Chapter Text
PART 1
Chapter 1: It all began with a bang.
Not for the first time, Cormoran Strike found himself in a Viking military vehicle, chatting with Richard Anstis, Brian Topley and Wren Adams, himself the sergeant and higher ranked of them all, as they rode in the back, through the Afghan roads. Then he felt the hunch of death, heard his mother’s clear voice in his ears:
“Bomb!”
Strike shoot to his feet, grabbing Anstis as he was showing baby pictures of the newborn that awaited him at home, and while he shouted at the driver to brake, at the top of his lungs, he threw Anstis and himself to the far back, grabbing him with one hand, and the submachine gun he’d been equipped with, with the other.
It was the desert, hot and warm, yet this was different. It was more cloudy, with an aura of a dream, a mist in the air, and Strike could now do nothing but stare at the blood pouring from below his right knee, the rest of his leg gone, as he lied on the ground, weapon gone. He looked in the far distance, and saw a tall, beautiful, strawberry blonde woman with blue-grey eyes, curvaceous body, and clothes that belonged to the big city and not to here, the arid middle of nowhere. She was staring at him, standing between bleeding bits of bodies, by the remains in flames of the Viking, as if nothing was going on.
Strike tried to speak, but he felt weak and faint, unable to speak. Then the woman was grabbed from behind and a blade pressed against her throat. She could only scream.
“Help me!”
Suddenly Strike jerked awake, breathing heavy as he sat up in bed, drenched in sweat by the recurrent nightmare. Now, he was not in the arid Afghanistan, but in a very different environment. Here was the Herberts’ neat and tidy guest room, the comfortable double bed with the duvet, the heating on, the pristine soft beige walls, the rain ricocheting against the window, and the door in front of him, ajar. A little girl peeked, holding the edge of the door with chubby fingers, her mother’s blue-green eyes with her father’s almond shape eyeing Strike with shyness, excitement and curiosity. She moved closer, grinning with mischief, her perfect white teeth inside a pink-lipped mouth, her clear, round and chubby face a welcome good morning.
“Evie, what’re you up to, you sneaky girl?” Strike inquired with a smirk. Evelyn giggled, and jumped to his bed, hugging him, never minding his sweat, and kissing his cheek.
“Good morning Uncle Corm,” said Evelyn with her perky soft voice. Strike, who had never been good with children, had to admit he had a soft spot with Evelyn Herbert, who seemed to have a crush on him, or so her parents joked. She enjoyed his company and he enjoyed hers, and she didn’t make him play dolls and things that were embarrassing to him, happy instead with having him read to her for hours, even in Latin.
“Good morning Evie,” Strike hugged her tight, like every morning, and kissed the top of her hear, full of short, wavy hair, so blonde it was nearly white, like her parents’. She was already dressed for the day, with a little dress, a jumper, thick winter leotards and thick socks to walk around the house, which wasn’t surprising. Evie’s father liked to go on morning runs or bicycling, and if she woke up early, she got to join him, and even go buy the paper together.
“Daddy made pancakes!” she added excitedly, watching him for a reaction. When his stomach grumbled in automatic, she giggled and jumped off the bed, yelling “race you!”
“You better run, young girl!” it was for nothing, really, but they did the same routine nearly every morning, for the five weeks he’d been staying with the Herberts in their house in Melody Road, Wandsworth. Strike took a deep breath, moved the duvet, and chilled with the temperature difference before putting on his prosthetic lower right leg, his long pyjama trousers which he didn’t sleep with, because then he’d have to remove them to comfortably put on his prosthesis, and it got annoying, and his slippers. He put on his dressing gown, which was draped over the corner armchair, and moved to the adjacent bathroom to wash his face, pee, have some mouthwash as he liked to do even before breakfast, and try to make his perpetually messy, short and thick dark curls a bit decent. He’d been growing a thick beard, because it was warm in winter and he was a Southerner who hated being cold, and so he forewent shaving and walked outside.
It was a short walk down the corridor to the kitchen-dining room, already buzzing with life. The two grey cats, Ossie and Ricky, were perched on kitchen cabinets as if afraid to join in the fun, Nick Herbert, fully dressed as Strike had imagined, made breakfast, and his wife, in her pyjamas, dressing gown, with her glasses on and a mug of tea in front, sat at the dining table breastfeeding their ten month old Leo, while reading the newspaper her husband had brought. Evie, full of energy as always, jumped up and down to the chant of ‘pancakes’, making her parents snigger at times.
