Lethal White

I believe you could bewitch anyone—if you set
yourself to do it.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
The grand hallway of the mansion constituted a vast empty block of space. A
red-and-gold-carpeted central staircase led to an upper balcony that split left and
right. The walls, which appeared to be of marble, were ochre, dull green and
rose. Sundry Paralympians were being shown to a lift on the left of the entrance,
but the limping Strike made his way laboriously to the stairs and heaved himself
upwards by liberal use of the banister. The sky visible through a huge and ornate
skylight, supported by columns, was fading through technicolor variations that
intensified the colors of the massive Venetian paintings of classical subjects
hanging on every wall.
Doing his best to walk naturally, because he was afraid he might be mistaken
for some veteran Paralympian and perhaps asked to expound on past triumphs,
Strike followed the crowd up the right staircase, around the balcony and into a
small anteroom overlooking the courtyard where the official cars were parked.
From here, the guests were ushered left into a long and spacious picture gallery,
where the carpet was apple green and decorated with a rosette pattern. Tall
windows stood at either end of the room and almost every inch of white wall
was covered in paintings.
“Drink, sir?” said a waiter just inside the doorway.
“Is it champagne?” asked Strike.
“English sparkling wine, sir,” said the waiter.
Strike helped himself, though without enthusiasm, and continued through the
crowd, passing Chiswell and Kinvara, who were listening (or, Strike thought,
pretending to listen) to a wheelchair-bound athlete. Kinvara shot Strike a swift,
suspicious side glance as he passed, aiming for the far wall where he hoped to
find either a chair, or something on which he could conveniently lean.
Unfortunately, the gallery walls were so densely packed with pictures that
leaning was impossible, nor were there any seats, so Strike came to rest beside
an enormous painting by Count d’Orsay of Queen Victoria riding a dapple-gray
horse. While he sipped his sparkling wine, he tried discreetly to staunch the
blood still leaking from his nose, and wipe the worst of the dirt off his suit

---

trousers.
Waiters were circulating, carrying trays of canapés. Strike managed to grab a
couple of miniature crab cakes as they passed, then fell to examining his
surroundings, noting another spectacular skylight, this one supported by a
number of gilded palm trees.
The room had a peculiar energy. The prince’s arrival was imminent and the
guests’ gaiety came and went in nervous spurts, with increasingly frequent
glances at the doors. From his vantage point beside Queen Victoria, Strike
spotted a stately figure in a primrose-yellow dress standing almost directly
opposite him, close beside an ornate black and gold fireplace. One hand was
keeping a gentle hold on the harness of a pale yellow Labrador, who sat panting
gently at her feet in the overcrowded room. Strike had not immediately
recognized Della, because she was not wearing sunglasses, but prosthetic eyes.
Her slightly sunken, opaque, china-blue gaze gave her an odd innocence. Geraint
stood a short distance from his wife, gabbling at a thin, mousy woman whose
eyes darted around, searching for a rescuer.
A sudden hush fell near the doors through which Strike had entered. Strike
saw the top of a ginger head and a flurry of suits. Self-consciousness spread
through the packed room like a petrifying breeze. Strike watched the top of the
ginger head move away, towards the far right side of the room. Still sipping his
English wine and wondering which of the women in the room was the trustee
with dirt on Geraint Winn, his attention was suddenly caught by a tall woman
nearby with her back to him.
Her long dark hair was twisted up into a messy bun and, unlike every other
woman present, her outfit gave no suggestion of party best. The straight black
knee-length dress was plain to the point of severity, and though barelegged she
wore a pair of spike-heeled, open-toed ankle boots. For a sliver of a second
Strike thought he must be mistaken, but then she moved and he knew for sure
that it was her. Before he could move away from her vicinity, she turned around
and looked straight into his eyes.
Color flooded her face, which as he knew was normally cameo pale. She was
heavily pregnant. Her condition had not touched her anywhere but the swollen
belly. She was as fine-boned as ever in face and limbs. Less adorned than any
other woman in the room, she was easily the most beautiful. For a few seconds
they contemplated each other, then she took a few tentative steps forwards, the
color ebbing from her cheeks as fast as it had come.
“Corm?”
“Hello, Charlotte.”
If she thought of kissing him, his stony face deterred her.

