Lethal White

by Galbraith, Robert

  To compound Strike’s bad mood, after several straight days and nights hanging out with Jimmy and his mates, Barclay had told Strike that unless he went home soon, his wife would be initiating divorce proceedings. Strike, who owed Barclay expenses, had told him to come into the office for a cheque, after which he could take a couple of days off. To his extreme annoyance, the normally reliable Hutchins had then cavilled at having to take over the tailing of Jimmy Knight at short notice, rather than hanging around Harley Street, where Dodgy Doc was once again consulting patients.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Strike had asked roughly, his stump throbbing. Much as he liked Hutchins, he had not forgotten that the ex-policeman had recently taken time off for a family holiday and to drive his wife to hospital when she broke her wrist. ‘I’m asking you to switch targets, that’s all. I can’t follow Knight, he knows me.’

  ‘Yeah, all right, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Decent of you,’ Strike had said, angrily. ‘Thanks.’

  The sound of Robin and Barclay climbing the metal stairs to the office at half past five made a welcome distraction from Strike’s increasingly dark mood.

  ‘Hi,’ said Robin, walking into the office with a holdall over her shoulder. Answering Strike’s questioning look, she explained, ‘Outfit for the Paralympic reception. I’ll change in the loo, I won’t have time to go home.’

  Barclay followed Robin into the room and closed the door.

  ‘We met downstairs,’ he told Strike cheerfully. ‘Firs’ time.’

  ‘Sam was just telling me how much dope he’s had to smoke to keep in with Jimmy,’ said Robin, laughing.

  ‘I’ve no been inhalin’,’ said Barclay, deadpan. ‘That’d be remiss, on a job.’

  The fact that the pair of them seemed to have hit it off was perversely annoying to Strike, who was now making heavy weather of hoisting himself off the fake leather cushions, which made their usual farting noises.

  ‘It’s the sofa,’ he snapped at Barclay, who had looked around, grinning. ‘I’ll get your money.’

  ‘Stay there, I’ll do it,’ Robin said, setting down her holdall and reaching for the chequebook in the lower drawer of the desk, which she handed to Strike, with a pen. ‘Want some tea, Cormoran? Sam?’

  ‘Aye, go on, then,’ said Barclay.

  ‘You’re both bloody cheerful,’ said Strike sourly, writing Barclay his cheque, ‘considering we’re about to lose the job that’s keeping us all in employment. Unless either of you have got information I don’t know about, of course.’

  ‘Only excitin’ thing tae happen in Knightville this week was Flick havin’ a big bust up wi’ one o’ her flatmates,’ said Barclay. ‘Lassie called Laura. She reckoned Jimmy had stolen a credit card out o’ her handbag.’

  ‘Had he?’ asked Strike sharply.

  ‘I’d say it was more likely to be Flick herself. Told ye she was boastin’ about helpin’ herself to cash from her work, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, you did.’

  ‘It all kicked off in the pub. The girl, Laura, was scunnered. She and Flick got intae a row about who was more middle class.’

  In spite of the pain he was in, and his grumpy mood, Strike grinned.

  ‘Aye, it got nasty. Ponies and foreign holidays dragged in. Then this Laura said she reckoned Jimmy nicked her new credit card off her, months back. Jimmy got aggressive, said that was slander—’

  ‘Shame he’s banned, or he could’ve sued her,’ said Strike, ripping out the cheque.

  ‘—and Laura ran off intae the night, bawlin’. She’s left the flat.’

  ‘Got a surname for her?’

  ‘I’ll try and find out.’

  ‘What’s Flick’s background, Barclay?’ asked Strike as Barclay put his cheque into his wallet.

  ‘Well, she told me she dropped out o’ uni,’ said Barclay. ‘Failed her first-year exams and gave up.’

  ‘Some of the best people drop out,’ said Robin, carrying two mugs of tea over. She and Strike had both left their degree courses without a qualification.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Barclay, accepting a mug from Robin. ‘Her parents are divorced,’ he went on, ‘and she’s no speaking tae either of them. They don’t like Jimmy. Cannae blame them. If my daughter ever hooks up wi’ a bawbag like Knight, I’ll know what tae do about it. When she’s not around, he tells the lads what he gets up to wi’ young girls. They all think they’re shaggin’ a great revolutionary, doin’ it for the cause. Flick doesnae know the half o’ what he’s up tae.’

  ‘Any of them underage? His wife suggested he’s got form there. That’d be a bargaining chip.’

  ‘All over sixteen so far’s I know.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Strike. He caught Robin’s eye, as she returned to them holding her own tea. ‘You know what I mean.’ He turned to Barclay again. ‘From what I heard on that march, she’s not so monogamous herself.’

  ‘Aye, one o’ her pals made a gag about an Indian waiter.’

  ‘A waiter? I heard a student.’

  ‘No reason it couldn’ta been both,’ said Barclay. ‘I’d say she’s a—’

  But catching Robin’s eye, Barclay decided against saying the word, and instead drank his tea.

  ‘Anything new your end?’ Strike asked Robin.

  ‘Yes. I got the second listening device back.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Strike, sitting up straighter.

  ‘I’ve only just finished transcribing it all, there was hours of stuff on there. Most of it’s useless, but . . . ’

  She set down her tea, unzipped the holdall and took out the recording device.

  ‘ . . . there’s one strange bit. Listen to this.’

  Barclay sat down on the arm of the sofa. Robin straightened up in her desk chair and flicked the switch on the device.

  Geraint’s lilting accent filled the office.

  ‘ . . . keep them sweet, make sure I introduce Elspeth to Prince Harry,’ said Geraint. ‘Right, that’s me off, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘G’night,’ said Aamir.

  Robin shook her head at Strike and Barclay and mouthed, ‘Wait.’

  They heard the door close. After the usual thirty-second silence, there was a click, where the tape had stopped then restarted. A deep, Welsh female voice spoke.

  ‘Are you there, sweetheart?’

  Strike raised his eyebrows. Barclay stopped chewing.

  ‘Yes,’ said Aamir, in his flat London accent.

  ‘Come and give me a kiss,’ said Della.

  Barclay made a small choking noise into his tea. The sound of lips smacking emanated from the bug. Feet shuffled. A chair was moved. There was a faint, rhythmic thudding.

  ‘What’s that?’ muttered Strike.

  ‘The guide dog’s tail wagging,’ said Robin.

  ‘Let me hold your hand,’ said Della. ‘Geraint won’t be back, don’t worry, I’ve sent him out to Chiswick. There. Thank you. Now, I needed a little private word with you. The thing is, darling, your neighbours have complained. They say they’ve been hearing funny noises through the walls.’

  ‘Like what?’ He sounded apprehensive.

  ‘Well, they thought they might be animal,’ said Della. ‘A dog whining or whimpering. You haven’t—?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t,’ said Aamir. ‘It must’ve been the telly. Why would I get a dog? I’m at work all day.’

  ‘I thought it would be like you to bring home some poor little stray,’ she said. ‘Your soft heart . . . ’

  ‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Aamir. He sounded tense. ‘You don’t have to take my word for it. You can go and check if you want, you’ve got a key.’

  ‘Darling, don’t be like that,’ said Della. ‘I wouldn’t dream of letting myself in without your permission. I don’t snoop.’

  ‘You’re within your rights,’ he said, and Strike thought he sounded bitter. ‘It’s your house.’

  ‘You’re upset. I knew you would be. I had to mention it, because if Geraint picks u
p the phone to them next time – it was the purest good luck the neighbour caught me—’

  ‘I’ll make sure and keep the volume down from now on,’ said Aamir. ‘OK? I’ll be careful.’

  ‘You understand, my love, that as far as I’m concerned, you’re free to do whatever—’

  ‘Look, I’ve been thinking,’ Aamir interrupted. ‘I really think I should be paying you some rent. What if—’

  ‘We’ve been over this. Don’t be silly, I don’t want your money.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Apart from everything else,’ she said, ‘you couldn’t afford it. A three-bedroomed house, on your own?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’ve been through this. You seemed happy when you first moved in . . . I thought you liked it—’

  ‘Obviously, I like it. It was very generous of you,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Generous . . . it’s not a question of generosity, for heaven’s sake . . . Now, listen: how would you like to come and have a curry? I’ve got a late vote and I was going to nip over to the Kennington Tandoori. My treat.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ said Aamir. He sounded stressed. ‘I’ve got to get home.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Della, with a great deal less warmth. ‘Oh . . . that’s disappointing. What a pity.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I said I’d meet a friend. University friend.’

  ‘Ah. I see. Well, next time, I’ll make sure to call ahead. Find a slot in your diary.’

  ‘Della, I—’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’m only teasing. You can walk out with me, at least?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  There was more scuffling, then the sound of the door opening. Robin turned off the tape.

  ‘They’re shaggin’?’ said Barclay loudly.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Robin. ‘The kiss might’ve been on the cheek.’

  ‘“Let me hold your hand”?’ repeated Barclay. ‘Since when’s that normal office procedure?’

  ‘How old’s this Aamir bloke?’ asked Strike.

  ‘I’d guess mid-twenties,’ said Robin.

  ‘And she’s, what . . . ?’

  ‘Mid-sixties,’ said Robin.

  ‘And she’s provided him with a house. He’s not related to her, is he?’

  ‘There’s no family connection as far as I’m aware,’ said Robin. ‘But Jasper Chiswell knows something personal about him. He quoted a Latin poem at Aamir when they met in our office.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Robin, remembering that this had happened shortly before she had refused to tail Jimmy on the march. ‘I forgot. Yes, Chiswell quoted something Latin, then mentioned “a man of your habits”.’

