Lethal White

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 ahead of her when it came to
Cormoran Strike, which, Robin told herself, shouldn’t matter, for God’s sake,