“Morning,” said Strike, adverting his eyes for the half breast of his oldest best friend, exposed by her son’s lazy sucking.
“Good morning Corm,” Ilsa said cheerfully looking up at him. Her long blonde hair was braided, and as usual, she was one of the most beautiful women Strike had ever seen. He’d never felt himself attracted to her that way, as they were pretty much siblings raised close, but he had eyes in his face.
“Morning Oggy!” Nick grinned, and set two full plates on the table, his daughter bringing a third, before Nick retrieved a forth, along with tea for Nick and Strike and juice for Evelyn. “Come on Evelyn, sweetie, sit with me, let’s eat.”
“Thanks Nick, I’m starved and this looks amazing,” said Strike gratefully, sitting with them next to his female best friend, the others in front, because it was Nick’s turn to get Evelyn, easily distractable, to focus and eat her breakfast. “I thought you worked today?”
“Yes, I have A&E shift, but I don’t have to go just yet. Get the whole New Year’s Eve madness, but at least I had Christmas.”
“But Daddy! Why d’you have to go?” Evelyn pouted, and Strike could see in Nick’s blue eyes for his daughter, he was being tempted to calling in sick, and it wasn’t a first. “I want you to come to the party…” she said sadly.
“Uncle Corm will party with you, Daddy has to make sure everyone makes it back home safe from their own parties tonight,” said Nick calmly. “People get sick every day of the year honey, even on holidays, and we need every doctor we can get.”
Nick Herbert was a GP, and he worked at Chelsea & Westminster Hospital, which received an impressive intake of people with ethylic comas on New Year’s Eve, and sometimes, it fell on Nick to deal with it, as he had night A&E shifts a few times a month, dividing holidays, which, as he and Ilsa liked to see from a positive point of view, made the annual decisions of whether to celebrate this and that in London, with his side of the family, or in St Mawes, with hers, much easier. This year, however, was an exception, because it was Strike’s sister’s first holiday since she’d divorced earlier in the year, with her boyfriend and two sons, and their uncle, aunt and younger brother were coming from St Mawes, so they would be joining them in Bromley, at Lucy’s house. Nick’s parents would celebrate with the rest of his extended family, and they would be getting the peace and quiet of Bromley instead of the loud, fireworks-filled Hackney or Wandsworth, having in count Strike, Evelyn and Leo absolutely despised fireworks. It was the first thing Strike and his godchildren could agree on.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, we’ll see Daddy tomorrow and we’ll have him for a whole week all to ourselves,” Ilsa reminded their daughter, who cheered up.
“Yay!”
Nick chuckled at their daughter’s antics.
“All right, but let’s eat now, Evie. We have to focus, remember? Then, we’ll spend the whole week partying with everyone.”
Strike had to admit the day’s incoming party cheered him up considerably. After thirteen years on-and-off dating and a two-year long engagement, his relationship with his most serious girlfriend, Charlotte Campbell, had come to an end earlier in the month. Kicked out of the flat she, a rich socialite, had paid and they’d shared, Strike had had no other choice but to retreat to the Herberts, because his office was freezing cold and the festivities weren’t a good moment to begin renting.
The Herberts’ house wasn’t so bad, anyway. Nick was his best friend since they were teenagers, their friendship two decades old now, and his friendship to Ilsa was over three decades now. Nick even liked him a little further because if it wasn’t for Strike, he wouldn’t have known who he fondly called the love of his life, and so grateful the couple were that Strike had been the best man at their wedding, the godfather of his children, and Evelyn received the same middle name as Strike, Blue. At the house, it was like a frat house with two kids, and it was enjoyable, actually.
“Be very careful, all right?” Ilsa murmured serious a couple hours later, as her husband kissed her and Leo goodbye. She always got tense and anxious whenever he had night shifts on international party nights, afraid he’d had a car accident or someone would try to stab him, as everyone was insanely crazy and drunk and high on nights like that. She knew it well, she was a crime lawyer, and on January her firm would be full of cases related to that, but now she was on holiday.
“I know, I love you,” said Nick with a soft smile.
“I love you too.”
“And you!” Nick threw his daughter to the air, making her laugh, before wrapping her in his arms. “Be a good girl and help Mummy with your brother, okay Princess?”
