‘Hopefully Izzy will trace Tegan Butcher for us, and Tegan’ll be able to shed some light on Raphael’s trip down there on the morning his father died, because I’m still not buying that story.
‘We’ll leave Tegan’s brothers for now, because the Chiswells clearly don’t want us talking to them, but I might try and have a word with Henry Drummond, the art dealer.’
‘Why?’ asked Robin.
‘He was an old friend, did Chiswell a favour hiring Raphael. They must’ve been reasonably close. You never know, Chiswell might’ve told him what the blackmail was about. And he tried to reach Chiswell early on the morning Chiswell died. I’d like to know why.
‘So, going forwards: you’re going to have a bash at Flick at her jewellery shop, Barclay can stay on Jimmy and Flick, and I’ll tackle Geraint Winn and Aamir Mallik.’
‘They’ll never talk to you,’ said Robin at once. ‘Never.’
‘Want to bet?’
‘Tenner says they won’t.’
‘I don’t pay you enough for you to throw tenners around,’ said Strike. ‘You can buy me a pint.’
Strike took care of the bill and they headed back across the road to the car, Robin secretly wishing that there was somewhere else they needed to go, because the prospect of returning to Albury Street was depressing.
‘We might be better off going back on the M40,’ said Strike, reading a map on his phone. ‘There’s been an accident on the M4.’
‘OK,’ said Robin.
This would take them past Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons. As she reversed out of the car park, Robin suddenly remembered Matthew’s texts from earlier. He had claimed to have been messaging work, but she couldn’t remember him ever contacting his office at a weekend before. One of his regular complaints about her job was that its hours and responsibilities bled into Saturday and Sunday, unlike his.
‘What?’ she said, becoming aware that Strike had just spoken to her.
‘I said, they’re supposed to be bad luck, aren’t they?’ repeated Strike, as they drove away from the pub.
‘What are?’
‘White horses,’ he said. ‘Isn’t there a play where white horses appear as a death omen?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin, changing gear. ‘Death rides a white horse in Revelations, though.’
‘A pale horse,’ Strike corrected her, winding down the window so that he could smoke again.
‘Pedant.’
‘Says the woman who won’t call a brown horse “brown”,’ said Strike.
He reached for the grubby wooden cross, which was sliding about on the dashboard. Robin kept her eyes on the road ahead, determinedly focused on anything but the vivid image that had occurred to her when she had first spotted it, almost hidden in the thick, whiskered stems of the nettles: that of a child, rotting in the earth at the bottom of that dark basin in the woods, dead and forgotten by everyone except a man they said was mad.
45
It is a necessity for me to abandon a false and equivocal position.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Strike paid in pain for the walk through the woods at Chiswell House the next morning. So little did he fancy getting up out of bed and heading downstairs to work on a Sunday that he was forced to remind himself that, like the character of Hyman Roth in one of his favourite films, he had chosen this business freely. If, like the Mafia, private detection made demands beyond the ordinary, certain concomitants had to be accepted along with the rewards.
He had had a choice, after all. The army had been keen to keep him, even with half his leg missing. Friends of friends had offered everything from management roles in the close protection industry to business partnerships, but the itch to detect, solve and reimpose order upon the moral universe could not be extinguished in him, and he doubted it ever would be. The paperwork, the frequently obstreperous clients, the hiring and firing of subordinates gave him no intrinsic satisfaction – but the long hours, the physical privations and the occasional risks of his job were accepted stoically and with occasional relish. And so he showered, put on his prosthesis and, yawning, made his painful way downstairs, remembering his brother-in-law’s suggestion that his ultimate goal ought to be sitting in an office while others literally did the legwork.
Strike’s thoughts drifted to Robin as he sat down at her computer. He had never asked her what her ultimate ambition for the agency was, assuming, perhaps arrogantly, that it was the same as his: build up a sufficient bank balance to ensure them both a decent income while they took the work that was most interesting, without fear of losing everything the moment they lost a client. But perhaps Robin was waiting for him to initiate a talk along the lines that Greg had suggested? He tried to imagine her reaction, if he invited her to sit down on the farting sofa while he subjected her to a PowerPoint display setting out long-term objectives and suggestions for branding.
As he set to work, thoughts of Robin metamorphosed into memories of Charlotte. He remembered how it had been on days like this while they had been together, when he had required uninterrupted hours alone at a computer. Sometimes Charlotte had taken herself out, often making an unnecessary mystery about where she was going, or invented reasons to interrupt him, or pick a fight that kept him pinned down while the precious hours trickled away. And he knew that he was reminding himself how difficult and exhausting that behaviour had been, because ever since he had seen her at Lancaster House, Charlotte had slid in and out of his disengaged mind like a stray cat.
