This was the first time he and Lorelei had met since she had retracted her declaration of love. Her wounded and affronted demeanor over dinner confirmed him in the unwilling belief that, far from wanting their no-strings arrangement to continue, she had clung to the hope that if she stopped pressuring him, he would be free to reach the realization that he was, in fact, deeply in love with her. Talking on the phone for the best part of an hour, while dinner slowly shriveled in the oven, had dashed her hopes of a perfect evening, and the reset of their relationship.
Had Lorelei only accepted his sincere apology, he might have felt like sex. However, by half-past two in the morning, at which time she finally burst into tears of mingled self-recrimination and self-justification, he was too tired and bad-tempered to accept physical overtures which would, he feared, assume an importance in her mind that he did not want to give them.
This has to end, he thought, as he rose, hollow-eyed and dark-jawed, at six o’clock, moving as quietly as possible in the hope that she would not wake before he made his way out of her flat. Forgoing breakfast, because Lorelei had replaced the kitchen door with an amusingly retro bead curtain that rattled loudly, Strike made it all the way to the top of the stairs to the street before Lorelei emerged from the dark bedroom, sleep tousled, sad and desirable in a short kimono.
“Weren’t you even going to say goodbye?”
Don’t cry. Please don’t fucking cry.
“You looked very peaceful. I’ve got to go, Robin’s picking me up at—”
“Ah,” said Lorelei. “No, you wouldn’t want to keep Robin hanging around.”
“I’ll call you,” said Strike.
He thought he caught a sob as he reached the front door, but by making a noisy business of opening it, he could credibly claim not to have heard.
Having left in plenty of time, Strike made a detour to a handy McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and a large coffee, which he consumed at an unwiped table, surrounded by other early Saturday risers. A young man with a boil on the back of his neck was reading the Independent right ahead of Strike, who read the words Sports Minister in Marriage Split over the youth’s shoulder before he turned a page.
Drawing out his phone, Strike Googled “Winn marriage.” The news stories popped up immediately: Minister for Sport Splits from Husband: Separation “Amicable.” Della Winn Calls Time on Marriage. Blind Paralympics Minister to Divorce.
The stories from major newspapers were all factual and on the short side, a few padded out with details of Della’s impressive career within politics and outside. The press’s lawyers would, of course, be particularly careful around the Winns just now, with their super-injunction still in place. Strike finished his McMuffin in two bites, jammed an unlit cigarette in his mouth and limped out of the restaurant. Out on the pavement he lit up, then brought up the website of a well-known and scurrilous political blogger on his phone.
The brief paragraph had been written only a few hours previously.
Which creepy Westminster couple known to share a predilection for youthful employees are rumored to be splitting at last? He is about to lose access to the nubile political wannabes on whom he has preyed so long, but she has already found a handsome young “helper” to ease the pain of separation.
Less than forty minutes later, Strike emerged from Barons Court Tube station to lean up against the pillar-box in front of the entrance. Cutting a solitary figure beneath the Art Nouveau lettering and open segmented pediment of the grand station behind him, he took out his phone again and continued to read about the Winns’ separation. They had been married over thirty years. The only couple he knew who had been together that long were the aunt and uncle back in Cornwall, who had served as surrogate parents to Strike and his sister during those regular intervals when his mother had been unwilling or unable to care for them.
A familiar roar and rattle made Strike look up. The ancient Land Rover that Robin had taken off her parents’ hands was trundling towards him. The sight of Robin’s bright gold head behind the wheel caught the tired and faintly depressed Strike off-guard. He experienced a wave of unexpected happiness.
“Morning,” said Robin, thinking that Strike looked terrible as he opened the door and shoved in a holdall. “Oh, sod off,” she added, as a driver behind her slammed on his horn, aggravated by the time Strike was taking to get inside.
“Sorry… leg’s giving me trouble. Dressed in a hurry.”
