and Izzy watched the prince. Then, when it became apparent that he was not about to approach them any time soon, they turned back to each other.
“Showing already!” Izzy said, admiring Charlotte’s belly. “Have you had a scan? D’you know what it is?”
“Twins,” said Charlotte, without enthusiasm. She indicated Strike, “You remember—?”
“Corm, yah, of course, we brought him here!” said Izzy, beaming and clearly unconscious of any indiscretion.
Charlotte turned from her old schoolfriend to her ex, and Strike could feel her sniffing the air for the reason that Strike and Izzy would have traveled together. She shifted very slightly, apparently allowing Izzy into the conversation, but boxing Strike in so that he couldn’t walk away without asking one of them to get out of his way. “Oh, wait, of course. You investigated Freddie’s death in action, didn’t you?” she said. “I remember you telling me about it. Poor Freddie.”
Izzy acknowledged this tribute to her brother with a slight tip of her glass, then peeked back over her shoulder at Prince Harry.
“He gets sexier every passing day, doesn’t he?” she whispered.
“Ginger pubes, though, darling,” said Charlotte, deadpan.
Against his will, Strike grinned. Izzy snorted with laughter.
“Speaking of which,” said Charlotte (she never acknowledged that she had been funny), “isn’t that Kinvara Hanratty over there?”
“My ghastly stepmother? Yes,” said Izzy. “D’you know her?”
“My sister sold her a horse.”
During the sixteen years of Strike’s on-off relationship with Charlotte, he had been privy to countless conversations like this. People of Charlotte’s class all seemed to know each other. Even if they had never met, they knew siblings or cousins or friends or classmates, or else their parents knew somebody else’s parents: all were connected, forming a kind of web that constituted a hostile habitat for outsiders. Rarely did these web-dwellers leave to seek companionship or love among the rest of society. Charlotte had been unique in her circle in choosing somebody as unclassifiable as Strike, whose invisible appeal and low status had, he knew, been subjects of perennial, horrified debate among most of her friends and family.
“Well, I hope it wasn’t a horse Amelia liked,” Izzy said, “because Kinvara will ruin it. Awful hands and a horrible seat, but she thinks she’s Charlotte Dujardin. D’you ride, Cormoran?” Izzy asked.
“No,” said Strike.
“He doesn’t trust horses,” said Charlotte, smiling at him.
But he did not respond. He had no desire to touch upon old jokes or shared memories.
“Kinvara’s livid, look at her,” said Izzy, with some satisfaction. “Papa’s just dropped a heavy hint he’s going to try and talk my brother Raff into taking ove
r from me, which is fabulous, and what I hoped would happen. Papa used to let Kinvara boss him around about Raff, but he’s putting his foot down these days.”
“I think I’ve met Raphael,” said Charlotte. “Wasn’t he working at Henry Drummond’s art gallery a couple of months ago?”
Strike checked at his watch and then back around the room. The prince was moving away from their part of the room and Robin was nowhere to be seen. With any luck, she had followed the trustee who had dirt on Winn into the bathroom and was eliciting confidences over the sink.
“Oh Lord,” said Izzy. “Look out. Geraint Bloody—hello, Geraint!”
Geraint’s object, it soon became clear, was Charlotte.
“Hello, hello,” he said, peering at her through heavily smudged glasses, his lipless smile a leer. “You’ve just been pointed out to me by your niece. What an extraordinary young woman she is, quite extraordinary. Our charity’s involved in supporting the equestrian team. Geraint Winn,” he said, holding out a hand, “The Level Playing Field.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte. “Hello.”
Strike had watched her repel lecherous men for years. Having acknowledged his presence, she stared coldly at Geraint, as though quite puzzled to know why he was still in her vicinity.
Strike’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. Reaching for it, he saw an unknown number. This was his excuse to leave.
“Need to get going, sorry. ’Scuse me, Izzy.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Izzy said, pouting. “I wanted to ask you all about the Shacklewell Ripper!”
Strike saw Geraint’s eyes widen. Inwardly cursing her, he said, “Night. Bye,” he added to Charlotte.
Limping away as fast as he could manage, he accepted the call, but by the time he had raised it to his ear, the caller had gone.
“Corm.”
Somebody lightly touched his arm. He turned. Charlotte had followed him.
“I’m leaving, too.”
“What about your niece?”
“She’s met Harry, she’ll be thrilled. She doesn’t actually like me that much. None of them do. What happened to your mobile?”
“I fell on it.”
He walked on, but, long-legged as she was, she caught up with him.
“I don’t think I’m going your way, Charlotte.”
“Well, unless you’re tunneling out, we have to walk two hundred yards together.”
He limped on without answering. To his left, he caught another flash of green. As they reached the grand staircase in the hall, Charlotte reached out and lightly grasped his arm, wobbly in the heels that were so unsuitable for a pregnant woman. He resisted the urge to shake her loose.
His mobile rang again. The same unknown number had appeared on the screen. Charlotte drew up beside him, watching his face as he answered it.
The moment the mobile touched his ear he heard a desperate, haunting scream.
“They’re going to kill me, Mr. Strike, help me, help me, please help me… ”
34
But who could really foresee what was coming? I am sure I could not.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
The hazy, clear-skied promise of another summer’s day hadn’t yet translated itself into actual warmth when Robin arrived next morning at the café closest to Chiswell’s house. She could have chosen one of the circular tables outside on the pavement, but instead she huddled down in a corner of the café where she was to meet Strike, hands clasped around her latte for comfort, her reflection in the espresso machine pale and heavy-eyed.
