‘You’re the fencer,’ said Della.
‘Sorry?’ said Robin, totally confused again, her mind on posts and rails. Some of the young people around the space-age coffee machine had turned around to listen, expressions of polite interest on their faces.
‘Yes,’ said Della. ‘Yes, I remember you. You were on the English team with Freddie.’
Her friendly expression had hardened. Chiswell was now leaning over a desk while he struck through phrases on the document.
‘No, I never fenced,’ said Robin, thoroughly out of her depth. She had realised at the mention of the word ‘team’ that swords were under discussion, rather than fields and livestock.
‘You certainly did,’ said Della flatly. ‘I remember you. Jasper’s goddaughter, on the team with Freddie.’
It was a slightly unnerving display of arrogance, of complete self-belief. Robin felt inadequate to the job of continuing to protest, because there were now several listeners. Instead, she merely said, ‘Well, nice to have met you,’ and walked away.
‘Again, you mean,’ said Della sharply, but Robin made no reply.
16
… a man with as dirty a record as his! . . . This is the sort of man that poses as a leader of the people! And successfully, too!
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
After four and a half hours in the driving seat, Strike’s exit from the BMW in Manchester was far from graceful. He stood for a while in Burton Road, a broad, pleasant street with its mixture of shops and houses, leaning on the car, stretching his back and leg, grateful that he had managed to find a parking space only a short way from ‘Stylz’. The bright pink shopfront stood out between a café and a Tesco Express, pictures of moody models with unnaturally tinted hair in the window.
With its black and white tiled floor and pink walls that reminded Strike of Lorelei’s bedroom, the interior of the small shop was determinedly trendy, but it did not appear to cater to a particularly youthful or adventurous clientele. There were currently only two clients, one of whom was a large woman of at least sixty, who was reading Good Housekeeping in front of a mirror, her hair a mass of foil. Strike made a bet with himself as he entered that Dawn would prove to be the slim peroxide blonde with her back to him, chatting animatedly to an elderly lady whose blue hair she was perming.
‘I’ve got an appointment with Dawn,’ Strike told the young receptionist, who looked slightly startled to see anything so large and male in this fug of perfumed ammonia. The peroxided blonde turned at the sound of her name. She had the leathery, age-spotted skin of a committed sunbed user.
‘With you in a moment, cock,’ she said, smiling. He settled to wait on a bench in the window.
Five minutes later, she was leading him to an upholstered pink chair at the back of the shop.
‘What are you after, then?’ she asked him, inviting him with a gesture to sit down.
‘I’m not here for a haircut,’ said Strike, still standing. ‘I’ll happily pay for one, I don’t want to waste your time, but,’ he pulled a card and his driver’s licence from his pocket, ‘my name’s Cormoran Strike. I’m a private detective and I was hoping to talk to you about your ex-husband, Jimmy Knight.’
She looked stunned, as well she might, but then fascinated.
‘Strike?’ she repeated, gaping. ‘You aren’t him that caught that Ripper guy?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Jesus, what’s Jimmy done?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Strike easily. ‘I’m just after background.’
She didn’t believe him, of course. Her face, he suspected, was full of filler, her forehead suspiciously smooth and shiny above the carefully pencilled eyebrows. Only her stringy neck betrayed her age.
‘That’s over. It was over ages ago. I never talk about Jimmy. Least said, soonest mended, don’t they say?’
But he could feel the curiosity and excitement radiating from her like heat. Radio 2 jangled in the background. She glanced towards the two women sitting at the mirrors.
‘Sian!’ she said loudly, and the receptionist jumped and turned. ‘Take out her foils and keep an eye on the perm for me, love.’ She hesitated, still holding Strike’s card. ‘I’m not sure I should,’ she said, wanting to be talked into it.
‘It’s only background,’ he said. ‘No strings.’
Five minutes later she was handing him a milky coffee in a tiny staffroom at the rear of the shop, talking merrily, a little haggard in the fluorescent overhead light, but still good-looking enough to explain why Jimmy had first shown interest in a woman thirteen years his senior.
‘ . . . yeah, a demonstration against nuclear weapons. I went with this friend of mine, Wendy, she was big into all that. Vegetarian,’ she added, nudging the door into the shop closed with her foot and taking out a pack of Silk Cut. ‘You know the type.’
‘Got my own,’ said Strike, when she offered the pack. He lit her cigarette for her, then one of his Benson & Hedges. They blew out simultaneous streams of smoke. She crossed her legs towards him and rattled on.
‘ . . . yeah, so Jimmy gave a speech. Weapons and how much we could save, give to the NHS and everything, what was the point . . . he talks well, you know,’ said Dawn.
‘He does,’ agreed Strike, ‘I’ve heard him.’
‘Yeah, and I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Thought he was some kind of Robin Hood.’
Strike heard the joke coming before she made it. He knew it was not the first time.
‘Robbing Hood, more like,’ she said.
She was already divorced when she had met Jimmy. Her first husband had left her for another girl at the London salon they had owned together. Dawn had done well out of the divorce, managing to retain the business. Jimmy had seemed a romantic figure after her wide-boy first husband and, on the rebound, she had fallen for him hard.
