Page 57 of The Running Grave

‘Hello, Charlotte,’ he said, with his back to her. ‘I’m just leaving.’

‘I need to talk to you. Please. For five minutes.’

‘Afraid I’ve got to be somewhere.’

‘Corm, please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t – please,’ she said again, more loudly.

He knew she was capable of making a scene if she didn’t get what she wanted. She was a newsworthy woman, and he, too, was now of interest to the papers, and he feared that, if such a scene happened, there would be gossip, and maybe a leak to a journalist.

‘OK, I’ll give you five minutes,’ he said coldly, sitting back down with the last inch of his non-alcoholic beer.

‘Thank you,’ she said breathlessly, and immediately departed for the bar, to buy herself a glass of wine.

She returned within a couple of minutes, shrugged off her black coat to reveal a dark green silk dress, which was cinched at the waist with a heavy black belt, then took the seat Henry had just vacated. She was thinner than he’d ever seen her, though as beautiful as ever, even at the age of forty-one. Her long dark hair fell to beneath her shoulders; her mottled green eyes were fringed with thick, natural lashes, and if she was wearing make-up, it was too subtle to see.

‘I knew you’d be here, as you’ve probably gathered,’ she said, smiling, willing him to smile back, to laugh at her cunning. ‘I suggested this pub to Hen. He’s lovely, isn’t he?’

‘What d’you want?’

‘You’ve lost a ton of weight. You look great.’

‘What,’ Strike repeated, ‘do you want?’

‘To talk.’

‘About…’

‘This is difficult,’ said Charlotte, taking a sip of wine. ‘OK? I need a moment.’

Strike checked his watch. Charlotte glared at him over the rim of her wine glass.

‘OK, fine. I’ve just found out I’ve got cancer.’

Whatever Strike had expected, it wasn’t that. As unpalatable and possibly unjustified as the suspicion might have been, he found himself wondering whether she was lying. He knew her to be not only highly manipulative, but reckless – sometimes self-destructively so – in pursuit of what she wanted.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said formally.

She looked at him, her colour slowly rising.

‘You think I’m lying, don’t you?’

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘That’d be a fucking despicable thing to lie about.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte, ‘it would. Are you going to ask me what kind, or how—?’

‘I thought you were about to tell me,’ said Strike.

‘Breast,’ she said.

‘Right,’ said Strike. ‘Well. I hope you’re OK.’

Tears filled her eyes. He’d seen her cry hundreds of times, out of distress, certainly, but also from rage, and being thwarted, and he wasn’t moved.

‘That’s all you’ve got to say?’

‘What else can I say?’ he said. ‘I do hope you’re OK. For your kids’ sake, apart from anything else.’

‘And that’s… that’s it?’ whispered Charlotte.