Lethal White

Do you think you will remain here? Permanently,
I mean?
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Robin would have been happy to spend the weekend relaxing after her long
week unpacking and putting together furniture, but Matthew was looking
forward to the house-warming party, to which he had invited a large number of
colleagues. His pride was piqued by the interesting, romantic history of the
street, which had been built for shipwrights and sea captains back when
Deptford had been a shipbuilding center. Matthew might not yet have arrived in
the postcode of his dreams, but a short cobbled street full of pretty old houses
was, as he had wanted, a “step up,” even if he and Robin were only renting the
neat brick box with its sash windows and the moldings of cherubs over the front
door.
Matthew had objected when Robin first suggested renting again, but she had
overridden him, saying that she could not stand another year in Hastings Road
while further purchases of overpriced houses fell through. Between the legacy
and Matthew’s new job, they were just able to make rent on the smart little three-
bedroomed house, leaving the money they had received from the sale of their
Hastings Road flat untouched in the bank.
Their landlord, a publisher who was off to New York to work at head office,
had been delighted with his new tenants. A gay man in his forties, he admired
Matthew’s clean-cut looks and made a point of handing over the keys personally
on their moving day.
“I agree with Jane Austen on the ideal tenant,” he told Matthew, standing in
the cobbled street. “‘A married man, and without children; the very state to be
wished for.’ A house is never well cared for without a lady! Or do you two share
the hoovering?”
“Of course,” Matthew had said, smiling. Robin, who was carrying a box of
plants over the threshold behind the two men, had bitten back a caustic retort.
She had a suspicion that Matthew was not disclosing to friends and
workmates that they were tenants rather than owners. She deplored her own
increasing tendency to watch Matthew for shabby or duplicitous behavior, even
in small matters, and imposed private penances on herself for thinking the worst

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of him all the time. It was in this spirit of self-castigation that she had agreed to
the party, bought alcohol and plastic tumblers, made food and set everything up
in the kitchen. Matthew had rearranged the furniture and, over several evenings,
organized a playlist now blaring out of his iPod in its dock. The first few bars of
“Cutt Off” by Kasabian started as Robin hurried upstairs to change.
Robin’s hair was in foam rollers, because she had decided to wear it as she
had on their wedding day. Running out of time before guests were due, she
pulled out the rollers one-handed as she yanked open the wardrobe door. She had
a new dress, a form-fitting pale gray affair, but she was afraid that it drained her
of color. She hesitated, then took out the emerald-green Roberto Cavalli that she
had never worn in public. It was the most expensive item of clothing she owned,
and the most beautiful: the “leaving” present that Strike had bought her after she
had gone to him as a temp and helped him catch their first killer. The expression
on Matthew’s face when she had excitedly shown him the gift had prevented her
ever wearing it.
For some reason her mind drifted to Strike’s girlfriend, Lorelei, as she held
the dress up against herself. Lorelei, who always wore jewel-bright colors,
affected the style of a 1940s pin-up. As tall as Robin, she had glossy brunette
hair that she wore over one eye like Veronica Lake. Robin knew that Lorelei was
thirty-three, and that she co-owned and ran a vintage and theatrical clothing store
on Chalk Farm Road. Strike had let slip this information one day and Robin,
making a mental note of the name, had gone home and looked it up online. The
shop appeared to be glamorous and successful.
“It’s a quarter to,” said Matthew, hurrying into the bedroom, stripping off his
T-shirt as he came. “I might shower quickly.”
He caught sight of her, holding the green dress against herself.
“I thought you were wearing the gray one?”
Their eyes met in the mirror. Bare-chested, tanned and handsome, Matthew’s
features were so symmetrical that his reflection was almost identical to his real
appearance.
“I think it makes me look pale,” said Robin.
“I prefer the gray one,” he said. “I like you pale.”
She forced a smile.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll wear the gray.”
Once changed, she ran fingers through her curls to loosen them, pulled on a
pair of strappy silver sandals and hurried back downstairs. She had barely
reached the hall when the doorbell rang.
If she had been asked to guess who would arrive first, she would have said
Sarah Shadlock and Tom Turvey, who had recently got engaged. It would be like

