Lethal White

by Galbraith, Robert

  ‘That was very good work of yours, connecting the dots on the gallows,’ admitted Layborn. ‘We were a bit behind you on that, but it explained a hell of a lot. This is highly confidential,’ he added, taking a brown envelope off a nearby desk and tipping out a large photograph, ‘but we had this from the Foreign Office this morning. As you can see—’

  Robin, who had gone to look, half-wished she hadn’t. What was there to be gained, really, from seeing the corpse of what seemed to be a teenage boy, whose eyes had been picked out by carrion birds, and hanging from a gallows in a rubble-strewn street? The boy’s dangling feet were bare. Somebody, Robin guessed, had stolen his trainers.

  ‘The lorry containing the second pair of gallows was hijacked. Government never took delivery and Chiswell never got payment for them. This picture suggests they ended up being used by rebels for extrajudicial killings. This poor lad, Samuel Murape, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. British student, gap year, out there to visit family. It’s not particularly clear,’ Layborn said, ‘but see there, just behind his foot—’

  ‘Yeah, that could be the mark of the white horse,’ said Strike.

  Robin’s mobile, which was switched to silent, vibrated in her pocket. She was waiting for an important call, but it was only a text from an unknown number.

  I know you’ve blocked my phone, but I need to meet you. An urgent situation’s come up and it’s to your advantage as much as mine to sort it out. Matt

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Robin told Strike, returning the mobile to her pocket.

  This was the third message Matthew had left that day.

  Urgent situation, my arse.

  Tom had probably found out that his fiancée and his good friend had been sleeping together. Maybe Tom was threatening to call Robin, or drop in on the office in Denmark Street, to find out how much she knew. If Matthew thought that constituted an ‘urgent situation’ to Robin, who was currently standing beside multiple pictures of a drugged and suffocated government minister, he was wrong. With an effort, she refocused on the conversation in the incident room.

  ‘ . . . the necklace business,’ Layborn was saying to Strike. ‘Far more convincing story than the one he told us. All that guff about wanting to stop her hurting herself.’

  ‘It was Robin who got him to change his story, not me,’ said Strike.

  ‘Ah – well, good work,’ Layborn said to Robin, with a hint of patronage. ‘I thought he was an oily little bastard when I took his initial statement. Cocky. Just out of jail, and all. No bloody remorse for running over that poor woman.’

  ‘How are you getting on with Francesca?’ Strike asked. ‘The girl from the gallery?’

  ‘We managed to get hold of the father in Sri Lanka and he’s not happy. Being quite obstructive, actually,’ said Layborn. ‘He’s trying to buy time to get her lawyered up. Bloody inconvenient, the whole family being abroad. I had to get tough with him over the phone. I can understand why he doesn’t want it all coming out in court, but too bad. Gives you a real insight into the mindset of the upper classes, eh, case like this? One rule for them . . . ’

  ‘On that subject,’ said Strike, ‘I assume you’ve spoken to Aamir Mallik?’

  ‘Yeah, we found him exactly where your boy – Hutchins, is it? – said he was. At his sister’s. He’s got a new job—’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad,’ said Robin inadvertently.

  ‘—and he wasn’t overjoyed to have us turning up at first, but he ended up being very frank and helpful. Said he found that disturbed lad – Billy, is it? – on the street, wanting to see his boss, shouting about a dead child, strangled and buried on Chiswell’s land. Took him home with the idea of getting him to hospital, but he asked Geraint Winn’s advice first. Winn was furious. Told him on no account to call an ambulance.’

  ‘Did he, now?’ said Strike, frowning.

  ‘From what Mallik’s told us, Winn was worried association with Billy’s story would taint his own credibility. He didn’t want the waters muddied by a psychotic tramp. Blew up at Mallik for taking him into a house belonging to the Winns, told him to turf him out on the street again. Trouble was—’

  ‘Billy wouldn’t go,’ said Strike.

  ‘Exactly. Mallik says he was clearly out of his mind, thought he was being held against his will. Curled up in the bathroom most of the time. Anyway,’ Layborn took a deep breath, ‘Mallik’s had enough of covering up for the Winns. He’s confirmed that Winn wasn’t with him on the morning of Chiswell’s death. Winn told Mallik afterwards, when he put pressure on Mallik to lie, he’d had an urgent phone call at 6 a.m. that day, which is why he left the marital home early.’

  ‘And you’ve traced that call?’ said Strike.

  Layborn picked up the printout of phone records, rifled through them, then handed a couple of marked pages to Strike.

  ‘Here you go. Burner phones,’ he said. ‘We’ve got three different numbers so far. There were probably more. Used once, never used again, untraceable except for the single instance we got on record. Months in the planning.

  ‘A single-use phone was used to contact Winn that morning, and two more were used to call Kinvara Chiswell on separate occasions during the previous weeks. She “can’t remember” who called her, but both times – see there? – she talked to whoever it was for over an hour.’

  ‘What’s Winn got to say for himself?’ asked Strike.

  ‘Closed up like an oyster,’ said Layborn. ‘We’re working on him, don’t worry. There are porn stars who’ve been fucked fewer different ways than Geraint W – sorry, love,’ he said, grinning, to Robin, who found the apology more offensive than anything Layborn had said. ‘But you take my point. He might as well tell us everything now. He’s screwed every which w – well,’ he said, floundering once more. ‘What interests me,’ he started up again, ‘is how much the wife knew. Strange woman.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Robin.

  ‘Oh, you know. I think she plays on this a bit,’ said Layborn, with a vague gesture towards his eyes. ‘Very hard to believe she didn’t know what he was up to.’

  ‘Speaking of people not knowing what their other halves are up to,’ interposed Strike, who thought he detected a martial glint in Robin’s eye, ‘how’s it going with our friend Flick?’

  ‘Ah, we’re making very good progress there,’ said Layborn. ‘The parents have been helpful in her case. They’re both lawyers and they’ve been urging her to cooperate. She’s admitted she was Chiswell’s cleaner, that she stole the note and took receipt of the crate of champagne right before Chiswell told her he couldn’t afford her any more. Says she put it in a cupboard in the kitchen.’

  ‘Who delivered it?’

  ‘She can’t remember. We’ll find out. Courier service, I shouldn’t wonder, booked on another burner phone.’

  ‘And the credit card?’

  ‘That was another good spot of yours,’ admitted Layborn. ‘We didn’t know a credit card had gone missing. We got details through from the bank this morning. The same day Flick’s flatmate realised the card was gone, somebody charged a crate of champagne and bought a hundred quid’s worth of stuff on Amazon, all to be sent to an address in Maida Vale. Nobody took delivery, so it was returned to the depot where it was picked up that afternoon by someone who had the failed delivery notice. We’re trying to locate the staff who can identify the person who collected it and we’re getting a breakdown on what was bought on Amazon, but my money’s on helium, tubing and latex gloves.

  ‘This was all planned months in advance. Months.’

  ‘And that?’ Strike asked, pointing to the photocopy of the note in Chiswell’s handwriting, which was lying on the side in its polythene bag. ‘Has she told you why she nicked it yet?’

  ‘She says she saw “Bill” and thought it meant her boyfriend’s brother. Ironic, really,’ said Layborn. ‘If she hadn’t stolen it, we wouldn’t have cottoned on nearly so fast, would we?’

  The ‘we’, thought Robin, was daring, beca
use it had been Strike who had ‘cottoned on’, Strike who had finally cracked the significance of Chiswell’s note, as they drove back to London from Chiswell House.

  ‘Robin deserves the bulk of the credit there, too,’ said Strike. ‘She found the thing, she noticed “Blanc de Blanc” and the Grand Vitara. I just pieced it together once it was staring me in the face.’

  ‘Well, we were just behind you,’ said Layborn, absent-mindedly scratching his belly. ‘I’m sure we’d have got there.’

  Robin’s mobile vibrated in her pocket again: somebody was calling, this time.

  ‘I need to take this. Is there anywhere I can—?’

  ‘Through here,’ said Layborn helpfully, opening a side door.

  It was a photocopier room, with a small window covered in a Venetian blind. Robin closed the door on the others’ conversation and answered.

  ‘Hi, Sarah.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Sarah Shadlock.

  She sounded totally unlike the Sarah whom Robin had known for nearly nine years, the confident and bombastic blonde whom Robin had sensed, even in their teens, was hoping that some mischance might befall Matthew’s long-distance relationship with his girlfriend. Always there through the years, giggling at Matthew’s jokes, touching his arm, asking loaded questions about Robin’s relationship with Strike, Sarah had dated other men, settling at last for poor tedious Tom, with his well-paid job and his bald patch, who had put diamonds on Sarah’s finger and in her ears, but never quelled her yen for Matthew Cunliffe.

  All her swagger had gone today.

  ‘Well, I’ve asked two experts, but,’ she said, sounding fragile and fearful, ‘and they can’t say for sure, not from a photograph taken on a phone—’

  ‘Well, obviously not,’ said Robin coolly. ‘I said in my text, didn’t I, that I wasn’t expecting a definitive answer? We’re not asking for a firm identification or valuation. All we want to know is whether somebody might have credibly believed—’

  ‘Well, then, yes,’ said Sarah. ‘One of our experts is quite excited about it, actually. One of the old notebooks lists a painting done of a mare with a dead foal, but it’s never been found.’

  ‘What notebooks?’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Sarah. She had never sounded so meek, so frightened, in Robin’s vicinity. ‘Stubbs.’

  ‘And if it is a Stubbs?’ asked Robin, turning to look out of the window at the Feathers, a pub where she and Strike had sometimes drunk.

  ‘Well, this is entirely speculative, obviously . . . but if it’s genuine, if it’s the one he listed in 1760, it could be a lot.’

  ‘Give me a rough estimate.’

  ‘Well, his “Gimcrack” went for—’

  ‘—twenty-two million,’ said Robin, feeling suddenly light-headed. ‘Yes. You said so at our house-warming party.’

