Lethal White

Evening Standard.
THE CURIOUS CASE OF CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL AND
CORMORAN STRIKE
A staple of the gossip columns ever since she ran away from her first
private school, Charlotte Campbell has lived out her life in a glare of publicity.
Most people would choose a discreet spot for their consultation with a private
detective, but the pregnant Ms. Campbell—now Mrs. Jago Ross—chose the
window table of one of the West End’s busiest restaurants.
Were detective services under discussion during the intense heart-to-heart,
or something more personal? The colorful Mr. Strike, illegitimate son of rock
star Jonny Rokeby, war hero and modern-day Sherlock Holmes, also happens
to be Campbell’s ex-lover.
Campbell’s businessman husband will doubtless be keen to solve the
mystery—business or pleasure?—upon his return from New York.
A mass of uncomfortable feelings jostled inside Robin, of which the
dominant ones were panic, anger and mortification at the thought of Matthew
speaking to the press in such a way as to leave open, spitefully, the possibility
that she and Strike were indeed sleeping together.
She tried to call the number, but it went straight to voicemail. Two seconds
later, another angry text appeared.

---

I’M WITH A CLIENT I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS
IN FRONT OF HIM JUST MEET ME
Angry now, Robin texted:
And I’m at New Scotland Yard. Find a quiet corner.
She could imagine Matthew’s polite smile as the client watched, his smooth
“just the office, excuse me,” while he hammered out his furious replies.
We’ve got stuff to sort out and you’re acting like a child refusing to meet
me. Either you come talk to me or I’m ringing the papers at eight. I notice
you’re not denying your sleeping with him, by the way
Furious, but feeling cornered, Robin typed back:
Fine, let’s discuss it face to face, where?
He texted her directions to a bar in Little Venice. Still shaken, Robin pushed
open the door to the incident room. The group was now huddled around a
monitor showing a page of Jimmy Knight’s blog, from which Strike was reading
aloud:
“… ‘in other words, a single bottle of wine at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons
can cost more than a single, out-of-work mother receives per week to feed,
clothe and house her entire family.’ Now that,” said Strike, “struck me as a
weirdly specific choice of restaurant, if he wanted to rant about Tories and their
spending. That’s what made me think he’d been there recently. Then Robin tells
me ‘Blanc de Blanc’ is the name of one of their suites, but I didn’t put that
together as quickly as I should’ve done. It hit me a few hours later.”
“He’s a hell of a bloody hypocrite on top of everything else, isn’t he?” said
Wardle, who was standing, arms folded, behind Strike.
“You’ve looked in Woolstone?” Strike asked.
“The shithole in Charlemont Road, Woolstone, everywhere,” said Layborn,
“but don’t worry. We’ve got a line on one of his girlfriends down in Dulwich.
Checking there right now. With luck, we’ll have him in custody tonight.”
Layborn now noticed Robin, standing with her phone in her hand.
“I know you’ve already got people looking at it,” she told Layborn, “but I’ve
got a contact at Christie’s. I sent her the picture of ‘Mare Mourning’ and she’s
just called me back. According to one of their experts, it might be a Stubbs.”
“Even I’ve heard of Stubbs,” Layborn said.
“What would it be worth, if it is?” Wardle asked.
“My contact thinks upwards of twenty-two million.”
Wardle whistled. Layborn said, “Fuck me.”

---

“Doesn’t matter to us what it’s worth,” Strike reminded them all. “What
matters is whether somebody might’ve spotted its potential value.”
“Twenty-two fucking million,” said Wardle, “is a hell of a motive.”
“Cormoran,” said Robin, picking her jacket off the back of the chair where
she’d left it, “could I have a quick word outside? I’m going to have to leave,
sorry,” she said to the others.
“Everything OK?” Strike asked, as they re-entered the corridor together and
Robin had closed the door on the group of police.
“Yes,” said Robin, and then, “Well—not really. Maybe,” she said, handing
him her phone, “you’d better just read this.”
Frowning, Strike scrolled slowly through the interchange between Robin and
Matthew, including the Evening Standard clip.
“You’re going to meet him?”
“I’ve got to. This must be why Mitch Patterson’s sniffing around. If Matthew
fans the flames with the press, which he’s more than capable of doing… They’re
already excited about you and—”
“Forget me and Charlotte,” he said roughly, “that was twenty minutes that
she coerced me into. He’s trying to coerce you—”
“I know he is,” said Robin, “but I have got to talk to him sooner or later.
Most of my stuff’s still in Albury Street. We’ve still got a joint bank account.”
“D’you want me to come?”
Touched, Robin said:
“Thanks, but I don’t think that would help.”
“Then ring me later, will you? Let me know what happened.”
“I will,” she promised.
She headed off alone towards the lifts. She didn’t even notice who had just
walked past her in the opposite direction until somebody said, “Bobbi?”
Robin turned. There stood Flick Purdue, returning from the bathroom with a
policewoman, who seemed to have escorted her there. Like Kinvara, Flick had
cried away her makeup. She appeared small and shrunken in a white shirt that
Robin suspected her parents had insisted she wear, rather than her Hezbollah T-
shirt.
“It’s Robin. How are you, Flick?”
Flick seemed to be struggling with ideas too monstrous to utter.
“I hope you’re cooperating,” said Robin. “Tell them everything, won’t you?”
She thought she saw a tiny shake of the head, an instinctive defiance, the last
embers of loyalty not yet extinguished, even in the trouble Flick found herself.
“You must,” said Robin quietly. “He’d have killed you next, Flick. You knew
too much.”

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