  ‘What was the poem?’

  ‘I don’t know, I never did Latin.’

  She checked her watch.

  ‘I’d better get changed, I’m supposed to be at DCMS in forty minutes.’

  ‘Aye, that’s me off as well, Strike,’ said Barclay.

  ‘Two days, Barclay,’ Strike said, as the other headed to the door, ‘then you’re back on Knight.’

  ‘Nae bother,’ said Barclay, ‘I’ll be wantin’ a break from the wean by then.’

  ‘I like him,’ said Robin, as Barclay’s footsteps died away down the metal stairs.

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Strike, as he reached for his prosthesis. ‘He’s all right.’

  He and Lorelei were meeting early, at his request. It was time to begin the onerous process of making himself presentable. Robin retired to the cramped toilet on the landing to change, and Strike, having put his prosthesis back on, withdrew to the inner office.

  He had got as far as pulling on his suit trousers when his mobile rang. Half-hoping that it was Lorelei to say that she could not make dinner, he picked up the cracked phone and saw, with an inexplicable sense of foreboding, that it was Hutchins.

  ‘Strike?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Strike . . . I’ve fucked up.’

  Hutchins sounded weak.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Knight’s with some mates. I followed them into a pub. They’re planning something. He’s got a placard with Chiswell’s face on it—’

  ‘And?’ said Strike loudly.

  ‘Strike, I’m sorry . . . my balance has gone . . . I’ve lost them.’

  ‘You stupid fucker!’ roared Strike, losing his temper completely. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of time off lately . . . knew you were stretched . . . ’

  Strike switched Hutchins to speakerphone, laid his mobile onto his desk, took his shirt off the hanger and began to dress as fast as possible.

  ‘Mate, I’m so sorry . . . I’m having trouble walking . . . ’

  ‘I know the fucking feeling!’

  Fuming, Strike stabbed off the call.

  ‘Cormoran?’ Robin called through the door. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘No, it’s fucking not!’

  He opened the office door.

  In one part of his brain, he registered that Robin was wearing the green dress he had bought her two years ago, as a thank you for helping him catch their first killer. She looked stunning.

  ‘Knight’s got a placard with Chiswell’s face on it. He’s planning something with a bunch of mates. I knew it, I fucking knew this would happen now Winn’s bailed on him . . . I’ll bet you anything he’s heading for your reception. Shit,’ said Strike, realising he didn’t have shoes on and doubling back. ‘And Hutchins has lost them,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘The stupid tit didn’t tell me he’s ill.’

  ‘Maybe you can get Barclay back?’ suggested Robin.

  ‘He’ll be on the Tube by now. I’m going to have to fucking do it, aren’t I?’ said Strike. He dropped back into the sofa and slid his feet into his shoes. ‘There are going to be press all round that place tonight if Harry’s going to be there. All it needs is for a journo to twig what Jimmy’s stupid fucking sign means, and Chiswell’s out of a job and so’re we.’ He heaved himself back to his feet. ‘Where is this thing, tonight?’

  ‘Lancaster House,’ said Robin. ‘Stable Yard.’

  ‘Right,’ said Strike, heading for the door. ‘Stand by. You might have to bail me out. There’s a good chance I’m going to have to punch him.’

  29

  It became impossible for me to remain an idle spectator any longer.

  Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

  The taxi that Strike had picked up in Charing Cross Road turned into St James’s Street twenty minutes later, while he was still talking to the Minister for Culture on his mobile.

  ‘A placard? What’s on it?’

  ‘Your face,’ said Strike. ‘That’s all I know.’

  ‘And he’s heading for the reception? Well, this is bloody it, isn’t it?’ shouted Chiswell, so loudly that Strike winced and removed the phone from his ear. ‘If the press see this, it’s all over! You were supposed to stop something like this bloody happening!’

  ‘And I’m going to try,’ said Strike, ‘but in your shoes I’d want to be forewarned. I’d advise—’

  ‘I don’t pay you for advice!’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can,’ promised Strike, but Chiswell had already hung up.

  ‘I’m not going to be able to go any further, mate,’ said the taxi-driver, addressing Strike in the rear-view mirror from which dangled a swinging mobile, outlined in tufts of multi-coloured cotton and embossed with a golden Ganesh. The end of St James’s Street had been blocked off. A swelling crowd of royal watchers and Olympics fans, many clutching small Union Jacks, was congregating behind portable barriers, waiting for the arrival of Paralympians and Prince Harry.

  ‘OK, I’ll get out here,’ said Strike, fumbling for his wallet.

  He was once again facing the crenellated frontage of St James’s Palace, its gilded, diamond-shaped clock gleaming in the early evening sun. Strike limped down the slope
again towards the crowd, passing the side street where Pratt’s stood, while smartly dressed passers-by, workers and customers of galleries and wine merchants moved aside courteously as his uneven gait became progressively more pronounced.