Lethal White

partners, who had obviously been to the pub first, streamed into the sitting room.
Robin watched Matthew greeting them and showing them where the drinks
were. He had adopted the loud, bantering tone that she had heard him using on
work nights out. It irritated her.
The party quickly became crowded. Robin effected introductions, showed
people where to find drink, set out more plastic cups and handed a couple of
plates of food around because the kitchen was becoming packed. Only when
Andy Hutchins and his wife arrived did she feel she could relax for a moment
and spend some more time with her own guests.
“I made you some special food,” Robin told Andy, after she had shown him
and Louise out into the courtyard. “This is Vanessa. She’s Met. Vanessa, Andy
and Louise—stay there, Andy, I’ll get it, it’s dairy-free.”
Tom was standing against the fridge when she got to the kitchen.
“Sorry, Tom, need to get in—”
He blinked at her, then moved aside. He was already drunk, she thought, and
it was barely nine o’clock. Robin could hear Sarah’s braying laugh from the
middle of the crowd outside.
“Lemmelp,” said Tom, holding the fridge door that threatened to close on
Robin as she bent down to the lower shelf to get the tray of dairy-free, non-fried
food she had saved for Andy. “God, you’ve got a nice arse, Robin.”
She straightened up without comment. In spite of the drunken grin, she could
feel the unhappiness flowing from behind it, like a cool draft. Matthew had told
her how self-conscious Tom was about his hairline, that he was even considering
a transplant.
“That’s a nice shirt,” said Robin.
“Wha’ this? You like it? She bought it for me. Matt’s got one like it, hasn’t
he?”
“Er—I’m not sure,” said Robin.
“You’re not sure,” repeated Tom, with a short, nasty laugh. “So much f’
surveillance training. You wanna pay more attention at home, Rob.”
Robin contemplated him for a moment in equal amounts of pity and anger,

---

then, deciding that he was too drunk to argue with, she left, carrying Andy’s
food.
The first thing she saw as people cleared out of the way to let her back into
the courtyard was that Strike had arrived. He had his back to her and was talking
to Andy. Lorelei was beside him, wearing a scarlet silk dress, the gleaming fall
of dark hair down her back like an advertisement for expensive shampoo.
Somehow, Sarah had inveigled her way into the group in Robin’s brief absence.
When Vanessa caught Robin’s eye, the corner of her mouth twitched.
“Hi,” said Robin, setting the platter of food down on the wrought iron table
beside Andy.
“Robin, hi!” said Lorelei. “It’s such a pretty street!”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Robin, as Lorelei kissed the air behind Robin’s ear.
Strike bent down, too. His stubble grazed Robin’s face, but his lips did not
touch skin. He was already opening one of the six-pack of Doom Bar he had
brought with him.
Robin had mentally rehearsed things to say to Strike once he was in her new
house: calm, casual things that made it sound as though she had no regrets, as
though there were some wonderful counterweight that he couldn’t appreciate
that tipped the scales in Matthew’s favor. She also wanted to question him about
the strange matter of Billy and the strangled child. However, Sarah was currently
holding forth on the subject of the auction house, Christie’s, where she worked,
and the whole group was listening to her.
“Yeah, we’ve got ‘The Lock’ coming up at auction on the third,” she said.
“Constable,” she added kindly, for the benefit of anyone who did not know art as
well as she did. “We’re expecting it to make over twenty.”
“Thousand?” asked Andy.
“Million,” said Sarah, with a patronizing little snort of laughter.
Matthew laughed behind Robin and she moved automatically to let him join
the circle. His expression was rapt, Robin noticed, as so often when large sums
of money were under discussion. Perhaps, she thought, this is what he and Sarah
talk about when they have lunch: money.
“‘Gimcrack’ went for over twenty-two last year. Stubbs. Third most valuable
Old Master ever sold.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Lorelei’s scarlet-tipped hand slide
into Strike’s, which had been marked across the palm with the very same knife
that had forever scarred Robin’s arm.
“Anyway, boring, boring, boring!” said Sarah insincerely. “Enough work
chat! Anyone got Olympics tickets? Tom—my fiancé—he’s furious. We got ping
pong.” She pulled a droll face. “How have you lot got on?”

---

Robin saw Strike and Lorelei exchange a fleeting look, and knew that they
were mutually consoling each other for having to endure the tedium of the
Olympics ticket conversation. Suddenly wishing that they hadn’t come, Robin
backed out of the group.
An hour later, Strike was in the sitting room, discussing the England football
team’s chances in the European Championships with one of Matthew’s friends
from work while Lorelei danced. Robin, with whom he had not exchanged a
word since they had met outside, crossed the room with a plate of food, paused
to talk to a redheaded woman, then continued to offer the plate around. The way
she had done her hair reminded Strike of her wedding day.
The suspicions provoked by her visit to that unknown clinic uppermost in his
mind, he appraised her figure in the clinging gray dress. She certainly didn’t
appear to be pregnant, and the fact that she was drinking wine seemed a further
counter-indication, but they might only just have begun the process of IVF.
Directly opposite Strike, visible through the dancing bodies, stood DI
Vanessa Ekwensi, whom Strike had been surprised to find at the party. She was
leaning up against the wall, talking to a tall blond man who seemed, by his over-
attentive attitude, to have temporarily forgotten that he was wearing a wedding
ring. Vanessa glanced across the room at Strike and by a wry look signaled that
she would not mind him breaking up the tête-à-tête. The football conversation
was not so fascinating that he would be disappointed to leave it, and at the next
convenient pause he circumnavigated the dancers to talk to Vanessa.
“Evening.”
“Hi,” she said, accepting his peck on the cheek with the elegance that
characterized all her gestures. “Cormoran, this is Owen—sorry, I didn’t catch
your surname?”
It didn’t take long for Owen to lose hope of whatever he had wanted from
Vanessa, whether the mere pleasure of flirting with a good-looking woman, or
her phone number.
“Didn’t realize you and Robin were this friendly,” said Strike, as Owen
walked away.
“Yeah, we’ve been hanging out,” said Vanessa. “I wrote her a note after I
heard you sacked her.”
“Oh,” said Strike, swigging Doom Bar. “Right.”
“She rang to thank me and we ended up going for a drink.”
Robin had never mentioned this to Strike, but then, as Strike knew perfectly
well, he had been at pains to discourage anything but work talk since she had
come back from her honeymoon.

---

“Nice house,” he commented, trying not to compare the tastefully decorated
room with his combined kitchen and sitting room in the attic over the office.
Matthew must be earning very good money to have afforded this, he thought.
Robin’s pay rise certainly couldn’t have done it.
“Yeah, it is,” said Vanessa. “They’re renting.”
Strike watched Lorelei dance for a few moments while he pondered this
interesting piece of information. An arch something in Vanessa’s tone told him
that she, too, read this as a choice not entirely related to the housing market.
“Blame sea-borne bacteria,” said Vanessa.
“Sorry?” said Strike, thoroughly confused.
She threw him a sharp look, then shook her head, laughing.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Yeah, we didn’t do too badly,” Strike heard Matthew telling the redheaded
woman in a lull in the music. “Got tickets for the boxing.”