Lethal White

There is no denying it would have been more
fortunate if we had succeeded in checking the stream
at an earlier point.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Slightly self-conscious in her clinging green dress and heels, Robin attracted
a considerable number of appreciative glances from male passersby as she

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climbed out of her taxi at the entrance to the Department for Culture, Media and
Sport. As she reached the doorway, she saw approaching from fifty yards away
Izzy, who was wearing bright orange, and Kinvara, in what appeared to be the
slinky black dress and heavy diamond necklace that she had worn in the
photograph that Robin had seen of her online.
Acutely anxious about what was happening with Jimmy and Strike, Robin
nevertheless registered that Kinvara appeared to be upset. Izzy rolled her eyes at
Robin as they approached. Kinvara gave Robin a pointed up-and-down look that
suggested she found the green dress inappropriate, if not indecent.
“We were supposed,” said a booming male voice in Robin’s near vicinity, “to
be meeting here.”
Jasper Chiswell had just emerged from the building, carrying three engraved
invitations, one of which he held out to Robin.
“Yes, I know that now, Jasper, thank you,” said Kinvara, puffing slightly as
she approached. “Very sorry for getting it wrong again. Nobody bothered to
check I knew what the arrangements were.”
Passersby stared at Chiswell, finding him vaguely familiar with his chimney-
brush hair. Robin saw a suited man nudge his companion and point. A sleek
black Mercedes drew up at the curb. The chauffeur got out; Kinvara walked
around the back of the car to sit behind him. Izzy wriggled over into the middle
of the back seat, leaving Robin to take the back seat directly behind Chiswell.
The car pulled away from the curb, the atmosphere inside unpleasant. Robin
turned her head to watch the after-work drinkers and evening shoppers,
wondering whether Strike had found Knight yet, scared of what might happen
when he did, and wishing she could spirit the car directly to Lancaster House.
“You haven’t invited Raphael, then?” Kinvara shot at the back of her
husband’s head.
“No,” said Chiswell. “He angled for an invitation, but that will be because
he’s smitten with Venetia.”
Robin felt her face flood with color.
“Venetia seems to have quite the fan base,” said Kinvara tersely.
“Going to have a little chat with Raphael tomorrow,” said Chiswell. “I’m
seeing him rather differently these days, I don’t mind telling you.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Kinvara’s hands twist around the
chain on her ugly evening bag, which sported a horse’s head picked out in
crystals. A tense silence settled over the car’s interior as it purred on through the
warm city.

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31
… the result was, that he got a thrashing…
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Adrenaline made it easier for Strike to block out the mounting pain in his
leg. He was closing on Jimmy and his companions, who were being thwarted in
their desire to show themselves clearly to the press, because the excitable crowd
had pressed forwards as the first official cars began to glide past, hoping to spot
some celebrities. Late to the party, CORE now found themselves faced by an
impenetrable mass.
Mercedes and Bentleys swished past, affording the crowd glimpses of the
famous and the not-so-famous. A comedian got a loud cheer as he waved. A few
flashes went off.
Clearly deciding that he could not hope for a more prominent spot, Jimmy
began to drag his homemade banner out of the tangle of legs around him,
preparatory to hoisting it aloft.
A woman ahead of Strike gave a shriek of indignation as he pushed her out
of the way. In three strides, Strike had closed his large left hand around Jimmy’s
right wrist, preventing him from raising the placard above waist height, forcing it
back towards the ground. Strike had time to see the recognition in his eyes
before Jimmy’s fist came hurtling at his throat. A second woman saw the punch
coming and screamed.
Strike dodged it and brought his left foot down hard on the placard,
splintering the pole, but his amputated leg was not equal to bearing all his
weight, especially as Jimmy’s second punch connected. As Strike crumpled, he
hit Jimmy in the balls. Knight gave a soft scream of pain, doubled up, hit the
falling Strike and both of them toppled over, knocking bystanders sideways, all
of whom shouted their indignation. As Strike hit the pavement, one of Jimmy’s
companions aimed a kick at his head. Strike caught his foot and twisted it.
Through the mounting furore, he heard a third woman shriek:
“They’re attacking that man!”
Strike was too intent on seizing hold of Jimmy’s mangled cardboard banner
to care whether he was being cast as victim or aggressor. Tugging on the banner,
which like himself was being trampled underfoot, he succeeded in ripping it.
One of the pieces attached to the spike heel of a panicking woman trying to get
out of the way of the fight, and was carried away.

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Fingers closed around his neck from behind. He aimed an elbow at Jimmy’s
face and his hold loosened, but then somebody kicked Strike in the stomach and
another blow hit him on the back of the head. Red spots popped in front of his
eyes.
More shouting, a whistle, and the crowd was suddenly thinning around them.
Strike could taste blood, but, from what he could see, the splintered and torn
remnants of Jimmy’s placard had been scattered by the mêlée. Jimmy’s hands
were again scrabbling at Strike’s neck, but then Jimmy was pulled away,
swearing fluently at the top of his voice. The winded Strike was seized and
dragged to his feet as well. He put up no resistance. He doubted he could have
stood of his own accord.
32