Lethal White

by Galbraith, Robert

  ‘Izzy!’ said Robin, pulling out a chair for her. ‘Are you all right?’

  As Izzy sat down, tears leaked out of her eyes. Robin passed her a paper napkin.

  ‘Thanks, Venetia,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m so sorry. Making a fuss. Silly.’

  She took a deep shuddering breath and sat upright, with the posture of a girl who had been told for years to sit up straight and pull herself together.

  ‘Just silly,’ she repeated, tears welling again.

  ‘Dad’s just been a total bastard to her,’ said Raphael, arriving with a tray.

  ‘Don’t say that, Raff,’ hiccoughed Izzy, another tear trickling down her nose. ‘I know he didn’t mean it. He was upset when I arrived and then I made it worse. Did you know he’s lost Freddie’s gold money clip?’

  ‘No,’ said Raphael, without much interest.

  ‘He thinks he left it at some hotel on Kinvara’s birthday. They’d just called him back when I arrived. They haven’t got it. You know what Papa’s like about Freddie, even now.’

  An odd look passed over Raphael’s face, as though he had been struck by an unpleasant thought.

  ‘And then,’ said Izzy, shakily, ‘I’d misdated a letter and he flew off the handle . . . ’

  Izzy twisted the damp napkin between her hands.

  ‘Five years,’ she burst out. ‘Five years I’ve worked for him, and I can count on one hand how many times he’s thanked me for anything. When I told him I was thinking of leaving he said “not till after the Olympics”,’ her voice quavered, ‘“because I don’t want to have to break in someone new before then”.’

  Raphael swore under his breath.

  ‘Oh, but he’s not that bad, really,’ said Izzy quickly, in an almost comical volte-face. Robin knew that she had just remembered her hope that Raphael would take over her job. ‘I’m just upset, making it sound worse than it—’

  Her mobile rang. She read the caller’s name and let out a moan.

  ‘Not TTS, not now, I can’t. Raff, you speak to her.’

  She held out the mobile to him, but Raphael recoiled as though asked to hold a tarantula.

  ‘Please, Raff – please . . . ’

  With extreme reluctance, Raphael took the phone.

  ‘Hi, Kinvara. Raff here, Izzy’s out of the office. No . . . Venetia’s not here . . . no . . . I’m at the office, obviously, I just picked up Izzy’s phone . . . He’s just gone to the Olympic Park. No . . . no, I’m not . . . I don’t know where Venetia is, all I know is, she’s not here . . . yes . . . yes . . . OK . . . bye, then—’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Hung up.’

  He pushed the phone back across the table to Izzy, who asked:

  ‘Why’s she so interested in where Venetia is?’

  ‘Three guesses,’ said Raphael, amused. Catching his drift, Robin looked out of the window, feeling the colour rising in her face. She wondered whether Mitch Patterson had called Kinvara, and planted this idea in her head.

  ‘Oh, come orf it,’ said Izzy. ‘She thinks Papa’s . . . ? Venetia’s young enough to be his daughter!’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, so’s his wife,’ said Raphael, ‘and you know what she’s like. The further down the tubes their marriage goes, the more jealous she gets. Dad’s not picking up his phone to her, so she’s drawing paranoid conclusions.’

  ‘Papa doesn’t pick up because she drives him crazy,’ said Izzy, her resentment towards her father suddenly submerged by dislike for her stepmother. ‘For the last two years she’s refused to budge from home or leave her bloody horses. Suddenly the Olympics are nearly here and London’s full of celebrities and all she wants to do is come up to town, dressed up to the nines and play the minister’s wife.’

  She took another deep breath, blotted her face again, then stood up.

  ‘I’d better get back, we’re so busy. Thanks, Raff,’ she said, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder.

  She walked away. Raphael watched her go, then turned back to Robin.

  ‘Izzy was the only one who bothered to visit me when I was inside, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘She said.’

  ‘And when I used to have to go to bloody Chiswell House as a kid, she was the only one who’d talk to me. I was the little bastard who’d broken up their family, so they all hated my guts, but Izzy used to let me help her groom her pony.’

  He swilled the coffee in his cup, looking sullen.

  ‘I suppose you were in love with swashbuckling Freddie, were you, like all the other girls? He hated me. Used to call me “Raphaela” and pretend Dad had told the family I was another girl.’

  ‘How horrible,’ said Robin and Raphael’s scowl turned into a reluctant smile.

  ‘You’re so sweet.’

  He seemed to be debating with himself whether or not to say something. Suddenly he asked:

  ‘Ever meet Jack o’Kent when you were visiting?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Old boy who used to work for Dad. Lived in the grounds of Chiswell House. Scared the hell out of me when I was a kid. He had a kind of sunken face and mad eyes and he used to loom out of nowhere when I was in the gardens. He never said a word except to swear at me if I got in his way.’

  ‘I . . . vaguely remember someone like that,’ lied Robin.

  ‘Jack o’ Kent was Dad’s nickname for him. Who was Jack o’Kent? Didn’t he have something to do with the devil? Anyway, I used to have literal nightmares about the old boy. One time he caught me trying to get into a barn and gave me hell. He put his face up close to mine and said words to the effect of, I wouldn’t like what I saw in there, or it was dangerous for little boys, or . . . I can’t remember exactly. I was only a kid.’

  ‘That sounds scary,’ Robin agreed, her interest awakened now. ‘What was he doing in there, did you ever find out?’

  ‘Probably just storing farm machinery,’ said Raphael, ‘but he made it sound like he was conducting Satanic rituals.

  ‘He was a good carpenter, mind you. He made Freddie’s coffin. An English oak had come down . . . Dad wanted Freddie buried in wood from the estate . . . ’

  Again, he seemed to be wondering whether he ought to say what was on his mind. He scrutinised her through his dark lashes and finally said:

  ‘Does Dad seem . . . well, normal to you at the moment?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You don’t think he’s acting a bit strangely? Why’s he bawling Izzy out for nothing?’

  ‘Pressure of work?’ suggested Robin.

  ‘Yeah . . . maybe,’ said Raphael. Then, frowning, he said, ‘He phoned me the other night, which is strange in itself, because he can’t normally stand the sight of me. Just to talk, he said, and that’s never happened before. Mind you, he’d had a few too many, I could tell as soon as he spoke.

  ‘Anyway, he started rambling on about Jack o’Kent. I couldn’t make out what he was going on about. He mentioned Freddie dying, and Kinvara’s baby dying and then,’ Raphael leaned in closer. Robin felt his knees touch hers under the table, ‘remember that phone call we got, my first day here? That bloody creepy message about people pissing themselves as they die?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robin.

  ‘He said, “It’s all punishment. That was Jack o’Kent calling. He’s coming for me.”’

  Robin stared at him.

  ‘But whoever it was on the phone,’ said Raphael, ‘it can’t have been Jack o’ Kent. He died years ago.’

  Robin said nothing. She had suddenly remembered Matthew’s delirium, the depth of that subtropical night, when he had thought she was his dead mother. Raphael’s knees seemed to press harder into hers. She moved her chair back slightly.

  ‘I was awake half the night wondering whether he’s cracking up. We can’t afford to have Dad go bonkers as well, can we? We’ve already got Kinvara hallucinating horse slashers and gravediggers—’

  ‘Gravediggers?’ repeated Robin sharply.

  ‘Did I say gravediggers?’ said Raphael rest
lessly. ‘Well, you know what I mean. Men with spades in the woods.’

  ‘You think she’s imagining them?’ asked Robin.

  ‘No idea. Izzy and the rest of them think she is, but then they’ve treated her like a hysteric ever since she lost that kid. She had to go through labour even though they knew it had died, did you know that? She wasn’t right afterwards, but when you’re a Chiswell you’re supposed to suck that sort of thing up. Put on a hat and go open a fête or something.’

  He seemed to read Robin’s thoughts in her face, because he said:

  ‘Did you expect me to hate her, just because the others do? She’s a pain in the arse, and she thinks I’m a total waste of space, but I don’t spend my life mentally subtracting everything she spends on her horses from my niece and nephews’ inheritance. She’s not a gold-digger, whatever Izzy and Fizzy think,’ he said, laying arch emphasis on his other sister’s nickname. ‘They thought my mother was a gold-digger, too. It’s the only motivation they understand. I’m not supposed to know they’ve got cosy Chiswell family nicknames for me and my mother, as well . . . ’ His dark skin flushed. ‘Unlikely as it might seem, Kinvara genuinely fell for Dad, I could tell. She could have done a damn sight better if it was money she was after. He’s skint.’

  Robin, whose definition of ‘skint’ did not comprise owning a large house in Oxfordshire, nine horses, a mews flat in London or the heavy diamond necklace she had seen around Kinvara’s neck in photographs, maintained an impassive expression.

  ‘Have you been to Chiswell House lately?’

  ‘Not lately,’ said Robin.

  ‘It’s falling apart. Everything’s moth-eaten and miserable.’

  ‘The one time I really remember being at Chiswell House, the grown-ups were talking about a little girl who’d disappeared.’

  ‘Really?’ said Raphael, surprised.

  ‘Yes, I can’t remember her name. I was young myself. Susan? Suki? Something like that.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells,’ said Raphael. His knees brushed hers again. ‘Tell me, does everyone confide their dark family secrets to you after five minutes of knowing you, or is it just me?’

  ‘Tim always says I look sympathetic,’ said Robin. ‘Perhaps I should forget politics and go into counselling.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you should,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘That isn’t a very strong prescription. Why bother with glasses? Why not just wear contacts?’

  ‘Oh, I . . . find these more comfortable,’ said Robin, pushing the glasses back up her nose and gathering her things. ‘You know, I really ought to get going.’

  Raphael leaned back in his chair with a rueful smile.

  ‘Message received . . . he’s a lucky man, your Tim. Tell him so, from me.’

  Robin gave a half-laugh and stood up, catching herself on the corner of the table as she did so. Self-conscious and slightly flustered, she walked out of the tearoom.

  Making her way back to Izzy’s office, she mulled over the Minister for Culture’s behaviour. Explosions of bad temper and paranoid ramblings were not, she thought, surprising in a man currently at the mercy of two blackmailers, but Chiswell’s suggestion that a dead man had telephoned him was undeniably odd. He had not struck her on either of their two encounters as the kind of man who would believe in either ghosts or divine retribution, but then, Robin reflected, drink brought out strange things in people . . . and suddenly, she remembered Matthew’s snarling face as he had shouted across the sitting room on Sunday.

  She was almost level with Winn’s office door when she registered the fact that it was standing ajar again. Robin peered into the room beyond. It seemed to be empty. She knocked twice. Nobody answered.

  It took her less than five seconds to reach the power socket beneath Geraint’s desk. Unplugging the fan, she prised the recording device loose and had just opened her handbag when Aamir’s voice said:

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Robin gasped, attempted to stand up, hit her head hard on the desk and yelped in pain. Aamir had just unfolded himself from an armchair angled away from the door, was taking headphones from his ears. He seemed to have been taking a few minutes for himself, while listening to an iPod.

  ‘I knocked!’ Robin said, her eyes watering as she rubbed the top of her head. The recording device was still in her hand and she hid it behind her back. ‘I didn’t think anyone was in here!’

  ‘What,’ he repeated, advancing on her, ‘are you doing?’

  Before she could answer, the door was pushed fully open. Geraint walked in.

  There was no lipless grin this morning, no air of bustling self-importance, no ribald comment at finding Robin on the floor of his office. Winn seemed somehow smaller than usual, with purplish shadows beneath the lens-shrunken eyes. In perplexity he turned from Robin to Aamir, and as Aamir began to tell him that Robin had just walked in uninvited, the latter managed to stuff the recording device into her handbag.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, getting to her feet, sweating profusely. Panic lapped at the edges of her thought, but then an idea bobbed up like a life raft. ‘I really am. I was going to leave a note. I was only going to borrow it.’

  As the two men frowned at her, she gestured to the unplugged fan.

  ‘Ours is broken. Our room’s like an oven. I didn’t think you’d mind,’ she said, appealing to Geraint. ‘I was just going to borrow it for thirty minutes.’ She smiled piteously. ‘Honestly, I felt faint earlier.’

  She plucked the front of her shirt away from her skin, which was indeed clammy. His gaze fell to her chest and the usual lecherous grin resurfaced.

  ‘Though I shouldn’t say so, overheating rather suits you,’ said Winn, with the ghost of a smirk, and Robin forced a giggle.

  ‘Well, well, we can spare it for thirty minutes, can’t we?’ he said, turning to Aamir. The latter said nothing, but stood ramrod straight, staring at Robin with undisguised suspicion. Geraint lifted the fan carefully off the desk and passed it to Robin. As she turned to go, he patted her lightly on the lower back.

  ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ she said, her flesh crawling. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Winn.’

  28

  Do I take it to heart, to find myself so hampered and thwarted in my life’s work?

  Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

  The long hike to and around Chelsea Physic Garden the previous day had not benefited Strike’s hamstring injury. As his stomach was playing up from a constant diet of Ibuprofen, he had eschewed painkillers for the past twenty-four hours, with the result that he was in what his doctors liked to describe as ‘some discomfort’ as he sat with his one and a half legs up on the office sofa on Thursday afternoon, his prosthesis leaning against the wall nearby while he reviewed the Chiswell file.

  Silhouetted like a headless watchman against the window of his inner office was Strike’s best suit, plus a shirt and tie, which hung from the curtain rail, shoes and clean socks sitting below the limp trouser legs. He was going out to dinner with Lorelei tonight and had organised himself so that he need not climb the stairs to his attic flat again before bed.

  Lorelei had been typically understanding about his lack of communication during Jack’s hospitalisation, saying with only the slightest edge to her voice that it must have been a horrible thing to go through on his own. Strike had too much sense to tell her that Robin had been there, too. Lorelei had then requested, sweetly and without rancour, dinner, ‘to talk a few things through’.

  They had been dating for just over ten months and she had just nursed him through five days of incapacity. Strike felt that it was neither fair, nor decent, to ask her to say what she had to say over the phone. Like the hanging suit, the prospect of having to find an answer to the inevitable question ‘where do you see this relationship going?’ loomed ominously on the periphery of Strike’s consciousness.

  Dominating his thoughts, however, was what he saw as the perilous state of the Chiswell cas
e, for which he had so far seen not a penny in payment, but which was costing him a significant outlay in salaries and expenses. Robin might have succeeded in neutralising the immediate threat of Geraint Winn, but after a promising start Barclay had nothing whatsoever to use against Chiswell’s first blackmailer, and Strike foresaw disastrous consequences should the Sun newspaper find its way to Jimmy Knight. Balked of the mysterious photographs at the Foreign Office that Winn had promised him, and notwithstanding Chiswell’s assertion that Jimmy would not want the story in the press, Strike thought an angry and frustrated Jimmy was overwhelmingly likely to try and profit from a chance that seemed to be slipping through his fingers. His history of litigation told its own story: Jimmy was a man prone to cutting off his own nose to spite his face.