A little under eight hours, seven cups of tea, three bathroom breaks, four cheese sandwiches, three bags of crisps, an apple and twenty-two cigarettes later, Strike had repaid all his subcontractors’ expenses, ensured that the accountant had the firm’s latest receipts, read Hutchins’ updated report on Dodgy Doc and tracked several Aamir Malliks across cyberspace in search of the one he wanted to interview. By five o’clock he thought he had him, but the photograph was so far from ‘handsome’, which was how Mallik had been described in the blind item online, that he thought it best to email Robin a copy of the pictures he had found on Google Images, to confirm that this was the Mallik he sought.
Strike stretched, yawning, listening to a drum solo that a prospective purchaser was banging out in a shop below in Denmark Street. Looking forward to getting back upstairs and watching the day’s Olympic highlights, which would include Usain Bolt running the hundred metres, he was on the point of shutting off his computer when a small ‘ping’ alerted him to the arrival of an email from [email protected], the subject line reading simply: ‘You and me’.
Strike rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, as though the sight of the new email had been some temporary aberration of sight. However, there it sat at the top of his inbox when he raised his head and opened his eyes again.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered. Deciding that he might as well know the worst, he clicked on it.
The email ran to nearly a thousand words and gave the impression of having been carefully crafted. It was a methodical dissection of Strike’s character, which read like the case notes for a psychiatric case that, while not hopeless, required urgent intervention. By Lorelei’s analysis, Cormoran Strike was a fundamentally damaged and dysfunctional creature standing in the way of his own happiness. He caused pain to others due to the essential dishonesty of his emotional dealings. Never having experienced a healthy relationship, he ran from it when it was given to him. He took those who cared about him for granted and would probably only realise this when he hit rock bottom, alone, unloved and tortured by regrets.
This prediction was followed by a description of the soul-searching and doubts that had preceded Lorelei’s decision to send the email, rather than simply tell Strike that their no-strings arrangement was at an end. She concluded that she thought it fairest to him to explain in writing why she, and by implication every other woman in the world, would find him unacceptable unless he changed his behaviour. She asked him to read and think about what she had
said ‘understanding that this doesn’t come from a place of anger, but of sadness’, and requested a further meeting so that they could ‘decide whether you want this relationship enough to try a different way’.
After reaching the bottom of the email, Strike remained where he was, staring at the screen, not because he was contemplating a response, but because he was gathering himself for the physical pain he was anticipating upon standing up. At last he pushed himself up into a vertical position, flinching as he lowered his weight onto the prosthesis, then closed down his computer and locked up the office.
Why can’t we can’t end it by phone? he thought, heaving himself up the stairs by using the handrail. It’s obvious it’s fucking dead, isn’t it? Why do we have to have a post-mortem?
Back in the flat, he lit another cigarette, dropped down onto a kitchen chair and called Robin, who answered almost immediately.
‘Hi,’ she said quietly. ‘Just a moment.’
He heard a door close, footsteps, and another door closing.
‘Did you get my email? Just sent you a couple of pictures.’
‘No,’ said Robin, keeping her voice low. ‘Pictures of what?’
‘I think I’ve found Mallik living in Battersea. Pudgy bloke with a monobrow.’
‘That’s not him. He’s tall and thin with glasses.’
‘So I’ve just wasted an hour,’ said Strike, frustrated. ‘Didn’t he ever let slip where he was living? What he liked to do at the weekends? National Insurance number?’
‘No,’ said Robin, ‘we barely spoke. I’ve already told you this.’
‘How’s the disguise coming along?’
Robin had already told Strike by text that she had an interview on Thursday with the ‘mad Wiccan’ who ran the jewellery shop in Camden.
‘Not bad,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve been experimenting with—’
There was a muffled shout in the background.
‘Sorry, I’m going to have to go,’ Robin said hastily.
‘Everything OK?’
‘It’s fine, speak tomorrow.’
She hung up. Strike remained with the mobile at his ear. He deduced that he had called during a difficult moment for Robin, possibly even a row, and lowered the mobile with faint disappointment at not having had a longer chat. For a moment or two, he contemplated the mobile in his hand. Lorelei would be expecting him to call as soon as he had read her email. Deciding that he could credibly claim not to have seen it yet, Strike put down his phone and reached instead for the TV remote control.
46
… I should have handled the affair more judiciously.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Four days later, at lunchtime, Strike was to be found leaning up against a counter in a tiny takeaway pizza restaurant, which was most conveniently situated for watching a house directly across the street. One of a pair of brown brick semi-detached houses, the name ‘Ivy Cottages’ was engraved in stone over the twin doors, which seemed to Strike more fitting for humbler dwellings than these houses, which had graceful arched windows and corniced keystones.