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Sarah to try and catch Robin on the hop, to make sure she had an opportunity to
nose around the house before anybody else, and to stake out a spot where she
could look over all the arrivals. Sure enough, when Robin opened up, there stood
Sarah in shocking pink, a big bunch of flowers in her arms, Tom carrying beer
and wine.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous, Robin,” crooned Sarah, the moment she got over the
doorstep, staring around the hall. She hugged Robin absentmindedly, her eyes on
the stairs as Matthew descended, doing up his shirt. “Lovely. These are for you.”
Robin found herself encumbered by an armful of stargazer lilies.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll just go and put them in water.”
They didn’t have a vase big enough for the flowers, but Robin could hardly
leave them in the sink. She could hear Sarah’s laugh from the kitchen, even over
Coldplay and Rihanna, who were now belting out “Princess of China” from
Matthew’s iPod. Robin dragged a bucket out of the cupboard and began to fill it,
splattering herself with water in the process.
The idea had once been mooted, she remembered, that Matthew would
refrain from taking Sarah out for lunches during their office lunch hours. There
had even been talk of stopping socializing with her, after Robin had found out
that Matthew had been cheating with Sarah in their early twenties. However,
Tom had helped Matthew get the higher-paid position he now enjoyed at Tom’s
firm, and now that Sarah was the proud owner of a large solitaire diamond,
Matthew did not seem to think that there should be the slightest awkwardness
attached to social events including the future Mr. and Mrs. Turvey.
Robin could hear the three of them moving around upstairs. Matthew was
giving a tour of the bedrooms. She heaved the lily-filled bucket out of the sink
and shoved it into a corner beside the kettle, wondering whether it was mean-
spirited to suspect that Sarah had brought flowers just to get Robin out of the
way for a bit. Sarah had never lost the flirtatious manner towards Matthew she
had had since their shared years at university.
Robin poured herself a glass of wine and emerged from the kitchen as
Matthew led Tom and Sarah into the sitting room.
“… and Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton are supposed to have stayed in
number 19, but it was called Union Street then,” he said. “Right, who wants a
drink? It’s all set up in the kitchen.”
“Gorgeous place, Robin,” said Sarah. “Houses like this don’t come up that
often. You must’ve got really lucky.”
“We’re only renting,” said Robin.
“Really?” said Sarah beadily, and Robin knew that Sarah was drawing her
own conclusions, not about the housing market, but about Robin and Matthew’s

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marriage.
“Nice earrings,” said Robin, keen to change the subject.
“Aren’t they?” said Sarah, pulling back her hair to give Robin a better view.
“Tom’s birthday present.”
The doorbell rang again. Robin went to answer it, hoping that it would be
one of the few people she had invited. She had no hope of Strike, of course. He
was bound to be late, as he had been to every other personal event to which she
had invited him.
“Oh, thank God,” said Robin, surprised at her own relief when she saw
Vanessa Ekwensi.
Vanessa was a police officer: tall, black, with almond-shaped eyes, a model’s
figure and a self-possession Robin envied. She had come to the party alone. Her
boyfriend, who worked in Forensic Services at the Met, had a prior commitment.
Robin was disappointed: she had looked forward to meeting him.
“You all right?” Vanessa asked as she entered. She was carrying a bottle of
red wine and wearing a deep purple slip dress. Robin thought again of the
emerald-green Cavalli upstairs and wished she had worn it.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Come through to the back, you can smoke there.”
She led Vanessa through the sitting room, past Sarah and Matthew, who were
now mocking Tom’s baldness to his face.
The rear wall of the small courtyard garden was covered in ivy. Well-
maintained shrubs stood in terra-cotta tubs. Robin, who did not smoke, had put
ashtrays and a few fold-up chairs out there, and dotted tea candles around.
Matthew had asked her with an edge in his voice why she was taking so much
trouble over the smokers. She had known perfectly well why he was saying it
and pretended not to.
“I thought Jemima smoked?” she asked, with a feigned air of confusion.
Jemima was Matthew’s boss.
“Oh,” he said, caught off balance. “Yeah—yeah, but only socially.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure this is a social occasion, Matt,” said Robin sweetly.
She fetched Vanessa a drink and came back to find her lighting up, her lovely
eyes fixed on Sarah Shadlock, who was still mocking Tom’s hairline, with
Matthew her hearty accomplice.
“That’s her, is it?” Vanessa asked.
“That’s her,” said Robin.
She appreciated the small show of moral support. Robin and Vanessa had
been friends for months before Robin had confided the history of her
relationship with Matthew. Before that they had talked police work, politics and
clothes on evenings that took them to the cinema, or to cheap restaurants. Robin

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found Vanessa better company than any other woman she knew. Matthew, who
had met her twice, told Robin he found her “cold,” but said he could not explain
why.
Vanessa had had a succession of partners; she had been engaged once, but
broken it off when he had cheated. Robin sometimes wondered whether Vanessa
found her laughably inexperienced: the woman who’d married her boyfriend
from school.
A few moments later, a dozen people, colleagues of Matthew’s with their