---

“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Invited,” lied Strike. “Celebrity amputee. You?”
She seemed dazed.
“Jago’s niece is a Paralympian. She’s…”
Charlotte looked around, apparently trying to spot the niece, and took a sip
of water. Her hand was shaking. A few drops spilled from the glass. He saw
them break like glass beads on her swollen belly.
“… well, she’s here somewhere,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “She’s got
cerebral palsy and she’s remarkable, actually, an incredible rider. Her father’s in
Hong Kong, so her mum invited me, instead.”
His silence was unnerving her. She rattled on:
“Jago’s family like to make me go out and do things, only my sister-in-law’s
cross because I got the dates mixed up. I thought tonight was dinner at the Shard
and this thing was Friday, tomorrow, I mean, so I’m not dressed properly for
royalty, but I was late and I didn’t have time to change.”
She gestured hopelessly at her plain black dress and her spike-heeled boots.
“Jago not here?”
Her gold-flecked green eyes flickered slightly.
“No, he’s in the States.”
Her focus moved to his upper lip.
“Have you been in a fight?”
“No,” he said, dabbing at his nose with the back of his hand again. He
straightened up, lowering his weight carefully back onto his prosthesis, ready to
walk away. “Well, nice to—”
“Corm, don’t go,” she said, reaching out. Her fingers did not quite make
contact with his sleeve; she let her hand fall back by her side. “Don’t, not yet, I
—you’ve done such incredible things. I read about them all in the papers.”
The last time they had seen each other he had been bleeding, too, because of
the flying ashtray that had caught him in the face as he left her. He remembered
the text, “It was yours,” sent on the eve of her wedding to Ross, referring to
another baby she had claimed to be bearing, which had vanished before he ever
saw proof of its existence. He remembered, too, the picture she had sent to his
office of herself, minutes after saying “I do” to Jago Ross, beautiful and stricken,
like a sacrificial victim.
“Congratulations,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face.
“I’m huge because it’s twins.”
She did not, as he had seen other pregnant women do, touch her belly as she
talked about the babies, but looked down as though slightly surprised to see her
changed shape. She had never wanted children when they had been together. It

---

was one of the things they had had in common. The baby that she had claimed
was his had been an unwelcome surprise to both of them.
In Strike’s imagination, Jago Ross’s progeny were curled under the black
dress like a pair of white whelps, not entirely human, emissaries of their father,
who resembled a dissolute arctic fox. He was glad they were there, if such a
joyless emotion could be called gladness. All impediments, all deterrents, were
welcome, because it now became apparent to him that the gravitational pull
Charlotte had so long exerted over him, even after hundreds of fights and scenes
and a thousand lies, was not yet spent. As ever, he had the sense that behind the
green-and-gold-flecked eyes, she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“They aren’t due for ages. I had a scan, it’s a boy and a girl. Jago’s pleased
about the boy. Are you here with anyone?”
“No.”
As he said it, he caught a flash of green over Charlotte’s shoulder. Robin,
who was now talking brightly to the mousy woman in purple brocade who had
finally escaped Geraint.
“Pretty,” said Charlotte, who had looked to see what had caught his attention.
She had always had a preternatural ability to detect the slightest flicker of
interest towards other women. “No, wait,” she said slowly, “isn’t that the girl
who works with you? She was in all the papers—what’s her name, Rob—?”
“No,” said Strike, “that’s not her.”
He wasn’t remotely surprised that Charlotte knew Robin’s name, or that she
had recognized her, even with the hazel contact lenses. He had known Charlotte
would keep tabs on him.
“You’ve always liked girls with that coloring, haven’t you?” said Charlotte
with a kind of synthetic gaiety. “That little American you started dating after you
pretended we’d broken up in Germany had the same kind of—”
There was a kind of hushed scream in their vicinity.
“Ohmigod, Charlie!”
Izzy Chiswell was bearing down upon them, beaming, her pink face clashing
with her orange dress. She was, Strike suspected, not on her first glass of wine.
“Hello, Izz,” said Charlotte, forcing a smile. Strike could almost feel the
effort it cost her to tug herself free of that tangle of ancient grudges and wounds
in which their relationship had gradually strangled to death.
Again, he prepared to walk away, but the crowd parted and Prince Harry was
suddenly revealed in all his hyper-real familiarity, some ten feet away from
where Strike and the two women stood, so that moving away from the area
would be done under the scrutiny of half the room. Trapped, Strike startled a
passing waiter by reaching out a long arm and snatching another glass of wine

