Lethal White Read online

  “I agree with Jane Austen on the ideal tenant,” he told Matthew, standing in the cobbled street. “‘A married man, and without children; the very state to be wished for.’ A house is never well cared for without a lady! Or do you two share the hoovering?”

  “Of course,” Matthew had said, smiling. Robin, who was carrying a box of plants over the threshold behind the two men, had bitten back a caustic retort.

  She had a suspicion that Matthew was not disclosing to friends and workmates that they were tenants rather than owners. She deplored her own increasing tendency to watch Matthew for shabby or duplicitous behavior, even in small matters, and imposed private penances on herself for thinking the worst of him all the time. It was in this spirit of self-castigation that she had agreed to the party, bought alcohol and plastic tumblers, made food and set everything up in the kitchen. Matthew had rearranged the furniture and, over several evenings, organized a playlist now blaring out of his iPod in its dock. The first few bars of “Cutt Off” by Kasabian started as Robin hurried upstairs to change.

  Robin’s hair was in foam rollers, because she had decided to wear it as she had on their wedding day. Running out of time before guests were due, she pulled out the rollers one-handed as she yanked open the wardrobe door. She had a new dress, a form-fitting pale gray affair, but she was afraid that it drained her of color. She hesitated, then took out the emerald-green Roberto Cavalli that she had never worn in public. It was the most expensive item of clothing she owned, and the most beautiful: the “leaving” present that Strike had bought her after she had gone to him as a temp and helped him catch their first killer. The expression on Matthew’s face when she had excitedly shown him the gift had prevented her ever wearing it.

  For some reason her mind drifted to Strike’s girlfriend, Lorelei, as she held the dress up against herself. Lorelei, who always wore jewel-bright colors, affected the style of a 1940s pin-up. As tall as Robin, she had glossy brunette hair that she wore over one eye like Veronica Lake. Robin knew that Lorelei was thirty-three, and that she co-owned and ran a vintage and theatrical clothing store on Chalk Farm Road. Strike had let slip this information one day and Robin, making a mental note of the name, had gone home and looked it up online. The shop appeared to be glamorous and successful.

  “It’s a quarter to,” said Matthew, hurrying into the bedroom, stripping off his T-shirt as he came. “I might shower quickly.”

  He caught sight of her, holding the green dress against herself.

  “I thought you were wearing the gray one?”

  Their eyes met in the mirror. Bare-chested, tanned and handsome, Matthew’s features were so symmetrical that his reflection was almost identical to his real appearance.

  “I think it makes me look pale,” said Robin.

  “I prefer the gray one,” he said. “I like you pale.”

  She forced a smile.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll wear the gray.”

  Once changed, she ran fingers through her curls to loosen them, pulled on a pair of strappy silver sandals and hurried back downstairs. She had barely reached the hall when the doorbell rang.

  If she had been asked to guess who would arrive first, she would have said Sarah Shadlock and Tom Turvey, who had recently got engaged. It would be like Sarah to try and catch Robin on the hop, to make sure she had an opportunity to nose around the house before anybody else, and to stake out a spot where she could look over all the arrivals. Sure enough, when Robin opened up, there stood Sarah in shocking pink, a big bunch of flowers in her arms, Tom carrying beer and wine.

  “Oh, it’s gorgeous, Robin,” crooned Sarah, the moment she got over the doorstep, staring around the hall. She hugged Robin absentmindedly, her eyes on the stairs as Matthew descended, doing up his shirt. “Lovely. These are for you.”

  Robin found herself encumbered by an armful of stargazer lilies.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll just go and put them in water.”

  They didn’t have a vase big enough for the flowers, but Robin could hardly leave them in the sink. She could hear Sarah’s laugh from the kitchen, even over Coldplay and Rihanna, who were now belting out “Princess of China” from Matthew’s iPod. Robin dragged a bucket out of the cupboard and began to fill it, splattering herself with water in the process.