“No problem—and you!” Robin shouted at the driver now overtaking them, who was gesticulating and mouthing obscenities at her.
Finally dropping down into the passenger seat, Strike slammed the door and Robin pulled away from the curb.
“Any trouble getting away?” he asked.
“What d’you—?”
“The journalist.”
“Oh,” she said. “No—he’s gone. Given up.”
Strike wondered just how difficult Matthew had been about Robin giving up a Saturday for work.
“Heard about the Winns?” he asked her.
“No, what’s happened?”
“They’ve split up.”
“No!”
“Yep. In all the papers. Listen to this…”
He read aloud the blind item on the political website.
“God,” said Robin quietly.
“I had a couple of interesting calls last night,” Strike said, as they sped towards the M4.
“Who from?”
“One from Izzy, the other from Barclay. Izzy got a letter from Geraint yesterday,” said Strike.
“Really?” said Robin.
“Yeah. It was sent to Chiswell House a few days back, not her London flat, so she only opened it when she went back to Woolstone. I got her to scan and email it to me. Want to hear?”
“Go on,” said Robin.
“‘My very dear Isabella—’”
“Ugh,” said Robin, with a small shudder.
“‘As I hope you will understand,’” read Strike, “‘Della and I did not feel it appropriate to contact you in the immediate, shocking aftermath of your father’s death. We do so now in a spirit of friendliness and compassion.’”
“If you need to point that out…”
“‘Della and I may have had political and personal differences with Jasper, but I hope we never forgot that he was a family man, and we are aware that your personal loss will be severe. You ran his office with courtesy and efficiency and our little corridor will be the poorer for your absence.’”
“He always cut Izzy dead!” said Robin.
“Exactly what Izzy said on the phone last night,” replied Strike. “Stand by, you’re about to get a mention.
“‘I cannot believe that you had anything to do with the almost certainly illegal activities of the young woman calling herself “Venetia.” We feel it only fair to inform you that we are currently investigating the possibility that she may have accessed confidential data on the multiple occasions she entered this office without consent.’”
“I never looked at anything except the plug socket,” said Robin, “and I didn’t access the office on ‘multiple occasions.’ Three. That’s ‘a few,’ at most.”
“‘As you know, the tragedy of suicide has touched our own family. We know that this will be an extremely difficult and painful time for you. Our families certainly seem fated to bump into each other in their darkest hours.
“‘Sending our very best wishes, our thoughts are with all of you, etc, etc.’”
Strike closed the letter on his phone.
“That’s not a letter of condolence,” said Robin.
“Nope, it’s a threat. If the Chiswells blab about anything you found out about Geraint or the charity, he’ll go after them, hard, using you.”
She turned onto the motorway.
“When did you say that letter was sent?”
“Five, six days ago,” said Strike, checking.
“It doesn’t sound as though he knew his marriage was over then, does it? All that ‘
our corridor will be poorer for your absence’ guff. He’s lost his job if he’s split with Della, surely?”
“You’d think so,” agreed Strike. “How handsome would you say Aamir Mallik is?”
“What?” said Robin, startled. “Oh… the ‘young helper’? Well, he’s OK looking, but not model material.”
“It must be him. How many other young men’s hands is she holding and calling darling?”
“I can’t imagine him as her lover,” said Robin.
“‘A man of your habits,’” quoted Strike. “Pity you can’t remember what number that poem was.”
“Is there one about sleeping with an older woman?”
“The best-known ones are on that very subject,” said Strike. “Catullus was in love with an older woman.”
“Aamir isn’t in love,” said Robin. “You heard the tape.”
“He didn’t sound smitten, I grant you. I wouldn’t mind knowing what causes the animal noises he makes at night, though. The ones the neighbors complain about.”
His leg was throbbing. Reaching down to feel the join between prosthesis and stump, he knew that part of the problem was having put on the former hurriedly, in the dark.
“D’you mind if I readjust—?”
“Carry on,” said Robin.
