‘You were caught on camera. The police have got people enlarging and clarifying the image right now. They think you must have bought things from a charity shop in haste, which might produce another useful witness. The police are now combing CCTV footage for your movements from Paddington onwards.’
Raphael said nothing at all for nearly a minute. His eyes were moving fractionally from left to right, as he tried to find a loophole, an escape.
‘That’s . . . inconvenient,’ he said finally. ‘I didn’t think I was on camera, sitting there.’
Robin thought she could see hope slipping away from him now. Quietly, she continued, ‘As per your plan, Kinvara arrived home in Oxfordshire, called Drummond and left a message that she wanted the necklace valued, to set up that whole back-up story.
‘Early next morning, another burner phone was used to call both Geraint Winn and Jimmy Knight. Both were lured out of their houses, presumably with a promise of information on Chiswell. That was you, making sure they were in the frame if murder was suspected.’
‘No proof,’ muttered Raphael automatically, but still his eyes darted this way and that, searching for invisible lifelines.
‘You let yourself into the house very early in the morning, expecting to find your father almost comatose after his early morning orange juice, but—’
‘He was out of it, at first,’ said Raphael. His eyes had become glazed, and Robin knew that he was remembering what had happened, watching it, inside his head. ‘He was slumped on the sofa, very groggy. I walked straight past him into the kitchen, opened my box of toys—’
For a sliver of a second, Robin saw again the shrink-wrapped head, the grey hair pressed around the face so that only the gaping black hole of the mouth was visible. Raphael had done that; Raphael, who currently had a gun pointing at her face.
‘—but while I’m arranging everything, the old bastard wakes up, sees me fixing the tubing onto the helium canister and comes back to fucking life. He staggers up, grabs Freddie’s sword off the wall and tries to fight, but I got it off him. Bent the blade doing it. Forced him down into the chair – he was still struggling – and—’
Raphael mimed putting the bag over his father’s head.
‘Caput.’
‘And then,’ said Robin, her mouth still dry, ‘you made those phone calls from his phone that were supposed to establish your alibi. Kinvara had told you his passcode, of course. And you left, without closing the door properly.’
Robin didn’t know whether she was imagining movement out of the porthole to her left. She kept her eyes fixed on Raphael, and the slightly wavering gun.
‘Loads of this is circumstantial,’ he muttered, eyes still glazed. ‘Flick and Francesca have both got motives for lying about me . . . I didn’t end it well with Francesca . . . I might still have a chance . . . I might . . . ’
‘There’s no chance, Raff,’ said Robin. ‘Kinvara isn’t going to lie for you much longer. When they tell her the truth about “Mare Mourning”, she’s going to put everything together for the first time. I think you insisted she move it into to the drawing room, to protect it from the damp in the spare room. How did you manage that? Did you make up some rubbish about it reminding you of her dead mare? Then she’s going to realise you started up the affair again once you knew its true value, and that all the dreadful things you said to her when you ended it were true. And worst of all,’ said Robin, ‘she’s going to realise that when the two of you heard intruders in the grounds – real ones, this time – you let the woman you were supposedly madly in love with walk out into the grounds in the dark, in her nightdress, while you stayed behind to protect—’
‘All right!’ he shouted suddenly and he advanced the gun nozzle until it pressed into her forehead again. ‘Stop fucking talking, will you?’
Robin sat quite still. She imagined how it would feel when he pressed the trigger. He had said he would shoot her through a cushion to muffle the sound, but perhaps he had forgotten, perhaps he was about to lose control.
‘D’you know what it’s like in jail?’ he asked.
She tried to say ‘no’, but the sound wouldn’t come.
‘The noise,’ he whispered. ‘The smell. The ugly, dumb people – like animals, some of them. Worse than animals. I never knew there were people like it. The places they make you eat and shit. Watching your back all the time, waiting for violence. The clanging, the yelling and the fucking squalor. I’d rather be buried alive. I won’t do it again . . .
‘I was going to have a dream life. I was going to be free, totally free. I’d never have to kowtow to the likes of fucking Drummond again. There’s a villa on Capri I’ve had my eye on for a long time. View out over the Gulf of Naples. Then I’d have a nice pad in London . . . new car, once my fucking ban’s lifted . . . imagine walking along and knowing you could buy anything, do anything. A dream life . . .
‘Couple of little problems to get out of the way before I was completely sorted . . . Flick, easy: late night, dark road, knife in the ribs, victim of street crime.
‘And Kinvara . . . once she’d made a will in my favour, after a few years, she’d have broken her neck riding an unsuitable horse or drowned out in Italy . . . she’s a terrible swimmer . . .
‘And then all of them could fuck themselves, couldn’t they? The Chiswells, my whore of a mother. I’d need nothing from anyone. I’d have everything . . .