“’kay Daddy,” Evelyn kissed his clean-shaven cheek soundly, and he kissed her chubby pink cheek too. “Love you.”
“Love you too beautiful, I’ll miss you,” Nick squeezed her and let her go, grabbing his coat and briefcase. He was a little nervous about leaving his wife with two little children, one of them a newborn.
“Don’t worry Nick,” said Strike, walking him to the door. “I’ll look after the family.”
“Thanks mate, I can always count on you. Have fun tonight for me, uh?”
“Will do, you be careful,” Strike saw him out to the car, Evelyn waving her father goodbye from her place between Strike’s legs, and then they closed the door, keeping the freezing cold outside.
In a matter of hours, Strike saw himself absently watching the Disney film Frozen, a favourite of Evelyn’s, sitting on the sofa while his god daughter sang and danced to ‘Let it go’ and he cradled Leo, who had been crying up until his warm arms curled around him, his blonde hair now pointing all directions, his face asleep. It had taken his best friends four years and two miscarriages to finally carry a successful pregnancy to term, and once Evelyn had happened, Leo had come as the happiest accident, before they’d begun planning, as they’d been dreading another miscarriage.
Now, the happy mother was showering and getting fancy for the night, and had shyly asked Strike to look after the kids for her, which he’d done happily. It was the least he could do with all the hospitality his friends always offered him with open arms.
The recurrent dream he had had, wasn’t about to leave his brain, but Evelyn’s off-tune singing distracted him. The lyrics ‘The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside… Couldn't keep it in, heaven knows I've tried. Don't let them in, don't let them see, be the good girl you always have to be, conceal, don't feel, don't let them know… Well, now they know… Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back any more… Let it go, let it go, turn away and slam the door. I don't care what they're going to say, let the storm rage on… The cold never bothered me anyway’ seemed to speak wonders to him today, making his mind drift to his ex, Charlotte. Charlotte Campbell had been, of all his girlfriends, which admittedly weren’t a long list, the craziest, the snobbiest, the most insane, the most absolutely gorgeous, and the greatest liar, manipulator and toxic person, the only one not one of his friends or relatives had been able to stand, so much was the hatred towards her that Nick and Ilsa, who loved Strike with all their souls and never meddled with his life, had begged him not to bring her to their house, not to let her close to their children, and not to marry her. And still, Strike had wanted to be her husband, had been head over heels in love with her, still was, and missed her deeply, in an odd way. She was, he told himself, like alcohol to an alcoholic. Something that could be such a relief, such a distraction from darkness, such a welcome joy, but that then could equally bring you to root in hell, wasted in the toxic poison, alone and distanced from everyone he loved.
This wasn’t even their first break-up, but it was the final one, each one having only broken things further until they had completely screwed it up. The final straw, Strike realized ironically watching his youngest godson sleep nuzzled against his chest, had been a baby.
Strike had never wanted to be a father. One, because there were certain poisons in his family he didn’t want more people to inherit, two, because he had never been too good with children, not even when he was a child and preferred adult company, and three, because he’d had such a role of caretaker his whole life, that he longed for independence, for not having to take care of a helpless kid… even if he married a helpless, needy, insane Charlotte. He also found himself frequently annoyed by children, but after learning everybody found themselves annoyed by then now and then, he felt that wasn’t a reason not to have them. He did like kids, after all, he just was terrible with them, and frequently annoyed by their existence. Children seemed to have bullied him his whole childhood, and to still despise him, generally, which didn’t help. But Charlotte hadn’t wanted them either, and had absolutely hated them to the point of being cruel to his nephews at times, if he and their mother weren’t looking… but they’d tell him later. And then, on Valentine’s Day, as Strike found himself surprisingly overjoyed by the call that had announced he had a new godson, his whole attention that day drifting to that happy event, Charlotte had suddenly blurted out she was pregnant, two months, she said. She didn’t seem pregnant, didn’t behave pregnant, didn’t show him the stick, and didn’t go to a single appointment, so he only had her word for it, and he believed her.
It was a massive shock, but Charlotte had seemed happy, saying that kid, being his, would be her most favourite one, wanting to have it, so Strike had undergone eight weeks of therapy and several months of self-talking until he reached the point where he embraced fatherhood and became happy and excited about it, even when Charlotte didn’t really seem more pregnant, and still, didn’t provide any evidence, when she was reaching supposedly half her pregnancy. Only then, with him truly excited, with him thinking she was right, this was a child they’d love, and he was going to teach him Latin, have fun like with Evelyn, read to him or her, and make him or her a mini detective and then, perhaps, make his business a family one, she had suddenly announced a miscarriage, providing zero evidence that the pregnancy had ever happened. And Strike had felt surprisingly shattered.
