Lethal White

by Galbraith, Robert

  ‘Fine,’ he had said, ‘Tom wants to go for a curry, anyway. I’ll see you at home.’

  ‘How was today?’ Robin asked, before he could hang up. ‘The office out in . . . ’

  Her mind went blank.

  ‘Barnet,’ he said. ‘Games developer. Yeah, it was all right. How was yours?’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Robin.

  Matthew was so determinedly uninterested in the details of the Chiswell job after their many arguments about it that there seemed no point in telling him where she had been, who she was impersonating, or what had happened that day. After they had said goodbye, Robin walked on through meandering tourists and Friday night drinkers, knowing that a casual listener would have taken the conversation to be that of two people connected merely by proximity or circumstance, with no particular liking for each other.

  ‘Want a beer?’ Strike asked her, holding up a four pack of Tennent’s.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Robin.

  She was still wearing her short black dress and lace-up boots, but had tied back her chalked hair, cleaned her face of its thick make-up and removed her dark lenses. Seeing Strike’s face in a patch of evening sunlight, she thought he looked unwell. There were deeper lines than usual around his mouth and across his forehead, lines etched there, she suspected, by grinding, daily pain. He was also moving awkwardly, using his upper body to turn and trying to disguise his limp as he returned to her desk with the beer.

  ‘What’ve you been up to today?’ she asked Strike, as Barclay heaped his plate with food.

  ‘Following Geraint Winn. He’s holed up in a miserable B&B five minutes away from the marital home. He led me all the way into central London and back to Bermondsey again.’

  ‘Risky, following him,’ commented Robin. ‘He knows what you look like.’

  ‘All three of us could’ve been behind him and he wouldn’t have noticed. He’s lost about a stone since I last saw him.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Went to eat in a place right by the Commons, called the Cellarium. No windows, like a crypt.’

  ‘Sounds cheerful,’ said Barclay, settling down on the fake leather sofa and starting on his sweet and sour pork balls.

  ‘He’s like a sad homing pigeon,’ said Strike, tipping the whole tub of Singapore noodles onto his own plate, ‘returning to the place of his former glories with the tourists. Then we went to King’s Cross.’

  Robin paused in the act of helping herself to beansprouts.

  ‘Blow job in a dark stairwell,’ said Strike matter-of-factly.

  ‘Eurgh,’ muttered Robin, continuing to help herself to food.

  ‘Did ye see it, aye?’ asked Barclay with interest.

  ‘Back view. Elbowed my way through the front door, then backed out with apologies. He was in no state to recognise me. After that, he bought himself some new socks from Asda and went back to his B&B.’

  ‘There are worse days out,’ said Barclay, who had already eaten half the food on his plate. Catching Robin’s eye, he said through a mouthful, ‘Wife wants me home by half eight.’

  ‘All right, Robin,’ said Strike, lowering himself gingerly onto his own desk chair, which he had brought through to the outer office, ‘let’s hear what Jimmy and Flick had to say to each other when they thought no one was listening.’

  He opened a notebook and took a pen from the pot on her desk, leaving his left hand free to fork Singapore noodles into his mouth. Still chewing vigorously, Barclay leaned forwards on the sofa, interested. Robin placed her mobile face up on the desk and pressed ‘play’.

  For a moment there was no sound except faint footsteps, which were Robin’s, leaving the Wiccan’s shop earlier in search of lunch.

  ‘I thought you were here on your own?’ said Jimmy’s voice, faint but clear.

  ‘She’s having a day’s trial,’ said Flick. ‘Where’s Sam?’

  ‘I told him I’ll meet him at yours later. Right, where’s your bag?’

  ‘Jimmy, I haven’t—’

  ‘Maybe you picked it up by mistake.’

  More footsteps, a scraping of wood and leather, clattering, thunks and furtive rustlings.

  ‘This is a fucking tip.’

  ‘I haven’t got it, how many more times? And you’ve got no right to search that without my—’

  ‘This is serious. I had it in my wallet. Where’s it gone?’

  ‘You’ve dropped it somewhere, haven’t you?’

  ‘Or someone’s taken it.’

  ‘Why would I take it?’

  ‘Insurance policy.’

  ‘That’s a hell of an—’

  ‘But if that’s what you’re thinking, you wanna remember, you fucking nicked it, so it incriminates you as much as me. More.’