Strike rolled up his trouser leg and proceeded to remove the prosthesis. Ever since he had been forced to take two weeks off wearing it, the skin at the end of his stump had shown a tendency to object to renewed friction. Retrieving E45 cream from his holdall, he applied it liberally to the reddened skin.
“Should’ve done this earlier,” he said apologetically.
Deducing from the presence of Strike’s holdall that he had come from Lorelei’s, Robin found herself wondering whether he had been too pleasurably occupied to worry about his leg. She and Matthew had not had sex since their anniversary weekend.
“I’ll leave it off for a bit,” said Strike, heaving both prosthesis and holdall into the back of the Land Rover, which he now saw was empty but for a tartan flask and two plastic cups. This was a disappointment. There had always been a carrier bag full of food on the previous occasions they had ventured out of London by car.
“No biscuits?”
“I thought you were trying to lose weight?”
“Nothing eaten on a car journey counts, any competent dietician will tell you that.”
Robin grinned.
“‘Calories Are Bollocks: the Cormoran Strike Diet.’”
“‘Hunger Strike: Car Journeys I Have Starved On.’”
“Well, you should’ve had breakfast,” said Robin, and to her own annoyance, she wondered for the second time whether he had been otherwise engaged.
“I did have breakfast. Now I want a biscuit.”
“We can stop somewhere if you’re hungry,” said Robin. “We should have plenty of time.”
As Robin accelerated smoothly to overtake a couple of dawdling cars, Strike was aware of an ease and restfulness that could not be entirely ascribed to the relief of removing his prosthesis, nor even of having escaped Lorelei’s flat, with its kitschy décor and its heartsore occupant. The very fact that he had removed his leg while Robin drove, and was not sitting with all muscles clenched, was highly unusual. Not only had he had to work hard to overcome anxiety at being driven by other people in the aftermath of the explosion that had blown off his leg, he had a secret but deep-rooted aversion to women drivers, a prejudice he ascribed largely to early, nerve-wracking experiences with all his female relatives. Yet it was not merely a prosaic appreciation of her competence that had caused that sudden lifting of the heart when he had seen her driving towards him this morning. Now, watching the road, he experienced a spasm of memory, sharp with both pleasure and pain; his nostrils seemed to be full again with the smell of white roses, as he held her on the stairs at her wedding and he felt her mouth beneath his in the hot fug of a hospital car park.
“Could you pass me my sunglasses?” asked Robin. “In my bag there.”
He handed them over.
“Want a tea?”
“I’ll wait,” said Robin, “you carry on.”
He reached into the back for the thermos and poured himself a plastic cup full. The tea was exactly as he liked it.
“I asked Izzy about Chiswell’s will last night,” Strike told Robin.
“Did he leave a lot?” asked Robin, remembering the shabby interior of the house in Ebury Street.
“Much less than you might’ve thought,” said Strike, taking out the notebook in which he had jotted everything Izzy had told him. “Oliver was right. The Chiswells are on their uppers—in a relative sense, obviously,” he added.
“Apparently Chiswell’s father spent most of the capital on women and horses. Chiswell had a very messy divorce from Lady Patricia. Her family was wealthy and could afford better lawyers. Izzy and her sister are all right for cash through their mother’s family. There’s a trust fund, which explains Izzy’s smart flat in Chelsea.
“Raphael’s mother walked away with hefty child support, which seems to have nearly cleaned Chiswell out. After that, he plunged the little he had left into some risky equities advised by his stockbroker son-in-law. ‘Torks’ feels pretty bad about that, apparently. Izzy would rather we didn’t mention it today. The 2008 crash virtually wiped Chiswell out.
“He tried to do some planning against death duties. Shortly after he lost most of his cash, some valuable family heirlooms and Chiswell House itself were made over to the eldest grandson—”
“Pringle,” said Robin.
“What?”
