Роберт Гэлбрейт - Lethal White

‘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.

‘Twigged five minutes after you left. The last three digits on that number you showed me on those supposed texts from Matthew were the same as one of the burner phone numbers. Went after you but you were already gone. Layborn sent panda cars out and I’ve been calling you nonstop ever since. Why didn’t you pick up?’

‘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’éto nne . . . ’

‘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: