Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

Strike had not been able to think of a better course of action, given that he intended to stay until he had spoken to Robin again, than continuing to drink. He had removed himself from Stephen and Jenny’s willing protection, feeling that they ought to be free to enjoy the company of friends and family, and fallen back on the methods by which he usually repelled strangers’ curiosity: his own intimidating size and habitually surly expression. For a while he lurked at the end of the bar, nursing a pint on his own, and then repaired to the terrace, where he had stood apart from the other smokers and contemplated the dappled evening, breathing in the sweet meadow smell beneath a coral sky. Even Martin and his friends, now full of drink themselves and smoking in a circle like teenagers, failed to muster sufficient nerve to badger him.

After a while, the guests were skillfully rounded up and ushered en masse back into the wood-paneled room, which had been transformed in their absence into a dance floor. Half the tables had been removed, the others shifted to the sides. A band stood ready behind amplifiers, but the bride and groom remained absent. A man whom Strike understood to be Matthew’s father, sweaty, rotund and red-faced, had already made several jokes about what they might be getting up to when Strike found himself addressed by a woman in a tight turquoise dress whose feathery hair adornment tickled his nose as she closed in for a handshake.

“It’s Cormoran Strike, isn’t it?” she said. “What an honor! Sarah Shadlock.”

Strike knew all about Sarah Shadlock. She had slept with Matthew at university, while he was in a long-distance relationship with Robin. Once again, Strike indicated his bandage to show why he could not shake her hand.

“Oh, you poor thing!”

A drunk, balding man who was probably younger than he looked loomed up behind Sarah.

“Tom Turvey,” he said, fixing Strike with unfocused eyes. “Bloody good job. Well done, mate. Bloody good job.”

“We’ve wanted to meet you for ages,” said Sarah. “We’re old friends of Matt and Robin’s.”

“Shacklewell Rip—Ripper,” said Tom, on a slight hiccup. “Bloody good job.”

“Look at you, you poor thing,” said Sarah again, touching Strike on the bicep as she smiled up into his bruised face. “He didn’t do that to you, did he?”

“Ev’ryone wants to know,” said Tom, grinning blearily. “Can hardly contain their bloody selves. You should’ve made a speech instead of Henry.”

“Ha ha,” said Sarah. “Last thing you’d want to do, I expect. You must have come here straight from catching—well, I don’t know—did you?”

“Sorry,” said Strike, unsmiling, “police have asked me not to talk about it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the harried MC, who had been caught unawares by Matthew and Robin’s unobtrusive entrance into the room, “please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Cunliffe!”

As the newlyweds moved unsmilingly into the middle of the dance floor, everybody but Strike began to applaud. The lead singer of the band took the microphone from the MC.

“This is a song from their past that means a lot to Matthew and Robin,” the singer announced, as Matthew slid his hand around Robin’s waist and grasped her other hand.

The wedding photographer moved out of the shadows and began clicking away again, frowning a little at the reappearance of the ugly rubber brace on the bride’s arm.

The first acoustic bars of “Wherever You Will Go” by The Calling struck up. Robin and Matthew began to revolve on the spot, their faces averted from each other.

So lately, been wondering,

Who will be there to take my place

When I’m gone, you’ll need love

To light the shadows on your face…

Strange choice for an “our song,” Strike thought… but as he watched he saw Matthew move closer to Robin, saw his hand tighten on her narrow waist as he bent his handsome face to whisper something in her ear.

A jolt somewhere around the solar plexus pierced the fug of exhaustion, relief and alcohol that had cushioned Strike all day long from the reality of what this wedding meant. Now, as Strike watched the newlyweds turn on the dance floor, Robin in her long white dress, with a circlet of roses in her hair, Matthew in his dark suit, his face close to his bride’s cheek, Strike was forced to recognize how long, and how deeply, he had hoped that Robin would not marry. He had wanted her free, free to be what they had been together. Free, so that if circumstances changed… so the possibility was there… free, so that one day, they might find out what else they could be to each other.

Fuck this.

If she wanted to talk, she would have to call him. Setting down his empty glass on a windowsill, he turned and made his way through the other guests, who shuffled aside to let him pass, so dark was his expression.

As she turned, staring into space, Robin saw Strike leaving. The door opened. He was gone.

“Let go of me.”

“What?”