Charlotte had then turned a nightmare, saying she had PTSD and sobbing her eyes out imitating behaviour they’d seen on Ilsa years before the two times she’d miscarried, but in Charlotte’s case, it had been attention seeking, and she’d gotten it. Strike had been all about her, stopping his work for months to be there for her, even as his newly made agency began to crumble. And then, in November, Strike had consulted with Ilsa, and asked him, not without a few glasses of wine, to talk to him about her miscarriages and pregnancies, until he’d realized what his friends hadn’t wanted to say; that it was all fake. Charlotte’s version was the film version… it had nothing to do with real life. Many things just didn’t fit, and Nick, his doctor friend, only corroborated it. He thought Charlotte had some sort of psychotic disorder. But Strike had exploded and, just days later, ended everything with Charlotte. He couldn’t possibly forgive something like that. Now, her number was blocked and deleted though he knew it by memory, and he hoped to move on.
“Uncle Corm,” Evelyn brought him out of his thoughts, her little hands on his knees. “Who are we partying with tonight?”
“Uhm…” Strike cleared his throat. “Well, your grandparents are coming, Grandpa David and Grandma Joyce, and your Aunt Meredith, Uncle Fabian, and your cousin, Gideon,” Gideon was the only nephew Nick and Ilsa had, the year-old son of Ilsa’s big sister, who lived in London too. “And we’re going to be at my sister Lucy’s house, remember Aunt Lucy?”
“Yes, she’s got blue eyes like me!”
“That’s right, good memory. Well, so Lucy will be there, and she’s got a boyfriend called Wyatt. And she also has two sons you know, but might not remember, Jack, who’s four, almost your age, and Adam, who’s third birthday just passed I believe, he’s your age.”
“I’m three,” she lifted her three fingers.
“Yes, I think he’s your same age,” he wasn’t good at remembering his nephews’ birthdays, in all honesty, even when he and Lucy, three years apart, were quite close. “And aside from them, Uncle Ted, Aunt Joan and Lucy and I’s little brother Harry will be there too.”
“Don’t remember Uncle Harry,” Evelyn frowned, thoughtful.
“Sure you do, he was here last summer. A tall, slim teenager, with my hair but less curly and in nice waves, and blue eyes. Got a bit of stubble.”
“Ah yes!” Evelyn nodded, smiling. “I know!”
“Good, now keep enjoying that film, okay? Let’s try to be quiet so Leo doesn’t wake up.” Although if he doesn’t wake up now, Strike thought dryly, he was going to be up like an owl all night. He was like Ilsa during her Law school years.
At last, Ilsa appeared at the door, beautiful with her soft make-up, her hair loose in waves, and a velvet deep blue, long dress, heels not on quite yet. Her glasses were gone, substituted by contacts.
“Mummy, you’re so pretty like Elsa!” exclaimed Evelyn, amazed, running to her. Ilsa smiled and picked her up, kissing her cheek.
“Thanks sweetheart!”
“Where are your glasses?” asked Evelyn.
“Took them off, I’m wearing contacts. They’re a transparent thing you put in the eyes and then it works like glasses, to see well. Cormoran, thanks for looking after them, mind helping me at the kitchen when you’re ready?”
“No problem,” Strike got up, putting Leo in the little cradling swing in the sitting room. “I’ll shower quickly and put on my suit, and be right back.”
“Thanks Corm.”
“And you look beautiful, hope you’ve sent Nick a pic,” he added with a smirk as he passed her, earning a little elbow.
Strike returned twenty minutes later, jacket draped over his arm, neck shaven, and a jumper over his shirt and tie.
“Uncle Corm, you’re the handsomest,” said Evelyn with a grin as he came into the kitchen while she helped her mother fill Tupperwares with the food Ilsa, Strike and Nick had prepared to bring tonight. Ilsa was now selecting wine while soothing Leo, who was whimpering a little in the wrap carrier Ilsa had put on to hold him while busying her hands on the food.
“Thanks Evie,” Strike half smiled. “Right, what can I do Ilsa?”