  ‘I was only there in the first place because of you, Jimmy!’

  ‘Oh, that’s going to be the story, is it? Nobody bloody made you. You’re the one who started all this, remember.’

  ‘Yeah and I wish I hadn’t, now!’

  ‘Too late for that. I want that paper back and so should you. It proves we had access to his place.’

  ‘You mean it proves a connection between him and Bill – ouch!’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, that didn’t hurt! You demean women who really are knocked around, playing the victim. I’m not kidding, now. If you’ve taken it—’

  ‘Don’t threaten me—’

  ‘What’re you going to do, run off to Mummy and Daddy? How’re they going to feel when they find out what their little girl’s been up to?’

  Flick’s rapid breathing now became sobs.

  ‘You nicked money from him, and all,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘You thought it was a laugh at the time, you said he deserved it—’

  ‘Try that defence in court, see how far it gets you. If you try and save yourself by throwing me under the bus, I won’t have any fucking problem telling the pigs you were in this thing all the way. So if that bit of paper turns up somewhere I don’t want it to go—’

  ‘I haven’t got it, I don’t know where it is!’

  ‘—you’ve been fucking warned. Give me your front door key.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because I’m going over to that shithole you call a flat right now and I’m searching it with Sam.’

  ‘You’re not going over there without me—’

  ‘Why not? Got another Indian waiter sleeping off his hangover there, have you?’

  ‘I never—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit,’ said Jimmy. ‘Screw whoever you like. Give me your key. Give it me.’

  More footsteps; a tinkling of keys. The sound of Jimmy walking away and then a cascade of sobs that continued until Robin pressed pause.

  ‘She cried until the shop owner came back,’ said Robin, ‘which was just before I did, and she hardly spoke this afternoon. I tried to walk back to the Tube with her, but she shook me off. Hopefully she’ll be in a more talkative mood tomorrow.’

  ‘So, did you and Jimmy search her flat?’ Strike asked Barclay.

  ‘Aye. Books, drawers, under her mattress. Nothing.’

  ‘What exactly did he say you were looking for?’

  ‘“Bit o’ paper wi’ handwriting an’ Billy’s name on”, he says. “I had it in me wallet and it’s gone”. Claims it’s somethin’ tae do with a drugs deal. He thinks I’m some ned who’ll believe anythin’.’

  Strike put down his pen, swallowed a large mouthful of noodles and said:

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you two, but what jumps out at me is “it proves we had access”.’

  ‘I think I might know a bit more about that,’ said Robin, who had so far successfully concealed her excitement about what she was about to reveal. ‘I found out today that Flick can speak a bit of Polish, and we know she stole cash from her previous place of work. What if—?’

  ‘“I do that cleaning”,’ said Strike, suddenly. ‘That’s what she said to Jimmy, on the march, when I was following them! “I do that cleanin
g, and it’s disgusting” . . . Bloody hell – you think she was—?’

  ‘Chiswell’s Polish cleaner,’ said Robin, determined not to be robbed of her moment of triumph. ‘Yes. I do.’

  Barclay was continuing to shovel pork balls into his mouth, though his eyes were suitably surprised.

  ‘If that’s true, it changes bloody everything,’ said Strike. ‘She’d have had access, been able to snoop around, take stuff into the house—’

  ‘How’d she find out he wanted a cleaner?’ asked Barclay.

  ‘Must’ve seen the card he put in a newsagent’s window.’

  ‘They live miles apart. She’s in Hackney.’

  ‘Maybe Jimmy spotted it, snooping around Ebury Street, trying to collect his blackmail money,’ suggested Robin, but Strike was now frowning.

  ‘But that’s back to front. If she found out about the blackmailable offence when she was a cleaner, her employment must’ve pre-dated Jimmy trying to collect money.’

  ‘All right, maybe Jimmy didn’t tip her off. Maybe they found out he wanted a cleaner while they were trying to dig dirt on him in general.’

  ‘So they could run an exposé on the Real Socialist Party website?’ suggested Barclay. ‘That’d reach a good four or five people.’

  Strike snorted in amusement.

  ‘Main point is,’ he said, ‘this piece of paper’s got Jimmy very worried.’

  Barclay speared his last pork ball and stuck it in his mouth. ‘Flick’s taken it,’ he said thickly. ‘I guarantee it.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’ asked Robin.