  The idea had once been mooted, she remembered, that Matthew would refrain from taking Sarah out for lunches during their office lunch hours. There had even been talk of stopping socializing with her, after Robin had found out that Matthew had been cheating with Sarah in their early twenties. However, Tom had helped Matthew get the higher-paid position he now enjoyed at Tom’s firm, and now that Sarah was the proud owner of a large solitaire diamond, Matthew did not seem to think that there should be the slightest awkwardness attached to social events including the future Mr. and Mrs. Turvey.

  Robin could hear the three of them moving around upstairs. Matthew was giving a tour of the bedrooms. She heaved the lily-filled bucket out of the sink and shoved it into a corner beside the kettle, wondering whether it was mean-spirited to suspect that Sarah had brought flowers just to get Robin out of the way for a bit. Sarah had never lost the flirtatious manner towards Matthew she had had since their shared years at university.

  Robin poured herself a glass of wine and emerged from the kitchen as Matthew led Tom and Sarah into the sitting room.

  “… and Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton are supposed to have stayed in number 19, but it was called Union Street then,” he said. “Right, who wants a drink? It’s all set up in the kitchen.”

  “Gorgeous place, Robin,” said Sarah. “Houses like this don’t come up that often. You must’ve got really lucky.”

  “We’re only renting,” said Robin.

  “Really?” said Sarah beadily, and Robin knew that Sarah was drawing her own conclusions, not about the housing market, but about Robin and Matthew’s marriage.

  “Nice earrings,” said Robin, keen to change the subject.

  “Aren’t they?” said Sarah, pulling back her hair to give Robin a better view. “Tom’s birthday present.”

  The doorbell rang again. Robin went to answer it, hoping that it would be one of the few people she had invited. She had no hope of Strike, of course. He was bound to be late, as he had been to every other personal event to which she had invited him.

  “Oh, thank God,” said Robin, surprised at her own relief when she saw Vanessa Ekwensi.

  Vanessa was a police officer: tall, black, with almond-shaped eyes, a model’s figure and a self-possession Robin envied. She had come to the party alone. Her boyfriend, who worked in Forensic Services at the Met, had a prior commitment. Robin was disappointed: she had looked forward to meeting him.

  “You all right?” Vanessa asked as she entered. She was carrying a bottle of red wine and wearing a deep purple slip dress. Robin thought again of the emerald-green Cavalli upstairs and wished she had worn it.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Come through to the back, you can smoke there.”

  She led Vanessa through the sitting room, past Sarah and Matthew, who were now mocking Tom’s baldness to his face.

  The rear wall of the small courtyard garden was covered in ivy. Well-maintained shrubs stood in terra-cotta tubs. Robin, who did not smoke, had put ashtrays and a few fold-up chairs out there, and dotted tea candles around. Matthew had asked her with an edge in his voice why she was taking so much trouble over the smokers. She had known perfectly well why he was saying it and pretended not to.

  “I thought Jemima smoked?” she asked, with a feigned air of confusion. Jemima was Matthew’s boss.

  “Oh,” he said, caught off balance. “Yeah—yeah, but only socially.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure this is a social occasion, Matt,” said Robin sweetly.

  She fetched Vanessa a drink and came back to find her lighting up, her lovely eyes fixed on Sarah Shadlock, who was still mocking Tom’s hairline, with Matthew her hearty accomplice.

&
nbsp; “That’s her, is it?” Vanessa asked.

  “That’s her,” said Robin.

  She appreciated the small show of moral support. Robin and Vanessa had been friends for months before Robin had confided the history of her relationship with Matthew. Before that they had talked police work, politics and clothes on evenings that took them to the cinema, or to cheap restaurants. Robin found Vanessa better company than any other woman she knew. Matthew, who had met her twice, told Robin he found her “cold,” but said he could not explain why.

  Vanessa had had a succession of partners; she had been engaged once, but broken it off when he had cheated. Robin sometimes wondered whether Vanessa found her laughably inexperienced: the woman who’d married her boyfriend from school.

  A few moments later, a dozen people, colleagues of Matthew’s with their partners, who had obviously been to the pub first, streamed into the sitting room. Robin watched Matthew greeting them and showing them where the drinks were. He had adopted the loud, bantering tone that she had heard him using on work nights out. It irritated her.

