Роберт Гэлбрейт - Lethal White

‘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.

‘And here he is,’ said Strike.

Billy Knight had just entered the restaurant, raindrops glittering on his shorn hair. Though still underweight, his face was fuller, his person and clothes cleaner. He had been released from hospital only a week previously, and was currently living in Jimmy’s flat on Charlemont Road.

‘Hello,’ he said to Strike. ‘Sorry I’m late. Tube took longer’n I thought.’

‘No problem,’ said the two women, at the same time.

‘You’re Izzy,’ said Billy, sitting down beside her. ‘Haven’t seen you ’n a long time.’

‘No,’ said Izzy, a little over-heartily. ‘It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?’

Robin held out a hand across the table.

‘Hi, Billy, I’m Robin.’

‘Hello,’ he said again, shaking it.

‘Would you like some wine, Billy?’ offered Izzy. ‘Or beer?’

‘Can’t drink on my meds,’ he told her.

‘Ah, no, of course not,’ said Izzy, flustered. ‘Um . . . well, have some water, and there’s your menu . . . we haven’t ordered yet . . . ’

Once the waitress had been and gone, Strike addressed Billy.

‘I made you a promise when I visited you in hospital,’ he said. ‘I told you I’d find out what happened to the child you saw strangled.’

‘Yeah,’ said Billy apprehensively. It was in the hopes of hearing the answer to the twenty-year-old mystery that he had travelled from East Ham to Chelsea in the rain. ‘You said on the phone that you’d worked it out.’

‘Yes,’ said Strike, ‘but I want you to hear it from someone who knew, who was there at the time, so you get the full story.’

‘You?’ Billy said, turning to Izzy. ‘You were there? Up at the horse?’

‘No, no,’ said Izzy hastily. ‘It happened during the school holidays.’

She took a fortifying gulp of wine, set down her glass, drew a deep breath and said:

‘Fizz and I were both staying with school friends. I – I heard what happened, afterwards . . .

‘What happened was . . . Freddie was home from university and he’d brought a few friends back with him. Papa left them in the house because he had some old regimental dinner to attend in London . . .

‘Freddie could be . . . the truth is, he was awfully naughty sometimes. He brought up a lot of good wine from the cellar and they all got sloshed and then one of the girls said she’d wanted to try the truth of that story about the white horse . . . you know the one,’ she said to Billy, the Uffington local. ‘If you turn three times in the eye and make a wish . . . ’

‘Yeah,’ said Billy, with a nod. His haunted eyes were huge.

‘So they all left the house in the dark, but being Freddie . . . he was naughty . . . they made a detour through the woods to your house. Steda Cottage. Because Freddie wanted to buy some, ah, marijuana, was it, your brother grew?’

‘Yeah,’ said Billy, again.

‘Freddie wanted to get some, so they could smoke it, up at the horse while the girls were making wishes. Of course, they shouldn’t have been driving. They were already drunk.

‘Well, when they got to your house, your father wasn’t there—’

‘He was in the barn,’ said Billy suddenly. ‘Finishing a set of . . . you know.’

The memory seemed to have forced its way to the front of his mind, triggered by her recital. Strike saw Billy’s left hand holding tightly to his right, to prevent the recurrence of the tic that seemed for Billy to have something of the significance of warding off evil. Rain continued to lash the restaurant windows and Serge Gainsbourg sang, ‘ Oh, je voudrais tant que tu te souvienn es . . . ’

‘So,’ said Izzy, taking another deep breath, ‘the way I heard it, from one of the girls who was there . . . I don’t want to say who,’ she added a little defensively to Strike and Robin, ‘it’s a long time ago and she was traumatised by the whole thing . . . well, Freddie and his friends clattering into the cottage woke you up, Billy. There was quite a crowd of them in there, and Jimmy rolled them a joint before they set off . . . Anyway,’ Izzy swallowed, ‘you were hungry, and Jimmy . . . or maybe,’ she winced, ‘maybe it was Freddie, I don’t know . . . they thought it would be funny to crumble up some of what they were smoking and put it in your yoghurt.’

Robin imagined Freddie’s friends, some of them perhaps enjoying the exotic thrill of sitting in that dark workman’s cottage with a local lad who sold drugs, but others, like the girl who had told Izzy the story, uneasy about what was going on, but too young, too scared of their laughing peers to intervene. They had seemed like adults to the five-year-old Billy, but now Robin knew that they had all been nineteen to twenty-one at most.