‘But there were always girls,’ she said. ‘Lefties, you know. Some of them were really young. He was like a pop star to them or something. I only found out how many of them there were later, after he’d set up cards on all my accounts.’
Dawn told Strike at length how Jimmy had persuaded her to bankroll a lawsuit against his ex-employer, Zanet Industries, who had failed to follow due process in firing him.
‘Very keen on his rights, Jimmy. He’s not stupid, though, you know. Ten grand payout he got from Zanet. I never saw a penny of it. He pissed it all away, trying to sue other people. He tried to take me to court, after we split up. Loss of earnings, don’t make me laugh. I’d kept him for five years and he claimed he’d been working with me, building up the business for no pay and left with occupational asthma from the chemicals – so much shit, he talked – they chucked it out of court, thank God. And then he tried to get me on a harassment charge. Said I’d keyed his car.’
She ground out her cigarette and reached for another one.
‘I had, too,’ she said, with a sudden, wicked smile. ‘You know he’s been put on a list, now? Can’t sue anyone without permission.’
‘I did know, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Was he ever involved in any criminal activity while you were together, Dawn?’
She lit up again, watching Strike over her fingers, still hoping to hear what Jimmy was supposed to have done to have Strike after him. Finally she said:
‘I’m not sure he was too careful about checking all the girls he was playing around with were sixteen. I heard, after, one of them . . . but we’d split up by then. It wasn’t my problem any more,’ said Dawn, as Strike made a note.
‘And I wouldn’t trust him if it was anything to do with Jews. He doesn’t like them. Israel’s the root of all evil, according to Jimmy. Zionism: I got sick of the bloody sound of the word. You’d think they’d suffered enough,’ said Dawn vaguely. ‘Yeah, his manager at Zanet was Jewish and they hated each other.’
‘What was his name?’
‘What was it?’ Dawn drew heavily on her cigarette, frowning. ‘Paul something . . . Lobstein, that’s it. Paul Lobstein. He’s probably still a
t Zanet.’
‘D’you still have any contact with Jimmy, or any of his family?’
‘Christ, no. Good riddance. The only one of his family I ever met was little Billy, his brother.’
She softened a little as she said the name.
‘He wasn’t right. He stayed with us for a bit at one point. He was a sweetheart, really, but not right. Jimmy said it was their father. Violent alkie. Raised them on his own and knocked the shit out of them, from what the boys said, used the belt and everything. Jimmy got away to London, and poor little Billy was left alone with him. No surprise he was how he was.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He ’ad a – a tic, do they call it?’
She mimicked with perfect accuracy the nose to chest tapping Strike had witnessed in his office.
‘He was put on drugs, I know that. Then he left us, went to share a flat with some other lads for a bit. I never saw him again after Jimmy and I split. He was a sweet boy, yeah, but he annoyed Jimmy.’
‘In what way?’ Strike asked.
‘Jimmy didn’t like him talking about their childhood. I dunno, I think Jimmy felt guilty he’d left Billy in the house alone. There was something funny about that whole business . . . ’
Strike could tell she hadn’t thought about these things for a while.
‘Funny?’ he prompted.
‘A couple of times, when he’d had a few, Jimmy went on about how his dad would burn for how he made his living.’
‘I thought he was an odd-job man?’
‘Was he? They told me he was a joiner. He worked for that politician’s family, what’s his name? The one with the hair.’
She mimed stiff bristles coming out of her head.
‘Jasper Chiswell?’ Strike suggested, pronouncing the name the way it was spelled.
‘Him, yeah. Old Mr Knight had a rent-free cottage in the family grounds. The boys grew up there.’
‘And he said his father would go to hell for what he did for a living?’ repeated Strike.
‘Yeah. It’s probably just because he was working for Tories. It was all about politics with Jimmy. I don’t get it,’ said Dawn restlessly. ‘You’ve got to live. Imagine me asking my clients how they vote before I’ll—
‘Bloody hell,’ she gasped suddenly, grinding out her cigarette and jumping to her feet, ‘Sian had better’ve taken out Mrs Horridge’s rollers or she’ll be bald.’
17
I see he is altogether incorrigible.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Watching for an opportunity to plant the bug in Winn’s office, Robin spent most of the afternoon hanging around the quiet corridor on which both his and Izzy’s offices lay, but her efforts were fruitless. Even though Winn had left for a lunchtime meeting, Aamir remained inside. Robin paced up and down, box file in her arms, waiting for the moment when Aamir might go to the bathroom and returning to Izzy’s office whenever any passer-by tried to engage her in conversation.
Finally, at ten past four, her luck changed. Geraint Winn swaggered around the corner, rather tipsy after what seemed to have been a prolonged lunch, and in sharp contrast to his wife, he seemed delighted to meet her as she set off towards him.
‘There she is!’ he said, over-loudly. ‘I wanted a word with you! Come in here, come in!’
He pushed open the door of his office. Puzzled, but only too eager to see the interior of the room she was hoping to bug, Robin followed him.
