Strike looked away without returning the smile, picked up his phone to read the day’s news, which was, inevitably, Brexit dominated. The referendum would be happening in a week’s time and Strike was thoroughly bored of the febrile coverage it was generating.
Then he spotted a link to a story titled:
He clicked on the link. A dishevelled Charlotte appeared on the phone screen, flanked by a policewoman on a dark street.
Former nineties It-Girl Charlotte Campbell, 41, now Viscountess Ross, has been arrested on a charge of assault against billionaire American hotelier, Landon Dormer, 49.
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
‘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
Rumours of an imminent engagement to billionaire Dormer have circulated in gossip columns for months, but a source close to the hotelier told
Ross’s sister, interior decorator Amelia Crichton, 42, told
‘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.’
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.
