Lethal White

by Galbraith, Robert

  ‘I see,’ said Robin, trying to balance sympathy with a feigned allegiance to the Chiswells. Surely this could not be the grievance that Winn had against the family? Yet Geraint’s fanatic tone spoke of longstanding resentment. ‘Well, these things should come down to ability, of course.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Winn. ‘They should. Look at this, now . . . ’

  He fumbled for his wallet and pulled from it an old photograph. Robin held out her hand, but Geraint, keeping a firm hold on the picture, got up clumsily, stumbled over a stack of books lying beside his chair, walked around the desk, came so close that Robin could feel his breath on her neck, and showed her the image of his daughter.

  Dressed in fencing garb, Rhiannon Winn stood beaming and holding up the gold medal around her neck. She was pale and small-featured, and Robin could see very little of either parent in her face, although perhaps there was a hint of Della in the broad, intelligent brow. But with Geraint’s loud breathing in her ear, trying to stop herself leaning away from him, Robin had a sudden vision of Geraint Winn striding, with his wide, lipless grin, through a large hall of sweaty teenage girls. Was it shameful to wonder whether it had been parental devotion that had spurred him to chauffeur his daughter all over the country?

  ‘What have you done to yourself, eh?’ Geraint asked, his hot breath in her ear. Leaning in, he touched the purple knife scar on her bare forearm.

  Unable to prevent herself, Robin snatched her arm away. The nerves around the scar had not yet fully healed: she hated anyone touching it.

  ‘I fell through a glass door when I was nine,’ she said, but the confidential, confiding atmosphere had been dispersed like cigarette smoke.

  Aamir hovered on the edge of her vision, rigid and silent at his desk. Geraint’s smile had become forced. She had worked too long in offices not to know that a subtle transfer of power had just taken place within the room. Now she stood armed with his little drunken inappropriateness and Geraint was resentful and a little worried. She wished that she had not pulled away from him.

  ‘I wonder, Mr Winn,’ she said breathily, ‘whether you’d mind giving me some advice about the charitable world? I just can’t make up my mind, politics – charity – and I don’t know anyone else who’s done both.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Geraint, blinking behind his thick glasses. ‘Oh, well . . . yes, I daresay I could . . . ’

  ‘Geraint,’ said Aamir again, ‘we really do need to get those letters—’

  ‘Yes, all right, all right,’ said Geraint loudly. ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said to Robin, with a wink.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said, with a smile.

  As Robin walked out she threw Aamir a small smile, which he didn’t return.

  18

  So matters have got as far as that already, have they!

  Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

  After nearly nine hours at the wheel, Strike’s neck, back and legs were stiff and sore and his bag of provisions long since empty. The first star was glimmering out of the pale, inky wash above when his mobile rang. It was the usual time for his sister, Lucy, to call ‘for a chat’; he ignored three out of four of her calls, because, much as he loved her, he could muster no interest in her sons’ schooling, the PTA’s squabbles or the intricacies of her husband’s career as a quantity surveyor. Seeing that it was Barclay on the line, however, he turned into a rough and ready lay-by, really the turnoff to a field, cut the engine and answered.

  ‘’M in,’ said Barclay laconically. ‘Wi’ Jimmy.’

  ‘Already?’ said Strike, seriously impressed. ‘How?’

  ‘Pub,’ said Barclay. ‘Interrupted him. He was talkin’ a load o’ pish about Scottish independence. The grea’ thing about English lefties,’ he continued, ‘is they love hearin’ how shit England is. Havenae hadtae buy a pint all afternoon.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Barclay,’ said Strike, lighting himself another cigarette on top of the twenty he had already had that day, ‘that was good work.’

  ‘That was just fer starters,’ said Barclay. ‘You shoulda heard them when I told them how I’ve seen the error of the army’s imperialist ways. Fuck me, they’re gullible. I’m off tae a CORE meetin’ the morrow.’

  ‘How’s Knight supporting himself? Any idea?’

  ‘He told me he’s a journalist on a couple o’ lefty websites and he sells CORE T-shirts and a bit o’ dope. Mind, his shit’s worthless. We went back tae his place, after the pub. Ye’d be better off smokin’ fuckin’ Oxo cubes. I’ve said I’ll get him better. We can run that through office expenses, aye?’

  ‘I’ll put it under “sundries”,’ said Strike. ‘All right, keep me posted.’

  Barclay rang off. Deciding to take the opportunity to stretch his legs, Strike got out of the car, still smoking, leaned on the five-bar gate facing a wide, dark field, and rang Robin.

  ‘It’s Vanessa,’ Robin lied, when she saw Strike’s number come up on her phone.

  She and Matthew had just eaten a takeaway curry off their knees while watching the news. He had arrived home late and tired; she didn’t need another argument.

  Picking up the mobile, she headed out through the French doors onto the patio that had served as the smoking area for the party. After making sure that the doors were completely closed, she answered.

  ‘Hi. Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine. All right to talk for a moment?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robin, leaning against the garden wall, and watching a moth banging fruitlessly against the bright glass, trying to enter the house. ‘How did it go with Dawn Clancy?’