  The party quickly became crowded. Robin effected introductions, showed people where to find drink, set out more plastic cups and handed a couple of plates of food around because the kitchen was becoming packed. Only when Andy Hutchins and his wife arrived did she feel she could relax for a moment and spend some more time with her own guests.

  “I made you some special food,” Robin told Andy, after she had shown him and Louise out into the courtyard. “This is Vanessa. She’s Met. Vanessa, Andy and Louise—stay there, Andy, I’ll get it, it’s dairy-free.”

  Tom was standing against the fridge when she got to the kitchen.

  “Sorry, Tom, need to get in—”

  He blinked at her, then moved aside. He was already drunk, she thought, and it was barely nine o’clock. Robin could hear Sarah’s braying laugh from the middle of the crowd outside.

  “Lemmelp,” said Tom, holding the fridge door that threatened to close on Robin as she bent down to the lower shelf to get the tray of dairy-free, non-fried food she had saved for Andy. “God, you’ve got a nice arse, Robin.”

  She straightened up without comment. In spite of the drunken grin, she could feel the unhappiness flowing from behind it, like a cool draft. Matthew had told her how self-conscious Tom was about his hairline, that he was even considering a transplant.

  “That’s a nice shirt,” said Robin.

  “Wha’ this? You like it? She bought it for me. Matt’s got one like it, hasn’t he?”

  “Er—I’m not sure,” said Robin.

  “You’re not sure,” repeated Tom, with a short, nasty laugh. “So much f’ surveillance training. You wanna pay more attention at home, Rob.”

  Robin contemplated him for a moment in equal amounts of pity and anger, then, deciding that he was too drunk to argue with, she left, carrying Andy’s food.

  The first thing she saw as people cleared out of the way to let her back into the courtyard was that Strike had arrived. He had his back to her and was talking to Andy. Lorelei was beside him, wearing a scarlet silk dress, the gleaming fall of dark hair down her back like an advertisement for expensive shampoo. Somehow, Sarah had inveigled her way into the group in Robin’s brief absence. When Vanessa caught Robin’s eye, the corner of her mouth twitched.

  “Hi,” said Robin, setting the platter of food down on the wrought iron table beside Andy.

  “Robin, hi!” said Lorelei. “It’s such a pretty street!”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” said Robin, as Lorelei kissed the air behind Robin’s ear.

  Strike bent down, too. His stubble grazed Robin’s face, but his lips did not touch skin. He was already opening one of the six-pack of Doom Bar he had brought with him.

  Robin had mentally rehearsed things to say to Strike once he was in her new house: calm, casual things that made it sound as though she had no regrets, as though there were some wonderful counterweight that he couldn’t appreciate that tipped the scales in Matthew’s favor. She also wanted to question him about the strange matter of Billy and the strangled child. However, Sarah was currently holding forth on the subject of the auction house, Christie’s, where she worked, and the whole group was listening to her.

  “Yeah, we’ve got ‘The Lock’ coming up at auction on the third,” she said. “Constable,” she added kindly, for the benefit of anyone who did not know art as well as she did. “We’re expecting it to make over twenty.”

  “Thousand?” asked Andy.

  “Million,” said Sarah, with a patronizing little snort of laughter.

  Matthew laughed behind Robin and she moved automatically to let him join the circle. His expression was rapt, Robin noticed, as so often when large sums of money were under discussion. Perhaps, she thought, this is what he and Sarah talk about when they have lunch: money.

  “‘Gimcrack’ went for over twenty-two last year. Stubbs. Third most valuable Old Master ever sold.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Lorelei’s scarlet-tipped hand slide into Strike’s, which had been marked across the palm with the very same knife that had forever scarred Robin’s arm.

  “Anyway, boring, boring, boring!” said Sarah insincerely. “Enough work chat! Anyone got Olympics tickets? Tom—my fiancé—he’s furious. We got ping pong.” She pulled a droll face. “How have you lot got on?”

  Robin saw Strike and Lorelei exchange a fleeting look, and knew that they were mutually consoling each other for having to endure the tedium of the Olympics ticket conversation. Suddenly wishing that they hadn’t come, Robin backed out of the group.