---

from his tray. For a few seconds, both Charlotte and Izzy watched the prince.
Then, when it became apparent that he was not about to approach them any time
soon, they turned back to each other.
“Showing already!” Izzy said, admiring Charlotte’s belly. “Have you had a
scan? D’you know what it is?”
“Twins,” said Charlotte, without enthusiasm. She indicated Strike, “You
remember—?”
“Corm, yah, of course, we brought him here!” said Izzy, beaming and clearly
unconscious of any indiscretion.
Charlotte turned from her old schoolfriend to her ex, and Strike could feel
her sniffing the air for the reason that Strike and Izzy would have traveled
together. She shifted very slightly, apparently allowing Izzy into the
conversation, but boxing Strike in so that he couldn’t walk away without asking
one of them to get out of his way. “Oh, wait, of course. You investigated
Freddie’s death in action, didn’t you?” she said. “I remember you telling me
about it. Poor Freddie.”
Izzy acknowledged this tribute to her brother with a slight tip of her glass,
then peeked back over her shoulder at Prince Harry.
“He gets sexier every passing day, doesn’t he?” she whispered.
“Ginger pubes, though, darling,” said Charlotte, deadpan.
Against his will, Strike grinned. Izzy snorted with laughter.
“Speaking of which,” said Charlotte (she never acknowledged that she had
been funny), “isn’t that Kinvara Hanratty over there?”
“My ghastly stepmother? Yes,” said Izzy. “D’you know her?”
“My sister sold her a horse.”
During the sixteen years of Strike’s on-off relationship with Charlotte, he had
been privy to countless conversations like this. People of Charlotte’s class all
seemed to know each other. Even if they had never met, they knew siblings or
cousins or friends or classmates, or else their parents knew somebody else’s
parents: all were connected, forming a kind of web that constituted a hostile
habitat for outsiders. Rarely did these web-dwellers leave to seek companionship
or love among the rest of society. Charlotte had been unique in her circle in
choosing somebody as unclassifiable as Strike, whose invisible appeal and low
status had, he knew, been subjects of perennial, horrified debate among most of
her friends and family.
“Well, I hope it wasn’t a horse Amelia liked,” Izzy said, “because Kinvara
will ruin it. Awful hands and a horrible seat, but she thinks she’s Charlotte
Dujardin. D’you ride, Cormoran?” Izzy asked.
“No,” said Strike.

---

“He doesn’t trust horses,” said Charlotte, smiling at him.
But he did not respond. He had no desire to touch upon old jokes or shared
memories.
“Kinvara’s livid, look at her,” said Izzy, with some satisfaction. “Papa’s just
dropped a heavy hint he’s going to try and talk my brother Raff into taking over
from me, which is fabulous, and what I hoped would happen. Papa used to let
Kinvara boss him around about Raff, but he’s putting his foot down these days.”
“I think I’ve met Raphael,” said Charlotte. “Wasn’t he working at Henry
Drummond’s art gallery a couple of months ago?”
Strike checked at his watch and then back around the room. The prince was
moving away from their part of the room and Robin was nowhere to be seen.
With any luck, she had followed the trustee who had dirt on Winn into the
bathroom and was eliciting confidences over the sink.
“Oh Lord,” said Izzy. “Look out. Geraint Bloody—hello, Geraint!”
Geraint’s object, it soon became clear, was Charlotte.
“Hello, hello,” he said, peering at her through heavily smudged glasses, his
lipless smile a leer. “You’ve just been pointed out to me by your niece. What an
extraordinary young woman she is, quite extraordinary. Our charity’s involved in
supporting the equestrian team. Geraint Winn,” he said, holding out a hand, “The
Level Playing Field.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte. “Hello.”
Strike had watched her repel lecherous men for years. Having acknowledged
his presence, she stared coldly at Geraint, as though quite puzzled to know why
he was still in her vicinity.
Strike’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. Reaching for it, he saw an unknown
number. This was his excuse to leave.
“Need to get going, sorry. ’Scuse me, Izzy.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Izzy said, pouting. “I wanted to ask you all about the
Shacklewell Ripper!”
Strike saw Geraint’s eyes widen. Inwardly cursing her, he said, “Night. Bye,”
he added to Charlotte.
Limping away as fast as he could manage, he accepted the call, but by the
time he had raised it to his ear, the caller had gone.
“Corm.”
Somebody lightly touched his arm. He turned. Charlotte had followed him.
“I’m leaving, too.”
“What about your niece?”
“She’s met Harry, she’ll be thrilled. She doesn’t actually like me that much.
None of them do. What happened to your mobile?”

---

“I fell on it.”
He walked on, but, long-legged as she was, she caught up with him.
“I don’t think I’m going your way, Charlotte.”
“Well, unless you’re tunneling out, we have to walk two hundred yards
together.”
He limped on without answering. To his left, he caught another flash of
green. As they reached the grand staircase in the hall, Charlotte reached out and
lightly grasped his arm, wobbly in the heels that were so unsuitable for a
pregnant woman. He resisted the urge to shake her loose.
His mobile rang again. The same unknown number had appeared on the
screen. Charlotte drew up beside him, watching his face as he answered it.
The moment the mobile touched his ear he heard a desperate, haunting
scream.
“They’re going to kill me, Mr. Strike, help me, help me, please help me… ”
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