“A disputed Stubbs,” Izzy corrected Strike, pulling a handkerchief out of her cuff and blowing her nose. “Henry Drummond thinks it’s a copy. The man from Christie’s is hopeful, but there’s a Stubbs aficionado in the States who’s flying over to examine it, and he says it doesn’t match the notes Stubbs made of the lost painting… but honestly,” she shook her head, “I don’t give a damn. What that thing’s led to, what it’s done to our family… it can go in a skip for all I care. There are more important things,” said Izzy croakily, “than money.”
Strike had an excuse for making no reply, his mouth being full of steak, but he wondered whether it had occurred to Izzy that the fragile man beside her was living in a tiny two-roomed flat in East Ham with his brother, and that Billy was, properly speaking, owed money from the sale of the last set of gallows. Perhaps, once the Stubbs was sold, the Chiswell family might consider fulfilling that obligation.
Billy was eating his soup in an almost trancelike state, his eyes unfocused. Robin thought his deeply contemplative state seemed peaceful, even happy.
“So, I must’ve got confused, mustn’t I?” Billy asked at last. He spoke now with the confidence of a man who feels firm footing in reality. “I saw the horse being buried and thought it was the kid. I got mixed up, that’s all.”
“Well,” said Strike, “I think there might be a bit more to it than that. You knew that the man who’d throttled the child was the same one burying the horse in the dell with your father. I suppose Freddie wasn’t around much, being so much older than you, so you weren’t completely clear who he was… but I think you’ve blocked out a lot about the horse and how it died. You conflated two acts of cruelty, perpetrated by the same person.”
“What happened,” asked Billy, now slightly apprehensive, “to the horse?”
“Don’t you remember Spotty?” asked Izzy.
Amazed, Billy set down his soup spoon and held his hand horizontally perhaps three feet off the ground.
“That little—yeah… didn’t it graze the croquet lawn?”
“She was an ancient, miniature spotted horse,” Izzy explained to Strike and Robin. “She was the last of Tinky’s lot. Tinky had awful, kitschy taste, even in horses…”
(… nobody noticed, and you know why? Because they’re such fucking arrogant snobs… )
“… but Spotty was awfully sweet,” Izzy admitted. “She’d follow you around like a dog if you were in the garden…
“I don’t think Freddie meant to do it… but,” she said hopelessly, “oh, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what he was thinking… he always had a terrible temper. Something had annoyed him. Papa was out, he took Papa’s rifle out of the gun cabinet, went up on the roof and started shooting at birds and then… well, he told me afterwards he hadn’t meant to hit Spotty, but he must have been aiming near her, mustn’t he, to kill her?”
He was aiming at her, thought Strike. You don’t put two bullets in an animal’s head from that distance without meaning to.
“Then he panicked,” said Izzy. “He got Jack o’—I mean, your father,” she told Billy, “to help him bury the body. When Papa came home Freddie pretended Spotty had collapsed, that he’d called the vet who’d taken her away, but of course, that story didn’t stand up for two minutes. Papa was furious when he found out the truth. He couldn’t abide cruelty to animals.
“I was heartbroken when I heard,” said Izzy sadly. “I loved Spotty.”
“You didn’t by any chance put a cross in the ground where she’d been buried, did you, Izzy?” asked Robin, her fork suspended in mid-air.
“How on earth did you know that?” asked Izzy, astonished, as tears trickled out of her eyes again, and she reached again for her handkerchief.
The downpour continued as Strike and Robin walked away from the brasserie together, along Chelsea Embankment towards Albert Bridge. The slate-gray Thames rolled eternally onwards, its surface barely troubled by the thickening rain that threatened to extinguish Strike’s cigarette, and soaked the few tendrils of hair that had escaped the hood of Robin’s raincoat.
“Well, that’s the upper classes for you,” said Strike. “By all means throttle their kids, but don’t touch their horses.”
“Not entirely fair,” Robin reproved him. “Izzy thinks Raphael was treated appallingly.”
“Nothing to what he’s got coming to him in Dartmoor,” said Strike indifferently. “My pity’s limited.”
“Yes,” said Robin, “you made that abundantly clear.”
Their shoes smacked wetly on the shining pavement.
“CBT still going all right?” Strike asked, who was limiting the question to once weekly. “Keeping up your exercises?”
“Diligently,” said Robin.
“Don’t be flippant, I’m serious—”
“So am I,” said Robin, without heat. “I’m doing what I’ve got to do. I haven’t had a single panic attack for weeks. How’s your leg?”
“Getting better. Doing my stretches. Watching my diet.”
“You just ate half a potato field and most of a cow.”
“That was the last meal I can charge to the Chiswells,” said Strike. “Wanted to make the most of it. What are your plans this afternoon?”
“I need to get that file from Andy, then I’ll ring the guy in Finsbury Park and see whether he’ll talk to us. Oh, and Nick and Ilsa said to ask if you want to come for a takeaway curry tonight.”
Robin had caved in to the combined insistence of Nick, Ilsa and Strike himself that going to live in a box room in a house full of strangers was undesirable in the immediate aftermath of being taken hostage at gunpoint. In three days’ time, she would be moving into a room in a flat in Earl’s Court, which she would share with a gay actor friend of Ilsa’s whose previous partner had moved out. Her new flatmate’s stated requirements were cleanliness, sanity and tolerance of irregular hours.
“Yeah, great,” said Strike. “I’ll have to head back to the office first. Barclay reckons he’s got Dodgy bang to rights this time. Another teenager, going in and out of a hotel together.”
“Great,” said Robin. “No, I don’t mean great, I mean—”
“It is great,” said Strike firmly, as the rain splashed over and around them. “Another satisfied client. The bank balance is looking uncharacteristically healthy. Might be able to hike your salary up a bit. Anyway, I’m going up here. See you at Nick and Ilsa’s later, then.”
They parted with a wave, concealing from each other the slight smile that each wore once safely walking away, pleased to know that they would meet again in a few short hours, over curry and beer at Nick and Ilsa’s. But soon Robin had given over her thoughts to the questions needing answers from a man in Finsbury Park.
Head bowed against the rain, she had no attention left to spare for the magnificent mansion past which she was walking, its rain-specked windows facing the great river, its front doors engraved with twin swans.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For reasons not entirely related to the complexity of the plot, Lethal White has been one of the most challenging books I’ve written, but it’s also one of my favorites. I truly couldn’t have done it without the help of the following people.
David Shelley, my wonderful editor, allowed me all the time I needed to make the novel exactly what I wanted it to be. Without his understanding, patience and skill, there might not be a Lethal White at all.
My husband Neil read the manuscript while I was writing it. His feedback was invaluable and he also supported me in a thousand practical ways, but I think I’m most grateful for the fact that he never once asked why I decided to write a large, complex novel while also working on a play and two screenplays. I know he knows why, but there aren’t many people who would have resisted the temptation.