  An hour later, Strike was in the sitting room, discussing the England football team’s chances in the European Championships with one of Matthew’s friends from work while Lorelei danced. Robin, with whom he had not exchanged a word since they had met outside, crossed the room with a plate of food, paused to talk to a redheaded woman, then continued to offer the plate around. The way she had done her hair reminded Strike of her wedding day.

  The suspicions provoked by her visit to that unknown clinic uppermost in his mind, he appraised her figure in the clinging gray dress. She certainly didn’t appear to be pregnant, and the fact that she was drinking wine seemed a further counter-indication, but they might only just have begun the process of IVF.

  Directly opposite Strike, visible through the dancing bodies, stood DI Vanessa Ekwensi, whom Strike had been surprised to find at the party. She was leaning up against the wall, talking to a tall blond man who seemed, by his over-attentive attitude, to have temporarily forgotten that he was wearing a wedding ring. Vanessa glanced across the room at Strike and by a wry look signaled that she would not mind him breaking up the tête-à-tête. The football conversation was not so fascinating that he would be disappointed to leave it, and at the next convenient pause he circumnavigated the dancers to talk to Vanessa.

  “Evening.”

  “Hi,” she said, accepting his peck on the cheek with the elegance that characterized all her gestures. “Cormoran, this is Owen—sorry, I didn’t catch your surname?”

  It didn’t take long for Owen to lose hope of whatever he had wanted from Vanessa, whether the mere pleasure of flirting with a good-looking woman, or her phone number.

  “Didn’t realize you and Robin were this friendly,” said Strike, as Owen walked away.

  “Yeah, we’ve been hanging out,” said Vanessa. “I wrote her a note after I heard you sacked her.”

  “Oh,” said Strike, swigging Doom Bar. “Right.”

  “She rang to thank me and we ended up going for a drink.”

  Robin had never mentioned this to Strike, but then, as Strike knew perfectly well, he had been at pains to discourage anything but work talk since she had come back from her honeymoon.

  “Nice house,” he commented, trying not to compare the tastefully decorated room with his combined kitchen and sitting room in the attic over the office. Matthew must be earning very good money to have afforded this, he thoug
ht. Robin’s pay rise certainly couldn’t have done it.

  “Yeah, it is,” said Vanessa. “They’re renting.”

  Strike watched Lorelei dance for a few moments while he pondered this interesting piece of information. An arch something in Vanessa’s tone told him that she, too, read this as a choice not entirely related to the housing market.

  “Blame sea-borne bacteria,” said Vanessa.

  “Sorry?” said Strike, thoroughly confused.

  She threw him a sharp look, then shook her head, laughing.

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “Yeah, we didn’t do too badly,” Strike heard Matthew telling the redheaded woman in a lull in the music. “Got tickets for the boxing.”

  Of course you fucking did, thought Strike irritably, feeling in his pocket for more cigarettes.

  “Enjoy yourself?” asked Lorelei in the taxi, at one in the morning.

  “Not particularly,” said Strike, who was watching the headlights of oncoming cars.

  He had had the impression that Robin had been avoiding him. After the relative warmth of their conversation on Thursday, he had expected—what? A conversation, a laugh? He had been curious to know how the marriage was progressing, but was not much the wiser. She and Matthew seemed amicable enough together, but the fact that they were renting was intriguing. Did it suggest, even subconsciously, a lack of investment in a joint future? An easier arrangement to untangle? And then there was Robin’s friendship with Vanessa Ekwensi, which Strike saw as another stake in the life she led independently of Matthew.

  Blame sea-borne bacteria.

  What the hell did that mean? Was it connected to the mysterious clinic? Was Robin ill?

  After a few minutes’ silence it suddenly occurred to Strike that he ought to ask Lorelei how her evening had been.

  “I’ve had better,” sighed Lorelei. “I’m afraid your Robin’s got a lot of boring friends.”

  “Yeah,” said Strike. “I think that’s mainly her husband. He’s an accountant. And a bit of a tit,” he added, enjoying saying it.