Lethal White

ONE MONTH LATER

---

EPILOGUE
Your past is dead, Rebecca. It has no longer any
hold on you—has nothing to do with you—as you are
now.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
The Paralympics had been and gone, and September was doing its best to
wash away the memory of the long, Union-Jacked summer days, when London
had basked for weeks in the world’s attention. Rain was pattering against the
Cheyne Walk Brasserie’s high windows, competing with Serge Gainsbourg as he
crooned “Black Trombone” from hidden speakers.
Strike and Robin, who had arrived together, had only just sat down when
Izzy, who had chosen the restaurant for its proximity to her flat, arrived in a
slightly disheveled flapping of Burberry trench coat and sodden umbrella, the
latter taking some time to collapse at the door.
Strike had only spoken to their client once since the case had been solved,
and then briefly, because Izzy had been too shocked and distressed to say much.
They were meeting today at Strike’s request, because there was one last piece of
unfinished business in the Chiswell case. Izzy had told Strike by phone, when
they arranged lunch, that she had not been out much since Raphael’s arrest. “I
can’t face people. It’s all so dreadful.”
“How are you?” she said anxiously, as Strike maneuvered himself out from
behind the white-clothed table to accept a damp embrace. “And oh, poor Robin,
I’m so sorry,” she added, hurrying around the other side of the table to hug
Robin, before saying distractedly, “Oh yes, please, thank you,” to the unsmiling
waitress, who took her wet raincoat and umbrella.
Sitting down, Izzy said, “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” then grabbed a
napkin from the table and pressed it firmly to her tear ducts. “Sorry… keep
doing this. Trying not to be embarrassing…”
She cleared her throat and straightened her back.
“It’s just been such a shock,” she whispered.
“Of course it has,” said Robin, and Izzy gave her a watery smile.
“C’est l’automne de ma vie,” sang Gainsbourg. “Plus personne ne
m’étonne… ”
“You found this place OK, then?” Izzy said, scrabbling to find conventional
conversational ground. “Quite pretty, isn’t it?” she said, inviting them to admire

---

the Provençal restaurant which Strike had thought, as he entered, had a feeling of
Izzy’s flat about it, translated into French. Here was the same conservative mix
of traditional and modern: black and white photographs hung on stark white
walls, chairs and benches covered in scarlet and turquoise leather, and old-
fashioned bronze and glass chandeliers with rose-colored lampshades.
The waitress returned with menus and offered to take their drink order.
“Should we wait?” Izzy asked, gesturing at the empty seat.
“He’s running late,” said Strike, who was craving beer. “Might as well order
drinks.”
After all, there was nothing more to find out. Today was about explanations.
An awkward silence fell again as the waitress walked away.
“Oh, gosh, I don’t know whether you’ve heard,” Izzy said suddenly to Strike,
with an air of being relieved to have found what to her was standard gossip.
“Charlie’s been admitted to hospital.”
“Really?” he said, with no sign of particular interest.
“Yah, bed rest. She had something—leak of amniotic fluid, I think—anyway,
they want her under observation.”
Strike nodded, expressionless. Ashamed of herself for wishing to know
more, Robin kept quiet. The drinks arrived. Izzy, who seemed too keyed up to
have noticed Strike’s unenthusiastic response to what was, for her, a safe subject
of mutual interest, said:
“I heard Jago hit the roof when he saw that story about the two of you in the
press. Probably delighted to have her where he can keep an eye—”
But Izzy caught something in Strike’s expression that made her desist. She
took a slug of wine, checked to see whether anyone at the few occupied tables
was listening, and said:
“I suppose the police are keeping you informed? You know Kinvara’s
admitted everything?”
“Yeah,” said Strike, “we heard.”
Izzy shook her head, her eyes filling with tears again.
“It’s been so awful. One’s friends don’t know what to say… I still can’t