“If you can put this chicken and the pie in the Tupperwares and put them in the boot of my car in the garage, I can go get the kids ready.”
“You’ve got it. Off you go Evie, head upstairs with Mummy to get ready, I’ll deal with this.”
When half an hour later they were in the car, cats fed and locked in the kitchen, all doors and windows locked twice, security alarms on, and Evelyn in a pretty blue dress and Leo with a cute new jumper and a bib that had a bow-tie printed, Strike was immensely grateful for three things. One, that Evelyn behaved in a car, two, that Ilsa drove a comfortable Volkswagen, and three, that Ilsa was a hell of a driver, because he’d been struggling with getting back in vehicles for the over year and a half that had passed since the explosion that had taken his leg.
“Okay, so we’re ready to go,” said Ilsa, adjusting the rear view mirror to try and include her children in the photograph. “I trust you remember where your sister lives?” she added teasing Strike in the copilot seat, as she fiddled with her GPS.
“Last time I went by train, so…” Strike shrugged.
Ilsa smirked, rolling eyes, and began to drive the half an hour drive to Gilbert Road in Bromley North, with Evelyn humming Frozen songs in the back, sitting next to her brother in her car seat.
“So,” said Ilsa after a while of silence, once she exited Wandsworth, “any news from that tosser of Greg?”
“Hopefully no,” said Strike, adjusting his tie. “Lucy said something of him threatening with suing because the boys don’t want to see him and he says it’s Lucy’s doing, that she’s brainwashing them.”
“Better that than admit he put his hands on his then three year old son, uh?” Ilsa sighed, shaking her head in disapproval. “Yes, I heard something of that. Lucy cited his violence as grounds for divorce, and she’s asked me some advice with this… I’m just hoping he doesn’t try anything over the holidays, now that the boys are finally looking calm. They were so tense, poor things. And Wyatt treats them right, does he?”
“Yes, I think so. Told Jack to call me if he sniffed anything bad,” said Strike. “But Wyatt was in the Army Medical Corps, then he was a paramedic, now he’s a writer, he knows and respects Lucy’s gift… he seems like a nice guy, right?”
“You’d feel it if he wasn’t, wouldn’t you?”
“Well it doesn’t really work like that, you know that,” said Strike. “If it was so easy, I would’ve known Greg wasn’t a good guy from day one. Hell, Luce would’ve known, if she wasn’t so stubborn to pretend to be normal when we aren’t. Calling what Jack sees invisible friends… my arse.”
Ilsa chuckled, shaking her head.
“Remember you used to call them the friendly neighbours when we were little?”
“Yes,” Strike nodded. “Then I saw you grandmother at her funeral and we stopped fooling around.”
“Oh we were so mortified,” Ilsa remembered. “Good thing she passed to the other side. You know, you and Nick would make a good team, he tries to keep them alive and you deal with them if they’re gone.”
“Nope, just because I am a medium it doesn’t mean I’m going to work as such. I’m a private investigator, I do enough helping the dead find justice and you know what? They pay like shit,” Ilsa sniggered. “Speaking of paranormal things though… I’ve been having the weirdest recurrent dream.”
“About death?”
“I thought so at first, now I think she’s still alive.”
“She?”
“It’s a woman, young, strawberry blonde hair, blue grey eyes… tall, curvaceous, quite beautiful actually. It’s always the same, the IED explosion, and between the pieces of it all and the chaos… she stands as if oblivious to everything else, asking me to help her, before someone…” mindful of Evelyn, he simply gestured as if slicing his throat, which Ilsa saw.
“Wait, so this time you may be able to prevent a death instead of dealing with the post death chaos?” Ilsa frowned.
“Perhaps, don’t know. I’ve never seen that woman in my life, I’m pretty sure.”
“But when was the last time you got to prevent something from happening?”
“The IED, but even then, I had seconds to react, lost half a leg. If this is happening, and it’s been going for many nights now… means she’s still alive, she still needs me.”
“And her time is running.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you could ask help to… you know… the dead. They can go anywhere, right? Perhaps they can tell you where to find her.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, today’s holiday, tomorrow office.”
“Tomorrow? Not gonna get drunk?”
“Of course I’m gonna get drunk, but y’know, later I can still work some. The more alcohol the easier those little shits become to be seen.”
Ilsa smiled in amusement, her eyes on the road. At least now it was party night, and nothing was gonna stop them.