‘But that’s all gone,’ he said. Dark-skinned though he was, she saw that he had turned ashen, the dark shadows beneath his eyes hollow in the half-light. ‘It’s all gone. You know what, Venetia? I’m going to blow your fucking brains out, because I’ve decided I don’t like you. I think I’d like to see your fucking head explode before mine comes off—’
‘Raff—’
‘Raff . . . Raff . . . ’ he bleated, imitating her, ‘why do women all think they’re different? You’re not different, none of you.’
He was reaching for the limp cushion beside him.
‘We’ll go together. I’d like to arrive in hell with a sexy girl on my ar—’
With a great splintering of wood, the door crashed open. Raphael spun around, pointing the gun at the large figure that had just fallen inside. Robin launched herself over the table to grab his arm, but Raphael knocked her backwards with his elbow and she felt blood spurt as her lip split.
‘Raff, no, don’t – don’t!’
He had stood up, stooped in the cramped space, the barrel of the gun in his mouth. Strike, who had shouldered in the door, stood panting feet away from him, and behind Strike was Wardle.
‘Go on and do it, then, you cowardly little fuck,’ said Strike.
Robin wanted to protest, but couldn’t make a noise.
There was a small, metallic click.
‘Took out the bullets at Chiswell House, you stupid bastard,’ said Strike, hobbling forwards and smacking the revolver out of Raphael’s mouth. ‘Not half as clever as you thought you were, eh?’
There was a great ringing in Robin’s ears. Raphael was spitting oaths in English and Italian, screaming threats, thrashing and twisting as Strike helped bend him over the table for Wardle to cuff him, but she stumbled away from the group as though in a dream, backwards towards the kitchen area of the galley, where pots and pans were hanging and white kitchen roll sat, ludicrously ordinary, beside a tiny sink. She could feel her lip swelling where Raphael had hit her. She tore off some kitchen roll, ran it under the cold tap and pressed it to her bleeding mouth, while through the porthole she watched uniformed officers hurrying through the black gates, taking possession of the gun and of the struggling Raphael, whom Wardle had just dragged onto the bank.
She had just been held at gunpoint. Nothing seemed real. Now the police were stomping in and out of the barge, but it was all noise and echo, and now she realised that Strike was standing beside her, and he seemed the only person with any reality.
‘How did you know?’ she asked thickly, through the cold wodge of tissue.
‘My phone was on silent in my bag. Now it’s in the canal.’
She craved a stiff drink. Maybe, she thought vaguely, there really was a bar somewhere nearby . . . but of course, she wouldn’t be allowed to go to a bar. She was facing hours back at New Scotland Yard. They would need a long statement. She would have to relive the last hour in detail. She felt exhausted.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Called Izzy and asked if Raphael knew anyone in the vicinity of that fake address he was trying to get you to. She told me he’d had some posh druggie girlfriend who owned a barge. He was running out of places to go. The police have been watching his flat for the last two days.’
‘And you knew the gun was empty?’
‘I hoped it was empty,’ he corrected her. ‘For all I knew, he’d checked it and reloaded.’
He groped in his pocket. His fingers shook slightly as he lit a cigarette. He inhaled, then said:
‘You did bloody well to keep him talking that long, Robin, but next time you get a call from an unknown number, you bloody well call it back and check who’s on the other end. And don’t you ever – ever – tell a suspect anything about your personal life again.’
‘Would it be OK if I have two minutes,’ she asked, pressing the cold kitchen roll against her swollen and bleeding lip, ‘to enjoy not being dead, before you start?’
Strike blew out a jet of smoke.
‘Yeah, fair enough,’ he said, and pulled her clumsily into a one-armed hug.
ONE MONTH LATER
Epilogue
Your past is dead, Rebecca. It has no longer any hold on you— has nothing to do with you – as you are now.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
The Paralympics had been and gone, and September was doing its best to wash away the memory of the long, Union-Jacked summer days, when London had basked for weeks in the world’s attention. Rain was pattering against the Cheyne Walk Brasserie’s high windows, competing with Serge Gainsbourg as he crooned ‘Black Trombone’ from hidden speakers.
Strike and Robin, who had arrived together, had only just sat down when Izzy, who had chosen the restaurant for its proximity to her flat, arrived in a slightly dishevelled flapping of Burberry trench coat and sodden umbrella, the latter taking some time to collapse at the door.
Strike had only spoken to their client once since the case had been solved, and then briefly, because Izzy had been too shocked and distressed to say much. They were meeting today at Strike’s request, because there was one last piece of unfinished business in the Chiswell case. Izzy had told Strike by phone, when they arranged lunch, that she had not been out much since Raphael’s arrest. ‘I can’t face people. It’s all so dreadful.’
‘How are you?’ she said anxiously, as Strike manoeuvred himself out from behind the white-clothed table to accept a damp embrace. ‘And oh, poor Robin, I’m so sorry,’ she added, hurrying around the other side of the table to hug Robin, before saying distractedly, ‘Oh yes, please, thank you,’ to the unsmiling waitress, who took her wet raincoat and umbrella.