  ‘Nothing useable,’ said Strike. ‘I thought I might have a lead, some Jewish ex-boss Jimmy had a vendetta against, but I rang the company and the poor bloke died of a stroke last September. Then I got a call from Chiswell just after I left her. He says the Sun’s sniffing around.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘They called his wife.’

  ‘We could’ve done without that,’ said Strike, with what Robin felt was considerable understatement. ‘I wonder who’s tipped off the papers?’

  ‘I’d bet on Winn,’ said Robin, remembering the way that Geraint had talked that afternoon, the name-dropping, the self-importance. ‘He’s just the type to hint to a journalist that there’s a story on Chiswell, even if he hasn’t got proof of it yet. Seriously,’ she said again, with no real hope of an answer, ‘what d’you think Chiswell did?’

  ‘Be nice to know, but it doesn’t really matter,’ said Strike, who sounded tired. ‘We aren’t being paid to get the goods on him. Speaking of which—’

  ‘I haven’t been able to plant the bug yet,’ said Robin, anticipating the question. ‘I hung around as late as possible, but Aamir locked the door after they both left.’

  Strike sighed.

  ‘Well, don’t get overeager and balls it up,’ he said, ‘but we’re up against it if the Sun’s involved. Anything you can do. Get in early or something.’

  ‘I will, I’ll try,’ said Robin. ‘I did get something odd about the Winns today, though,’ and she told him about the confusion Della had made between herself and one of Chiswell’s real goddaughters, and the story of Rhiannon on the fencing team. Strike seemed only distantly interested.

  ‘Doubt that explains the Winns wanting Chiswell out of office. Anyway—’

  ‘—means before motive,’ she said, quoting Strike’s own, oft-repeated words.

  ‘Exactly. Listen, can you meet me after work tomorrow, and we’ll have a proper debrief?’

  ‘All right,’ said Robin.

  ‘Barclay’s doing good work, though,’ said Strike, as though the thought of it cheered him up. ‘He’s already well in with Jimmy.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Robin. ‘Good.’

  After telling her that he would text the name of a convenient pub, Strike rang off, leaving Robin alone and pensive in the quiet dark of the yard, while stars grew pin-bright overhead.

  Barclay’s doing good work, though.

  As opposed t
o Robin, who had found out nothing but an irrelevancy about Rhiannon Winn.

  The moth was still fluttering desperately against the sliding doors, frantic to get at the light.

  Idiot, Robin thought. It’s better out here.

  The ease with which the lie about Vanessa being on the phone had slid out of her mouth ought, she reflected, to have made her feel guilty, but she was merely glad that she had got away with it. As she watched the moth continuing to bang its wings hopelessly against the brilliant glass, Robin remembered what her therapist had said to her during one of the sessions when Robin had dwelled at length on her need to discern where the real Matthew ended and her illusions about him began.

  ‘People change in ten years,’ the therapist had responded. ‘Why does it have to be a question of you being mistaken in Matthew? Perhaps it’s simply that you’ve both changed?’

  The following Monday would mark their first wedding anniversary. At Matthew’s suggestion, they were going to spend next weekend at a fancy hotel near Oxford. In a funny kind of way, Robin was looking forward to it, because she and Matthew seemed to get along better these days with a change of scene. Being surrounded by strangers nudged them out of their tendency to bicker. She had told him the story of Ted Heath’s bust turning green, along with several other (to her) interesting facts about the House of Commons. He had maintained a bored expression through all of them, determined to signal his disapproval of the whole venture.

  Reaching a decision, she opened the French window and the moth fluttered merrily inside.

  ‘What did Vanessa want?’ asked Matthew, his eyes on the news as Robin sat down again. Sarah Shadlock’s stargazer lilies were sitting on a table beside her, still in bloom ten days after they had arrived in the house, and Robin could smell their heady scent even over the curry.

  ‘I picked up her sunglasses by mistake last time we went out,’ said Robin, feigning exasperation. ‘She wants them back, they’re Chanel. I said I’ll meet her before work.’

  ‘Chanel, eh?’ said Matthew, with a smile that Robin found patronising. She knew that he thought he had discovered a weakness in Vanessa, but perhaps he liked her better to think that she valued designer labels and wanted to make sure she got them back.

  ‘I’ll have to leave at six,’ said Robin.

  ‘Six?’ he said, annoyed. ‘Christ, I’m knackered, I don’t want to wake up at—’

  ‘I was going to suggest I sleep in the spare room,’ Robin said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Matthew, mollified. ‘Yeah, OK. Thanks.’

  19

  I do not do it willingly – but, enfin – when needs must –

  Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

  Robin left the house at a quarter to six the next morning. The sky was a faint blush pink and the morning already warm, justifying her lack of jacket. Her eyes flickered towards the single carved swan as she passed their local pub, but she forced her thoughts back onto the day ahead and not the man she had left behind.

  On arrival in Izzy’s corridor an hour later, Robin saw that Geraint’s office door was already open. A swift peek inside showed her an empty room, but Aamir’s jacket hanging on the back of his chair.