“Pringle. That’s what they call the eldest grandson. Fizzy’s got three children,” Robin explained, “Izzy was always banging on about them: Pringle, Flopsy and Pong.”
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Strike. “It’s like interviewing the Teletubbies.”
Robin laughed.
“—and otherwise, Chiswell seems to have been hoping he could put himself right by selling off land around Chiswell House and objects of less sentimental value. The house in Ebury Street’s been remortgaged.”
“So Kinvara and all her horses are living in her step-grandson’s house?” said Robin, changing up a gear to overtake a lorry.
“Yeah, Chiswell left a letter of wishes with his will, asking that Kinvara has the right to remain in the house lifelong, or until she remarries. How old’s this Pringle?”
“About ten, I think.”
“Well, it’ll be interesting to see whether the family honor Chiswell’s request given that one of them thinks Kinvara killed him. Mind you, it’s a moot point whether she’ll have enough money to keep the place running, from what Izzy told me last night. Izzy and her sister were each left fifty grand, and the grandchildren get ten grand apiece, and there’s hardly enough cash to honor those bequests. That leaves Kinvara with what’s left from the house in Ebury Street once it’s sold off and all other personal effects, minus the valuable stuff that was already put into the grandson’s name. Basically, he’s leaving her with the junk that wasn’t worth selling and any personal gifts he gave her during the marriage.”
“And Raphael gets nothing?”
“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him. According to Izzy, his glamorous mother’s made a career out of asset-stripping wealthy men. He’s in line to inherit a flat in Chelsea from her.
“So all in all, it’s hard to make a case for Chiswell being killed for his money,” said Strike. “What is the other sister’s bloody name? I’m not calling her Fizzy.”
“Sophia,” said Robin, amused.
“Right, well, we can rule her out. I’ve checked, she was taking a Riding for the Disabled lesson in Northumberland on the morning he died. Raphael had nothing to gain from his father’s death, and Izzy thinks he knew it, although we’ll need to check that. Izzy herself got what she called ‘a bit squiffy’ at Lancaster House and felt a bit fragile the following day. Her neighbor can vouch for the fact that she was having tea in the shared courtyard
behind their flats at the time of death. She told me that quite naturally last night.”
“Which leaves Kinvara,” said Robin.
“Right. Now, if Chiswell didn’t trust her with the information that he’d called in a private detective, he might not have been honest about the state of the family finances, either. It’s possible she thought she was going to get a lot more than she has, but—”
“—she’s got the best alibi in the family,” said Robin.
“Exactly,” said Strike.
They had now left behind the clearly man-made border shrubs and bushes that had lined the motorway as it passed Windsor and Maidenhead. There were real old trees left and right now, trees that had predated the road, and which would have seen their fellows felled to make way for it.
“Barclay’s call was interesting,” Strike went on, turning a couple of pages in his notebook. “Knight’s been in a nasty mood ever since Chiswell died, though he hasn’t told Barclay why. On Wednesday night he was goading Flick, apparently, said he agreed with her ex-flatmate that Flick had bourgeois instincts—d’you mind if I smoke? I’ll wind down the window.”
The breeze was bracing, though it made his tired eyes water. Holding his burning cigarette out of the car between drags, he went on:
“So Flick got really angry, said she’d been doing ‘that shitty job for you’ and then said it wasn’t her fault they hadn’t got forty grand, at which Jimmy went, to quote Barclay, ‘apeshit.’ Flick stormed out and on Thursday morning, Jimmy texted Barclay and told him he was going back to where he grew up, to visit his brother.”
“Billy’s in Woolstone?” said Robin, startled. She realized that she had come to think of the younger Knight brother as an almost mythical person.
“Jimmy might’ve been using him as a cover story. Who knows where he’s really got to… Anyway, Jimmy and Flick reappeared last night in the pub, all smiles. Barclay says they’d obviously made up over the phone and in the two days he was away, she’s managed to find herself a nice non-bourgeois job.”
“That was good going,” said Robin.