Lethal White

“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-colored 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:

“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 traveled 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. “Fin

ishing 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 souviennes… ”

“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 traumatized 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 yogurt.”

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.

“Yeah,” said Billy quietly. “I knew they’d gave me something.”

“So, then, Jimmy wanted to join them, going up the hill. I heard he’d taken a bit of a fancy to one of the girls,” said Izzy primly. “But you weren’t very well, after being fed that yogurt. He couldn’t leave you alone in that state, so he took you with him.

“You all piled into a couple of Land Rovers and off you went, to Dragon Hill.”

“But… no, this is wrong,” said Billy. The haunted expression had returned to his face. “Where’s the little girl? She was already there. She was with us in the car. I remember them taking her out when we got to the hill. She was crying for her mum.”

“It—it wasn’t a girl,” said Izzy. “That was just Freddie’s—well, it was his idea of humor—”

“It was a girl. They called her by a girl’s name,” said Billy. “I remember.”

“Yes,” said Izzy miserably. “Raphaela.”

“That’s it!” said Billy loudly, and heads turned across the restaurant. “That’s it!” Billy repeated in a whisper, his eyes wide. “Raphaela, that’s what they called her—”

“It wasn’t a girl, Billy… it was my little—it was my little—”

Izzy pressed the napkin to her eyes again.

“So sorry… it was my little brother, Raphael. Freddie and his friends were supposed to be babysitting him, with my father away from home. Raff was awfully cute when he was little. He’d been woken up by them, too, I think, and the girls said they couldn’t leave him in the house, they should take him with them. Freddie didn’t want to. He wanted to leave Raff there on his own, but the girls promised they’d take care of him.

“But once they were up there, Freddie was awfully drunk and he’d had a lot of weed and Raff wouldn’t stop crying and Freddie got angry. He said he was ruining everything and then…”

“He throttled him,” said Billy, with a panicked expression. “It was real, he killed—”

“No, no, he didn’t!” said Izzy, distressed. “Billy, you know he didn’t—you must remember Raff, he came to us every summer, he’s alive!”

“Freddie put his hands round Raphael’s neck,” said Strike, “and squeezed until he was unconscious. Raphael urinated. He collapsed. But he didn’t die.”

Billy’s left hand was still gripping his right tightly.

“I did see it.”

“Yeah, you did,” said Strike, “and, all things considered, you were a bloody good witness.”

The waitress returned with their meals. Once everyone was served, Strike with his rib-eye steak and chips, the two women with their quinoa salads and Billy with the soup, which was all he seemed to have felt confident ordering, Izzy continued her story.

“Raff told me what had happened when I got back from the holidays. He was so little, so upset, I tried to bring it up with Papa, but he wouldn’t listen. He just sort of brushed me off. Said Raphael was whiny and always… always complaining…

“And I look back,” she said to Strike and Robin, her eyes filling with tears again, “and I think about it all… how much hate Raff must’ve felt, after things like that…”

“Yeah, Raphael’s defense team will probably try and use that kind of thing,” said Strike briskly, as he attacked his steak, “but the fact remains, Izzy, that he didn’t act on his desire to see your father dead until he found out there was a Stubbs hanging upstairs.”

“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 Spo

tty 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.”