Chewing on a slice of pizza, Strike felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checked to see who was calling before answering, because he had already had one fraught conversation with Lorelei today. Seeing that it was Robin, he answered.
‘I’m in,’ said Robin. She sounded excited. ‘Just had my interview. The owner’s dreadful, I’m not surprised nobody wants to work for her. It’s a zero-hours contract. Basically, she wants a couple of people to fill in whenever she fancies not working.’
‘Flick still there?’
‘Yes, she was manning the counter while I was talking to the shop owner. The woman wants to give me a trial tomorrow.’
‘You weren’t followed?’
‘No, I think that journalist has given up. He wasn’t here yesterday either. Mind you, he probably wouldn’t have recognised me even if he’d seen me. You should see my hair.’
‘Why, what have you done with it?’
‘Chalk.’
‘What?’
‘Hair chalk,’ said Robin. ‘Temporary colour. It’s black and blue. And I’m wearing a lot of eye make-up and some temporary tattoos.’
‘Send us a selfie, I could do with some light relief.’
‘Make your own. What’s going on your end?’
‘Bugger all. Mallik came out of Della’s house with her this morning—’
‘God, are they living together?’
‘No idea. They went out somewhere in a taxi with the guide dog. They came back an hour ago and I’m waiting to see what happens next. One interesting thing, though: I’ve seen Mallik before. Recognised him the moment I saw him this morning.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, he was at Jimmy’s CORE meeting. The one I went to, to try and find Billy.’
‘How weird . . . D’you think he was acting as a go-between for Geraint?’
‘Maybe,’ said Strike, ‘but I can’t see why the phone wouldn’t have done if they wanted to keep in touch. You know, there’s something funny about Mallik generally.’
‘He’s all right,’ said Robin quickly. ‘He didn’t like me, but that was because he was suspicious. That just means he’s sharper than most of the rest of them.’
‘You don’t fancy him as a killer?’
‘Is this because of what Kinvara said?’
‘“My husband provoked somebody, somebody I warned him he shouldn’t upset”,’ Strike quoted.
‘And why should anyone be particularly worried about upsetting Aamir? Because he’s brown? I felt sorry for him, actually, having to work with—’
‘Hang on,’ said Strike, letting his last piece of pizza fall back onto the plate.
The front door of Della’s house had opened again.
‘We’re off,’ said Strike, as Mallik came out of the house alone, closed the door behind him, walked briskly down the garden path, and set off down the road. Strike headed out of the pizzeria in pursuit.
‘Got a spring in his step now. He looks happy to be away from her . . . ’
‘How’s your leg?’
‘It’s been worse. Hang on, he’s turning left . . . Robin, I’m going to go, need to speed up a bit.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Cheers.’
Strike crossed Southwark Park Road as quickly as his leg permitted, then turned into Alma Grove, a long residential street with plane trees planted at regular intervals, and Victorian terraced houses on both sides. To Strike’s surprise, Mallik stopped at a house on the right, with a turquoise door, and let himself inside. The distance between his place of residence and that of the Winns’ was five minutes’ walk at most.
The houses in Alma Grove were narrow and Strike could well imagine loud noises travelling easily through the walls. Giving Mallik what he judged to be sufficient time to remove his jacket and shoes, Strike approached the turquoise door and knocked.
After a few seconds’ wait, Aamir opened up. His expression changed from pleasant enquiry to shock. Aamir evidently knew exactly who Strike was.
‘Aamir Mallik?’
The younger man did not speak at first, but stood frozen with one hand on the door, the other on the hall wall, looking at Strike with dark eyes shrunken by the thickness of the lenses in his glasses.
‘What do you want?’
‘A chat,’ said Strike.
‘Why? What for?’
‘Jasper Chiswell’s family have hired me. They aren’t sure he committed suicide.’
Appearing temporarily paralysed, Aamir neither moved nor spoke. Finally, he stood back from the door.
‘All right, come in.’
In Aamir’s position, Strike too would have wanted to know what the detective knew or suspected, rather than wondering through fretful nights why he had called. Strike entered and wiped his feet on the doormat.
The house was larger inside than it had appeared outside. Aamir led Strike through a door on the left into a sittin
g room. The décor was, very obviously, the taste of a person far older than Aamir. A thick, patterned carpet of swirling pinks and greens, a number of chintz-covered chairs, a wooden coffee table with a lace cloth laid over it and an ornamental edged mirror over the mantelpiece all spoke of geriatric occupants, while an ugly electric heater had been installed in the wrought iron fireplace. Shelves were bare, surfaces denuded of ornaments or other objects. A Stieg Larsson paperback lay on the arm of a chair.
Aamir turned to face Strike, hands in the pockets of his jeans.
‘You’re Cormoran Strike,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
Lethal White Page 43