Aamir was working in shirtsleeves at his desk, which formed a tiny oasis of order in the general clutter. Stacks of folders lay around Winn’s desk. Robin noticed the orange logo of the Level Playing Field on a pile of letters in front of him. There was a power point directly under Geraint’s desk that would be an ideal position for the listening device.
‘Have you two met?’ Geraint asked jovially. ‘Venetia, Aamir.’
He sat down and invited Robin to take the armchair on which a sliding pile of card folders lay.
‘Did Redgrave call back?’ Winn asked Aamir, struggling out of his suit jacket.
‘Who?’ said the latter.
‘Sir Steve Redgrave!’ said Winn, with the suspicion of an eye roll in Robin’s direction. She felt embarrassed for him, especially as Aamir’s muttered ‘no’ was cold.
‘Level Playing Field,’ Winn told Robin.
He had managed to get his jacket off. With an attempted flourish, he threw it onto the back of his chair. It slid limply onto the floor, but Geraint appeared not to notice, and instead tapped the orange logo on the topmost letter in front of him. ‘Our cha—’ he belched. ‘Pardon me – our charity. Disadvantaged and disabled athletes, you know. Lots of high profile supporters. Sir Steve keen to—’ he belched again, ‘—pardon – help. Well, now. I wanted to apologise. For my poor wife.’
He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Aamir fling Geraint a sharp look, like the flash of a claw, swiftly retracted.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Robin.
‘Gets names wrong. Does it all the time. If I didn’t keep an eye on her, we’d have all sorts going on, wrong letters going out to the wrong people . . . she thought you were someone else. I had her on the phone over lunch, insisting you were somebody our daughter ran across years ago. Verity Pulham. ’Nother of your godfather’s godchildren. Told her straight away it wasn’t you, said I’d pass on her apologies. Silly girl, she is. Very stubborn when she thinks she’s right, but,’ he rolled his eyes again and tapped his forehead, the long-suffering husband of an infuriating wife, ‘I managed to penetrate in the end.’
‘Well,’ said Robin carefully, ‘I’m glad she knows she was mistaken, because she didn’t seem to like Verity very much.’
‘Truth to tell, Verity was a little bitch,’ said Winn, still beaming. Robin could tell he enjoyed using the word. ‘Nasty to our daughter, you see.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Robin, with a thud of dread beneath her ribs as she remembered that Rhiannon Winn had killed herself. ‘I’m sorry. How awful.’
‘You know,’ said Winn, sitting down and tipping back his chair against the wall, hands behind his head, ‘you seem far too sweet a girl to be associated with the Chiswell family.’ He was definitely a little drunk. Robin could smell faint wine dregs on his breath and Aamir threw him another of those sharp, scathing looks. ‘What were you doing before this, Venetia?’
‘PR,’ said Robin, ‘but I’d like to do something more worthwhile. Politics, or maybe a charity. I was reading about the Level Playing Field,’ she said truthfully. ‘It seems wonderful. You do a lot with veterans, too, don’t you? I saw an interview with Terry Byrne yesterday. The Paralympian cyclist?’
Her attention had been caught by the fact that Byrne had the same below the knee amputation as Strike.
‘You’ll have a personal interest in veterans, of course,’ said Winn.
Robin’s stomach swooped and fell again.
‘Sorry?’
‘Freddie Chiswell?’ Winn prompted.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Robin. ‘Although I didn’t know Freddie very well. He was a bit older than me. Obviously, it was dreadful when he – when he was killed.’
‘Oh, yes, awful,’ said Winn, though he sounded indifferent. ‘Della was very much against the Iraq war. Very much against it. Your Uncle Jasper was all for it, mind you.’
For a moment, the air seemed to thrum with Winn’s unexpressed implication that Chiswell had been well served for his enthusiasm.
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Robin carefully. ‘Uncle Jasper thought military action justified on the evidence we had at the time. Anyway,’ she said bravely, ‘nobody can accuse him of acting out of self-interest, can they, when his son had to go and fight?’
‘Ah, if you’re going to take that line, who can argue?’ said Winn. He raised his hands in mock surrender, his chair slipped a little on the wall and for a few seconds he struggled to maintain balance, seizing the desk and pulling hims
elf and the chair upright again. With a substantial effort, Robin managed not to laugh.
‘Geraint,’ said Aamir, ‘we need those letters signed if we’re going to get them off by five.’
‘’S’only half four,’ said Winn, checking his watch. ‘Yes, Rhiannon was on the British junior fencing team.’
‘How marvellous,’ said Robin.
‘Sporty, like her mother. Fencing for the Welsh juniors at fourteen. I used to drive her all over the place for tournaments. Hours on the road together! She made the British juniors at sixteen.
‘But the English lot were very stand-offish to her,’ said Winn, with a glimmer of Celtic resentment. ‘She wasn’t at one of your big public schools, you see. It was all about connections with them. Verity Pulham, she didn’t have the ability, not really. As a matter of fact, it was only when Verity broke her ankle that Rhiannon, who was a far better fencer, got on the British team at all.’
Lethal White Page 18