Роберт Гэлбрейт - Lethal White

As he set to work, thoughts of Robin metamorphosed into memories of Charlotte. He remembered how it had been on days like this while they had been together, when he had required uninterrupted hours alone at a computer. Sometimes Charlotte had taken herself out, often making an unnecessary mystery about where she was going, or invented reasons to interrupt him, or pick a fight that kept him pinned down while the precious hours trickled away. And he knew that he was reminding himself how difficult and exhausting that behaviour had been, because ever since he had seen her at Lancaster House, Charlotte had slid in and out of his disengaged mind like a stray cat.

A little under eight hours, seven cups of tea, three bathroom breaks, four cheese sandwiches, three bags of crisps, an apple and twenty-two cigarettes later, Strike had repaid all his subcontractors’ expenses, ensured that the accountant had the firm’s latest receipts, read Hutchins’ updated report on Dodgy Doc and tracked several Aamir Malliks across cyberspace in search of the one he wanted to interview. By five o’clock he thought he had him, but the photograph was so far from ‘handsome’, which was how Mallik had been described in the blind item online, that he thought it best to email Robin a copy of the pictures he had found on Google Images, to confirm that this was the Mallik he sought.

Strike stretched, yawning, listening to a drum solo that a prospective purchaser was banging out in a shop below in Denmark Street. Looking forward to getting back upstairs and watching the day’s Olympic highlights, which would include Usain Bolt running the hundred metres, he was on the point of shutting off his computer when a small ‘ping’ alerted him to the arrival of an email from Lorelei@VintageVamps.com, the subject line reading simply: ‘You and me’.

Strike rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, as though the sight of the new email had been some temporary aberration of sight. However, there it sat at the top of his inbox when he raised his head and opened his eyes again.

‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered. Deciding that he might as well know the worst, he clicked on it.

The email ran to nearly a thousand words and gave the impression of having been carefully crafted. It was a methodical dissection of Strike’s character, which read like the case notes for a psychiatric case that, while not hopeless, required urgent intervention. By Lorelei’s analysis, Cormoran Strike was a fundamentally damaged and dysfunctional creature standing in the way of his own happiness. He caused pain to others due to the essential dishonesty of his emotional dealings. Never having experienced a healthy relationship, he ran from it when it was given to him. He took those who cared about him for granted and would probably only realise this when he hit rock bottom, alone, unloved and tortured by regrets.

This prediction was followed by a description of the soul-searching and doubts that had preceded Lorelei’s decision to send the email, rather than simply tell Strike that their no-strings arrangement was at an end. She concluded that she thought it fairest to him to explain in writing why she, and by implication every other woman in the world, would find him unacceptable unless he changed his behaviour. She asked him to read and think about what she had said ‘understanding that this doesn’t come from a place of anger, but of sadness’, and requested a further meeting so that they could ‘decide whether you want this relationship enough to try a different way’.

After reaching the bottom of the email, Strike remained where he was, staring at the screen, not because he was contemplating a response, but because he was gathering himself for the physical pain he was anticipating upon standing up. At last he pushed himself up into a vertical position, flinching as he lowered his weight onto the prosthesis, then closed down his computer and locked up the office.

Why can’t we can’t end it by phone? he thought, heaving himself up the stairs by using the handrail. It’s obvious it’s fucking dead, isn’t it? Why do we have to have a po st - mortem ?

Back in the flat, he lit another cigarette, dropped down onto a kitchen chair and called Robin, who answered almost immediately.

‘Hi,’ she said quietly. ‘Just a moment.’

He heard a door close, footsteps, and another door closing.

‘Did you get my email? Just sent you a couple of pictures.’

‘No,’ said Robin, keeping her voice low. ‘Pictures of what?’

‘I think I’ve found Mallik living in Battersea. Pudgy bloke with a monobrow.’

‘That’s not him. He’s tall and thin with glasses.’

‘So I’ve just wasted an hour,’ said Strike, frustrated. ‘Didn’t he ever let slip where he was living? What he liked to do at the weekends? National Insurance number?’

‘No,’ said Robin, ‘we barely spoke. I’ve already told you this.’

‘How’s the disguise coming along?’

Robin had already told Strike by text that she had an interview on Thursday with the ‘mad Wiccan’ who ran the jewellery shop in Camden.

‘Not bad,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve been experimenting with—’

There was a muffled shout in the background.

‘Sorry, I’m going to have to go,’ Robin said hastily.

‘Everything OK?’

‘It’s fine, speak tomorrow.’

She hung up. Strike remained with the mobile at his ear. He deduced that he had called during a difficult moment for Robin, possibly even a row, and lowered the mobile with faint disappointment at not having had a longer chat. For a moment or two, he contemplated the mobile in his hand. Lorelei would be expecting him to call as soon as he had read her email. Deciding that he could credibly claim not to have seen it yet, Strike put down his phone and reached instead for the TV remote control.

46

… I should have handled the affair more judiciously.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Four days later, at lunchtime, Strike was to be found leaning up against a counter in a tiny takeaway pizza restaurant, which was most conveniently situated for watching a house directly across the street. One of a pair of brown brick semi-detached houses, the name ‘Ivy Cottages’ was engraved in stone over the twin doors, which seemed to Strike more fitting for humbler dwellings than these houses, which had graceful arched windows and corniced keystones.

Chewing on a slice of pizza, Strike felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checked to see who was calling before answering, because he had already had one fraught conversation with Lorelei today. Seeing that it was Robin, he answered.

‘I’m in,’ said Robin. She sounded excited. ‘Just had my interview. The owner’s dreadful, I’m not surprised nobody wants to work for her. It’s a zero-hours contract. Basically, she wants a couple of people to fill in whenever she fancies not working.’

‘Flick still there?’

‘Yes, she was manning the counter while I was talking to the shop owner. The woman wants to give me a trial tomorrow.’

‘You weren’t followed?’

‘No, I think that journalist has given up. He wasn’t here yesterday either. Mind you, he probably wouldn’t have recognised me even if he’d seen me. You should see my hair.’

‘Why, what have you done with it?’

‘Chalk.’

‘What?’

‘Hair chalk,’ said Robin. ‘Temporary colour. It’s black and blue. And I’m wearing a lot of eye make-up and some temporary tattoos.’

‘Send us a selfie, I could do with some light relief.’

‘Make your own. What’s going on your end?’

‘Bugger all. Mallik came out of Della’s house with her this morning—’

‘God, are they living together?’