Sitting down, Izzy said, ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,’ then grabbed a napkin from the table and pressed it firmly to her tear ducts. ‘Sorry . . . keep doing this. Trying not to be embarrassing . . . ’
She cleared her throat and straightened her back.
‘It’s just been such a shock,’ she whispered.
‘Of course it has,’ said Robin, and Izzy gave her a watery smile.
‘C’est l’automne de ma vie,’ sang Gainsbourg. ‘Plus personne ne m’étonne . . .’
‘You found this place OK, then?’ Izzy said, scrabbling to find conventional conversational ground. ‘Quite pretty, isn’t it?’ she said, inviting them to admire the Provençal restaurant which Strike had thought, as he entered, had a feeling of Izzy’s flat about it, translated into French. Here was the same conservative mix of traditional and modern: black and white photographs hung on stark white walls, chairs and benches covered in scarlet and turquoise leather, and old-fashioned bronze and glass chandeliers with rose-coloured lampshades.
The waitress returned with menus and offered to take their drink order.
‘Should we wait?’ Izzy asked, gesturing at the empty seat.
‘He’s running late,’ said Strike, who was craving beer. ‘Might as well order drinks.’
After all, there was nothing more to find out. Today was about explanations. An awkward silence fell again as the waitress walked away.
‘Oh, gosh, I don’t know whether you’ve heard,’ Izzy said suddenly to Strike, with an air of being relieved to have found what to her was standard gossip. ‘Charlie’s been admitted to hospital.’
‘Really?’ he said, with no sign of particular interest.
‘Yah, bed rest. She had something – leak of amniotic fluid, I think – anyway, they want her under observation.’
Strike nodded, expressionless. Ashamed of herself for wishing to know more, Robin kept quiet. The drinks arrived. Izzy, who seemed too keyed up to have noticed Strike’s unenthusiastic response to what was, for her, a safe subject of mutual interest, said:
‘I heard Jago hit the roof when he saw that story about the two of you in the press. Probably delighted to have her where he can keep an eye—’
But Izzy caught something in Strike’s expression that made her desist. She took a slug of wine, checked to see whether anyone at the few occupied tables was listening, and said:
‘I suppose the police are keeping you informed? You know Kinvara’s admitted everything?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, ‘we heard.’
Izzy shook her head, her eyes filling with tears again.
‘It’s been so awful. One’s friends don’t know what to say . . . I still can’t believe it. It’s just so incredible. Raff . . . I wanted to go and see him, you know. I really needed to see him . . . but he refused. He won’t see anyone.’
She gulped more wine.
‘He must have gone mad or something. He must be ill, mustn’t he? To have done it? Must be mentally ill.’
Robin remembered the dark barge, where Raphael had spoken in holy accents of the life he wanted, of the villa in Capri, the bachelor pad in London, and the new car, once the ban imposed for running over a young mother had been lifted. She thought how meticulously he had planned his father’s death, the errors made only because of the haste with which the murder was to be enacted. She pictured his expression over the gun, as he had asked her why women thought there was any difference between them: the mother whom he called a whore, the stepmother he had seduced, Robin, whom he was about to kill so that he didn’t have to enter hell alone. Was he ill in any sense that would put him in a psychiatric institution rather than the prison that so terrified him? Or had his dream of patricide been spawned in the shadowy wasteland between sickness and irreducible malevolence?
‘ . . . he had an awful childhood,’ Izzy was saying, and then, though neither Strike nor Robin had responded, ‘he did, you know, he really did. I don’t want to speak ill of Papa, but Freddie was everything. Papa wasn’t kind to Raff and the Orca – I mean, Ornella, his mother – well, Torks always says she’s more like a high-class hooker than anything else. When Raff wasn’t at boarding school she dragged him around with her, always chasing some new man.’
‘There are worse childhoods,’ said Strike.
Robin, who had just been thinking that Raphael’s life with his mother sounded not unlike the little she knew about Strike’s early years, was nevertheless surprised to hear him express this view so bluntly.
‘Plenty of people go through worse than having a party girl for a mother,’ he said, ‘and they don’t
end up committing murder. Look at Billy Knight. No mother at all for most of his life. Violent, alcoholic father, beaten and neglected, ends up with serious mental illness and he’s never hurt anyone. He came to my office in the throes of psychosis, trying to get justice for someone else.’
‘Yes,’ said Izzy hastily, ‘yes, that’s true, of course.’
But Robin had the impression that even now, Izzy could not equate the pain of Raphael and Billy. The former’s suffering would always evoke more pity in her than the latter’s, because a Chiswell was innately different to the kind of motherless boy whose beatings were hidden in the woods, where estate workers lived according to the laws of their kind.
Lethal White Page 72