Somehow, she had known that Strike would not be here when she arrived. Her mood was simultaneously depressed and nervy. She would rather not have been alone with her thoughts, but here she was, with only the hiss of the coffeemaker for company, chilly in spite of the jacket she had grabbed on the way out of the house and full of anxiety about the imminent confrontation with Chiswell, who might quibble his bill, after the catastrophe of Strike’s fight with Jimmy Knight.
But that wasn’t all that was worrying Robin. She had woken that morning from a confused dream in which the dark, spike-booted figure of Charlotte Ross figured. Robin had recognized Charlotte immediately when she spotted her at the reception. She had tried not to watch the once-engaged couple as they’d talked, angry with herself for being so sharply interested in what was passing between them, yet, even as she had moved from group to group, shamelessly insinuating herself into conversations in the hope of finding the elusive Elspeth Curtis-Lacey, her eyes had sought out Strike and Charlotte, and when they left the reception together she had experienced a nasty sensation in her stomach, akin to the drop of an elevator.
She had arrived home unable to think of anything else, which had made her feel guilty when Matthew emerged from the kitchen, eating a sandwich. She had the impression that he had not been home long. He subjected the green dress to an up-and-down look very like the one Kinvara had given her. She made to walk past him upstairs, but he had moved to block her.
“Robin, come on. Please. Let’s talk.”
So they had gone into the sitting room and talked. Tired of conflict, she had apologized for hurting Matthew’s feelings by missing the cricket match, and for forgetting her wedding ring on their anniversary weekend. Matthew in turn had expressed regret for the things he had said during Sunday’s row, and especially for the remark about her lack of achievements.
Robin felt as though they were moving chess pieces on a board that was vibrating in the preliminary tremors of an earthquake. It’s too late. You know, surely, that none of this matters anymore?
But when the talk was finished, Matthew said, “So we’re OK?”
“Yes,” she replied. “We’re fine.”
He had stood up, held out a hand and helped her up from her chair. She had forced a smile and then he had kissed her, hard, on the mouth, and begun to tug at the green dress. She heard the fabric around the zip tear and when she began to protest, he clamped his mouth on hers again.
She knew that she could stop him, she knew that he was waiting for her to stop him, that she was being tested in an ugly, underhand way, that he would deny what he was really doing, that he would claim to be the victim. She hated him for doing it this way, and part of her wanted to be the kind of woman who could have disengaged from her own revulsion and from her own reluctant flesh, but she had fought too long and too hard to regain possession of her own body to barter it in this way.
“No,” she said, pushing him away. “I don’t want to.”
He released her at once, as she had known he would, with an expression compounded of anger and triumph. Suddenly, she knew that she had not fooled him when they had had sex on their anniversary weekend, and paradoxically that made her feel tender towards him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m tired.”
“Yeah,” said Matthew. “So am I.”
And he had walked out of the room, leaving Robin with a chill down her back where the green dress had torn.
Where the hell was Strike? It was five past nine and she wanted company. She also wanted to know what had happened after he left the reception with Charlotte. Anything would be preferable to sitting here, thinking about Matthew.
As though the thought had summoned him, her phone rang.
“Sorry,” he said, before she could speak. “Suspicious package at bloody Green Park. I’ve been stuck on the Tube for twenty minutes and I’ve only just got reception. I’ll be there as quick as I can, but you might have to start without me.”
“Oh, God,” said Robin, closing her tired eyes.
“Sorry,” Strike repeated, “I’m on my way. Got something to tell you, actually. Funny thing happened last night—oh, hang on, we’re moving. See you shortly.”
He hung up, leaving Robin with the prospect of having to deal alone with the first effusions of Jasper Chiswell’s anger, and still grappling formless feelings of dread and misery that swirled around a dark, graceful woman who was sixteen years’ worth of knowledge and memories ah
ead of her when it came to Cormoran Strike, which, Robin told herself, shouldn’t matter, for God’s sake, haven’t you got enough problems without worrying about Strike’s love life, it’s nothing whatsoever to do with you…
She felt a sudden guilty prickle around her lips, where Strike’s missed kiss had landed outside the hospital. As though she could wash it away, she downed the dregs of her coffee, got up and left the café for the broad, straight street, which comprised two symmetrical lines of identical nineteenth-century houses.
She walked briskly, not because she was in any hurry to bear the brunt of Chiswell’s anger and disappointment, but because activity helped dispel her uncomfortable thoughts.
Arriving outside Chiswell’s house precisely on time, she lingered for a few hopeful seconds beside the glossy black front door, just in case Strike were to appear at the last moment. He didn’t. Robin therefore steadied herself, walked up the three clean white steps from the pavement and knocked on the front door, which was on the latch and opened a few inches. A man’s muffled voice shouted something that might have been “come in.”
Robin passed into a small, dingy hall dominated by vertiginous stairs. The olive-green wallpaper was drab and peeling in places. Leaving the front door as she had found it, she called out:
“Minister?”
He didn’t answer. Robin knocked gently on the door to the right, and opened it.
Time froze. The scene seemed to fold in upon her, crashing through her retinas into a mind unprepared for it, and shock kept her standing in the doorway, her hand still on the handle and her mouth slightly open, trying to comprehend what she was seeing.
A man was sitting in a Queen Anne chair, his legs splayed, his arms dangling, and he seemed to have a shiny gray turnip for a head, in which a carved mouth gaped, but no eyes.
Then Robin’s struggling comprehension grasped the fact that it was not a turnip, but a human head shrink-wrapped in a clear plastic bag, into which a tube ran from a large canister. The man looked as though he had suffocated. His left foot lay sideways on the rug, revealing a small hole in the sole, his thick fingers dangled, almost touching the carpet, and there was a stain at his groin where his bladder had emptied.