“Seems under-ambitious,” said Greg. “With the free advertising you got after the Ripper case—”

“We’re not talking about that case now,” said Lucy sharply, from beside the frying pan, and with a glance at his son Greg fell silent, permitting Jack to re-enter the conversation with a question about assault courses.

Lucy, who had loved every moment of her brother’s visit, glowed with pleasure as she hugged him goodbye after breakfast.

“Let me know when I can take Jack out,” said Strike, while his nephew beamed up at him.

“I will, and thanks so much, Stick. I’ll never forget what you—”

“I didn’t do anything,” Strike said, thumping her gently on the back. “He did it himself. He’s tough, aren’t you, Jack? Thanks for a nice evening, Luce.”

Strike considered that he had got out just in time. Finishing his cigarette outside the station, with ten minutes to kill before the next train to central London, he reflected that Greg had reverted over breakfast to that combination of chirpiness and heartiness with which he usually treated his brother-in-law, while Lucy’s inquiries after Robin as he put on his coat had shown signs of becoming a wide-ranging inquiry into his relationships with women in general. His thoughts had just returned dispiritedly towards Lorelei when his mobile rang.

“Hello?”

“Is this Cormoran?” said an upper-class female voice he did not immediately recognize.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Izzy Chiswell,” she said, sounding as though she had a head cold.

“Izzy!” repeated Strike, surprised. “Er… how are you?”

“Oh, bearing up. We, ah, got your invoice.”

“Right,” said Strike, wondering whether she was about to dispute the total, which was large.

“I’d be very happy to give you payment immediately, if you could… I wonder whether you could possibly come and see me? Today, if that’s convenient? How are you fixed?”

Strike checked his watch. For the first time in weeks he had nothing to do except make his way to Lorelei’s later for dinner, and the prospect of collecting a large check was certainly welcome.

“Yeah, that should be fine,” he said. “Where are you, Izzy?”

She gave him her address in Chelsea.

“I’ll be about an hour.”

“Perfect,” she said, sounding relieved. “I’ll see you then.”

38

Oh, this killing doubt!

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

It was almost midday when Strike arrived at Izzy’s mews house in Upper Cheyne Row in Chelsea, a quietly expensive stretch of houses which, unlike those of Ebury Street, were tastefully mismatched. Izzy’s was small and painted white, with a carriage lamp beside the front door, and when Strike rang the doorbell she answered within a few seconds.

In her loose black trousers and a black sweater too warm for such a sunny day, Izzy reminded Strike of the first time he had met her father, who had been sporting an overcoat in June. A sapphire cross hung around her neck. Strike thought that she had gone as far into official mourning as modern-day dress and sensibilities would permit.

“Come in, come in,” she said nervously, not making eye contact, and standing back, waved him into an airy open-plan sitting and kitchen area, with white walls, brightly patterned sofas and an Art Nouveau fireplace with sinuous, molded female figures supporting the mantelpiece. The long rear windows looked out onto a small, private courtyard, where expensive wrought iron furniture sat among carefully tended topiary.

“Sit down,” said Izzy, waving him towards one of the colorful sofas. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea would be great, thanks.”

Strike sat down, unobtrusively extracted a number of uncomfortable, beaded cushions from beneath him, and took stock of the room. In spite of the cheery modern fabrics, a more traditional English taste predominated. Two hunting prints stood over a table laden with silver-framed photographs, including a large black-and-white study of Izzy’s parents on their wedding day, Jasper Chiswell dressed in the uniform of the Queen’s Own Hussars, Lady Patricia toothy and blonde in a cloud of tulle. Over the mantelpiece hung a large watercolor of three blond toddlers, which Strike assumed represented Izzy and her two older siblings, dead Freddie and the unknown Fizzy.

Izzy clattered around, dropping teaspoons and opening and closing cupboards without finding what she was looking for. At last, turning down Strike’s offer of help, she carried a tray bearing a teapot, bone china mugs and biscuits the short distance between kitchenette and coffee table, and set it down.

“Did you watch the opening ceremony?” she asked politely, busy with teapot and strainer.

“I did, yeah,” said Strike. “Great, wasn’t it?”

“Well, I liked the first part,” said Izzy, “all the industrial revolution bit, but I thought it went, well, a bit PC after that. I’m not sure foreigners will really get why we were talking about the National Health Service, and I must say, I could have done without all the rap music. Help yourself to milk and sugar.”

“Thanks.”

There was a brief silence, broken only by the tinkling of silver and china; that plush kind of silence achievable in London only by people with plenty of money. Even in winter, Strike’s attic flat was never completely quiet: music, footsteps and voices filled the Soho street below, and when pedestrians forsook the area, traffic rumbled through the night, while the slightest breath of wind rattled his insecure windows.

“Oh, your check,” gasped Izzy, jumping up again to fetch an envelope on the kitchen side. “Here.”

“Thanks very much,” said Strike, taking it from her.

Izzy sat down again, took a biscuit, changed her mind about eating it and put it on her plate instead. Strike sipped tea that he suspected was of the finest quality, but which, to him, tasted unpleasantly of dried flowers.

“Um,” said Izzy at last, “it’s quite hard to know where to begin.”

She examined her fingers, which were unmanicured.

“I’m scared you’ll think I’m bonkers,” she muttered, glancing up at him through her fair lashes.

“I doubt that,” said Strike, putting down his tea and adopting what he hoped was an encouraging expression.

“Have you heard what they found in Papa’s orange juice?”

“No,” said Strike.

“Amitriptyline tablets, ground up into powder. I don’t know whether you—they’re anti-depressants. The police say it’s quite an efficient, painless suicide method. Sort of belt and—belt and braces, the pills and the—the bag.”

She took a sloppy gulp of tea.

“They were quite kind, really, the police. Well, they have training, don’t they? They told us, if the helium’s concentrated enough, one breath and you’re… you’re asleep.”

She pursed her lips together.

“The thing is,” she said loudly, in a sudden rush of words, “I absolutely know that Papa would never have killed himself, because it was something he detested, he always said it was the coward’s way out, awful for the family and everybody left behind.