  Sarah made no answer. Perhaps the mention of the party, where she had brought lilies to her lover’s wife’s house, had scared her.

  ‘So if “Mare Mourning” is a genuine Stubbs—’

  ‘It’d probably make more than “Gimcrack” at auction. It’s a unique subject. Stubbs was an anatomist, as much scientist as artist. If this is a depiction of a lethal white foal, it might be the first recorded instance. It could set records.’

  Robin’s mobile buzzed in her hand. Another text had arrived.

  ‘This has been very helpful, Sarah, thanks. You’ll keep this confidential?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Sarah. And then, in a rush:

  ‘Robin, listen—’

  ‘No,’ said Robin, trying to stay calm. ‘I’m working a case.’

  ‘—it’s over, it’s finished, Matt’s in pieces—’

  ‘Goodbye, Sarah.’

  Robin hung up, then read the text that had just arrived.

  Meet me after work or I’m giving a statement to the press.

  Eager as she was to return to the group next door and relay the sensational information she had just received, Robin remained where she stood, temporarily flummoxed by the threat, and texted back:

  Statement to the press about what?

  His response came within seconds, littered with angry typos.

  The mail called the office this morning g and left a message asking how I feel about my dive shacking up with Cornish Strike. The sun’s been one this afternoon. You probably know he’s two timing you but maybe you don’t give a shit. I’m not having the papers calling me at work. Either meet me or I’m go give a statement to get them off my back.

  Robin was rereading the message when yet another text arrived, this time with an attachment.

  In case you haven’t seen it

  Robin enlarged the attachment, which was a screenshot of a diary item in the Evening Standard.

  The Curious Case of Charlotte

  Campbell and Cormoran Strike

  A staple of the gossip columns ever since she ran away from her first private school, Charlotte Campbell has lived out her life in a glare of publicity. Most people would choose a discreet spot for their consultation with a private detective, but the pregnant Ms Campbell – now Mrs Jago Ross – chose the window table of one of the West End’s busiest restaurants.

  Were detective services under discussion during the intense heart-to-heart, or something more personal? The colourful Mr Strike, illegitimate son of rock star Jonny Rokeby, war hero and modern-day Sherlock Holmes, also happens to be Campbell’s ex-lover.

  Campbell’s businessman husband will doubtless be keen to solve the mystery – business or pleasure? – upon his return from New York.

  A mass of uncomfortable feelings jostled inside Robin, of which the dominant ones were panic, anger and mortification at the thought of Matthew speaking to the press in such a way as to leave open, spitefully, the possibility that she and Strike were indeed sleeping together.

  She tried to call the number, but it went straight to voicemail. Two seconds later, another angry text appeared.

  I’M WITH A CLIENT I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS

  IN FRONT OF HIM JUST MEET ME

  Angry now, Robin texted:

  And I’m at New Scotland Yard. Find a quiet corner.

  She could imagine Matthew’s polite smile as the client watched, his smooth ‘just the office, excuse me’, while he hammered out his furious replies.

  We’ve got stuff to sort out and you’re acting like a child refusing to meet me. Either you come talk to me or I’m ringing the papers at eight. I notice you’re not denying your sleeping with him, by the way

  Furious, but feeling cornered, Robin typed back:

  Fine, let’s discuss it face to face, where?

  He texted her directions to a bar in Little Venice. Still shaken, Robin pushed open the door to the incident room. The group was now huddled around a monitor showing a page of Jimmy Knight’s blog, from which Strike was reading aloud:

  ‘ . . . “in other words, a single bottle of wine at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons can cost more than a single, out-of-work mother receives per week to feed, clothe and house her entire family.” Now that,’ said Strike, ‘struck me as a weirdly specific choice of restaurant, if he wanted to rant about Tories and their spending. That’s what made me think he’d been there recently. Then Robin tells me “Blanc de Blanc” is the name of one of their suites, but I didn’t put that together as quickly as I should’ve done. It hit me a few hours later.’

  ‘He’s a hell of a bloody hypocrite on top of everything else, isn’t he?’ said Wardle, who was standing, arms folded, behind Strike.

  ‘You’ve looked in Woolstone?’ Strike asked.

  ‘The shithole in Charlemont Road, Woolstone, everywhere,’ said Layborn, ‘but don’t worry. We’ve got a line on one of his girlfriends down in Dulwich. Checking there right now. With luck, we’ll have him in custody tonight.’

  Layborn now noticed Robin, standing with her phone in her hand.

  ‘I know you’ve already got people looking at it,’ she told Layborn, ‘
but I’ve got a contact at Christie’s. I sent her the picture of “Mare Mourning” and she’s just called me back. According to one of their experts, it might be a Stubbs.’

  ‘Even I’ve heard of Stubbs,’ Layborn said.

  ‘What would it be worth, if it is?’ Wardle asked.

  ‘My contact thinks upwards of twenty-two million.’

  Wardle whistled. Layborn said, ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter to us what it’s worth,’ Strike reminded them all. ‘What matters is whether somebody might’ve spotted its potential value.’