Page 183 of The Running Grave

Dormer’s Mayfair neighbours called police in the early hours of June 14th, concerned about the noises coming from the residence. One, who asked not to be named, told The Times,

‘We heard screams, shouting and breaking glass. We were really concerned, so we called 999. We weren’t sure what was going on. We thought it might have been a break-in.’

Ross, whose marriage to the Viscount of Croy ended in divorce last year, is the mother of twins and has a well-documented history of substance abuse. Previously admitted to Symonds House, a psychiatric facility patronised by the wealthy and famous, the part-time model and journalist has been a staple of the gossip columns ever since running away from Cheltenham Ladies’ College in her teens. With by-lines at Harpers & Queen and Vogue, she makes frequent appearances in the front row at both London and Paris fashion weeks, and was voted London’s Most Eligible Singleton in 1995. She was previously in a long-term relationship with Cormoran Strike, private detective and son of rock star Jonny Rokeby.

Rumours of an imminent engagement to billionaire Dormer have circulated in gossip columns for months, but a source close to the hotelier told The Times, ‘Landon wasn’t intending to marry her even before this happened, but after this, believe me, they’ll be finished. He isn’t a man who likes drama or tantrums.’

Ross’s sister, interior decorator Amelia Crichton, 42, told The Times,

‘This is now a legal matter, so I’m afraid I can’t say any more than that I’m confident that if this comes to court Charlotte will be fully exonerated.’

The Times approached both Charlotte Ross and Landon Dormer for comment.

There were multiple links below the article: Charlotte at the launch of a jewellery collection the previous year, Charlotte admitted to Symonds House the year before that, and Landon Dormer’s acquisition of one of the oldest five-star hotels in London. Strike ignored these, instead scrolling back up the page to look again at the photograph at the top. Charlotte’s make-up was smeared, her hair tousled, and she faced the camera defiantly as she was led away by the policewoman.

Strike glanced up at the table his glasses were filming. The elderly woman was feeding her companion something. As his chicken salad was deposited in front of him, his phone rang. Recognising the Spanish country code, he picked up.

‘Cormoran Strike.’

‘Leonard Heaton here,’ said a jocular voice with a strong Norfolk accent. ‘I hear you’re ahter me.’

‘After information, anyway,’ said Strike. ‘Thanks for calling me back, Mr Heaton.’

‘I navver strangled anyone. I wus home all night with the wife.’

Evidently Mr Heaton considered himself something of a card. Somebody – Strike assumed his wife – was chortling in the background.

‘Did you neighbour tell you what this is about, Mr Heaton?’

‘Ah, the little gal that drowned,’ said Heaton. ‘Wut’re you digging around in that fur?’

‘A client of mine’s interested in the Universal Humanitarian Church,’ said Strike.

‘Ah,’ said Heaton. ‘All right, we’re game. We’ll be home in a week, that suit you?’

After agreeing a time and date, Strike hung up and began to eat his salad, still letting his glasses do the surveillance for him, his mind unavoidably on Charlotte.

While she’d generally done most damage to herself when angry or distressed, Strike still bore a small scar over his eyebrow from the ashtray Charlotte had thrown at him as he walked out of her flat for the last time. She’d launched herself at him many times during rows, attempting to either claw his face or punch him, but this had been far easier to deal with than flying missiles, given that he was considerably larger than her and, as an ex-boxer, good at parrying attacks.

Nevertheless, at least four of their break-ups had come in the aftermath of her attempting to physically hurt him. He remembered the sobs afterwards, the desperate apologies, the vows made never to do it again, vows she sometimes kept for as much as a year.

Barely noticing what he was eating, Strike’s eyes roamed over the chattering lunchers, the stained-glass windows and tasteful grey upholstery. Between Bijou and her QC lover, and Charlotte’s alleged assault of a billionaire, his name was appearing a little too frequently in the press for his liking. He picked up the glasses concealing the hidden camera, and rammed them back on.

‘Excuse me.’

He looked up. It was the woman in black, who’d stopped at his table on her way out.

‘You aren’t Corm—?’

‘No, sorry, you must have me confused with someone,’ he said, drowning out her voice, which was fairly loud. His target and her young friend seemed too immersed in their conversion to have noticed anything, but a couple of other heads had turned.

‘I’m sorry, I thought I recognised—’

‘You’re mistaken.’

She was blocking his view of his target.

‘Sorry,’ she said again, smiling. ‘But you do look awfully—’