  Running to Izzy’s office, Robin unlocked it, dashed to her desk, pulled one of the listening devices from the box of Tampax, scooped up a pile of out-of-date agendas as an alibi, then ran back out into the corridor.

  As she approached Geraint’s office, she slid off the gold bangle that she had worn for this purpose, and threw it lightly so that it rolled into Geraint’s office.

  ‘Oh damn,’ she said out loud.

  Nobody responded from inside the office. Robin knocked on the open door, said ‘hello?’ and put her head inside. The room was still empty.

  Robin dashed across the room to the double power point just above the skirting board beside Geraint’s desk. Kneeling, she took the listening device out of her bag, unplugged the fan on his desk, pressed the device into place over the dual socket, reinserted the fan’s plug, checked that it worked, then, panting as though she had just sprinted a hundred yards, looked around for her bangle.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Aamir was standing in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, a fresh tea in his hand.

  ‘I did knock,’ Robin said, sure that she was bright pink. ‘I dropped my bangle and it rolled – oh, there it is.’

  It was lying just beneath Aamir’s computer chair. Robin scrambled to pick it up.

  ‘It’s my mother’s,’ she lied. ‘I wouldn’t be popular if that went missing.’

  She slid the bangle back over her wrist, picked up the papers she had left on Geraint’s desk, smiled as casually as she could manage, then walked out of the office past Aamir, whose eyes, she saw out of the corner of her own, were narrowed in suspicion.

  Jubilant, Robin re-entered Izzy’s office. At least she would have some good news for Strike when they met in the pub that evening. Barclay was no longer the only one doing good work. So absorbed was she in her thoughts that Robin didn’t realise that there was somebody else in the room until a man said, right behind her: ‘Who are you?’

  The present dissolved. Both of her attackers had lunged at her from behind. With a scream, Robin spun around, ready to fight for her life: the papers flew into the air and her handbag slipped off her shoulder, fell to the floor and burst open, scattering its contents everywhere.

  ‘Sorry!’ said the man. ‘Christ, I’m sorry!’

  But Robin was finding it hard to draw breath. There was a thundering in her ears and sweat had broken out all over her body. She bent down to scoop everything back up, trembling so much that she kept dropping things.

  Not now. Not now.

  He was talking to her, but she couldn’t understand a word. The world was fragmenting again, full of terror and danger, and he was a blur as he handed her eyeliner and a bottle of drops to moisten her contact lenses.

  ‘Oh,’ Robin gasped at random. ‘Great. Excuse me. Bathroom.’

  She stumbled to the door. Two people were coming towards her down the corridor, their voices fuzzy and indistinct as they greeted her. Hardly knowing what she responded, she half-ran past them towards the Ladies.

  A woman from the Secretary for Health’s office greeted her from the sink where she was applying lipstick. Robin blundered blindly past, locking the cubicle door with fumbling fingers.

  It was no use trying to suppress the panic: that only made it fight back, trying to bend her to its will. She must ride it out, as though the fear was a bolting horse, easing it onto a more manageable course. So she stood motionless, palms pressed against the partition walls, speaking to herself inside her head as though she were an animal handler, and her body, in its irrational terror, a frantic prey creature.

  You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe . . .

  Slowly, the panic began to ebb, though her heart was still leaping erratically. At last, Robin removed her numb hands from the walls of the cubicle and opened her eyes, blinking in the harsh lights. The bathroom was quiet.

  Robin peered out of the cubicle. The woman had left. There was nobody there except her own pale reflection in the mirror. After splashing cold water on her face and patting it dry with paper towels, she readjusted her clear-lensed glasses and left the bathroom.

  An argument seemed to be in progress in the office she had just left. Taking a deep breath, she re-entered the room.

  Jasper Chiswell turned to glare at her, his wiry mass of grey hair sticking out around his pink face. Izzy was standing behind her desk. The stranger was still there. In her shaken state, Robin would have preferred not to be the focus of three pairs of curious eyes.

  ‘What just happened?’ Chiswell demanded of Robin.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Robin, feeling cold sweat erupting again under her dress.

  ‘You ran out of the room. Did he—’ Chiswell pointed at the dark man, ‘—do something to you? Make a pass?’

  ‘Wha—? No! I didn’t realise he was in here, th
at’s all – he spoke and I jumped. And,’ she could feel herself blushing harder than ever, ‘then I needed the loo.’

  Chiswell rounded on the dark man.

  ‘So why are you here so early, eh?’

  Now, at last, Robin realised that this was Raphael. She had known from the pictures she had found online that this half-Italian was an exotic in a family that was otherwise uniformly blond and very English in appearance, but had been wholly unprepared for how handsome he was in the flesh. His charcoal-grey suit, white shirt and a conventional dark blue spotted tie were worn with an air that none of the other men along the corridor could muster. So dark-skinned as to appear swarthy, he had high cheekbones, almost black eyes, dark hair worn long and floppy, and a wide mouth that, unlike his father’s, had a full upper lip that added vulnerability to his face.