  ‘She wants somethin’ over him,’ said Barclay, getting up to take his empty plate over to the sink. ‘Only reason he’s keepin’ her around is because she knows too much. He told me the other day he’d be happy tae get shot of her if he could. I asked why he couldnae just dump her. He didnae answer.’

  ‘Maybe she’s destroyed it, if it’s so incriminating?’ suggested Robin.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Strike. ‘She’s a lawyer’s daughter, she’s not going to destroy evidence. Something like that paper could be valuable, if the shit hits the fan and she decides she’s going to cooperate with the police.’

  Barclay returned to the sofa and picked up his beer.

  ‘How’s Billy?’ Robin asked him, getting started at last on her own cooling meal.

  ‘Poor wee bastard,’ said Barclay. ‘Skin and bone. The traffic cops caught him when he jumped a Tube barrier. He tried tae batter them, ended up bein’ sectioned. The doctors say he’s got delusions o’ persecution. At first he thought he was bein’ chased by the government and the medical staff were all part o’ some giant conspiracy, but now he’s back on his medication he’s a wee bit more rational.

  ‘Jimmy wanted tae take him home there and then, but the docs werenae gonna let that happen. What’s really pissin’ Jimmy off,’ said Barclay, pausing to finish his can of Tennent’s, ‘is Billy’s still obsessed wi’ Strike. Keeps askin’ for him. The doctors think it’s part o’ his delusion, that he’s latched ontae the famous detective as part of his fantasy, like: the only person he can really trust. Couldnae tell them he and Strike have met. Not wi’ Jimmy standin’ there telling them it’s all a load o’ pish.

  ‘The medics don’t want anyone near him except family, and they’re no keen on Jimmy any more, neither, not after he tried tae persuade Billy he’s well enough to go home.’

  Barclay crushed his beer can in his hand and checked his watch.

  ‘Gotta go, Strike.’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ said Strike. ‘Thanks for staying. Thought it would be good to have a joint debrief.’

  ‘Nae bother.’

  With a wave to Robin, Barclay departed. Strike bent to pick up his own beer off the floor and winced.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Robin, who was helping herself to more prawn crackers.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, straightening up again. ‘I did a lot of walking again today, and I could have done without the fight yesterday.’

  ‘Fight? What fight?’ asked Robin.

  ‘Aamir Mallik.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t hurt him. Much.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me the argument got physical!’

  ‘I wanted to do it in person, so I could enjoy you looking at me like I’m a complete bastard,’ said Strike. ‘How about a bit of sympathy for your one-legged partner?’

  ‘You’re an ex-boxer!’ said Robin. ‘And he probably weighs about nine stone soaking wet!’

  ‘He came at me with a lamp.’

  ‘Aamir did?’

  She couldn’t imagine the reserved, meticulous man she had known in the House of Commons using physical violence against anyone.

  ‘Yeah. I was pushing him about Chiswell’s “man of your habits” comment and he snapped. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t feel good about it,’ said Strike. ‘Hang on a minute. Need a pee.’

  He pulled himself awkwardly out of the chair and departed for the bathroom on the landing. As she heard the door close, Strike’s mobile, which was charging on top of the filing cabinet beside Robin’s desk, rang. She got up to check it and saw, through the cracked and sellotaped screen, the name ‘Lorelei’. Wondering whether to answer it, Robin hesitated too long and the call went to voicemail. Just as she was about to sit down again, a small ping declared that a text arrived.

  If you want a hot meal and a shag with no human emotions involved, there are restaurants and brothels.

  Robin heard the bang of the bathroom door outside and stumbled hastily back to her chair. Strike limped back inside the room, lowered himself into his chair and picked up his noodles.

  ‘Your phone just rang,’ said Robin. ‘I didn’t pick up—’

  ‘Chuck it over,’ said Strike.

  She did so. He read the text with no change of expression, muted the phone and put it in his pocket.

  ‘What were we saying?’

  ‘That you didn’t feel good about the fight—’

  ‘I feel fine about the fight,’ Strike corrected her. ‘If I hadn’t defended myself I’d have a face full of stitches.’

  He pronged a forkful of noodles.

  ‘The bit I don’t feel great about is when I told him I know he’s been ostracised by his family, barring one sister who’s still talking to him. It’s all on Facebook. It was when I mentioned his family dropping him that I nearly got my head taken off with a table lamp.’

  ‘Maybe they’re upset because they think he’s with Della?’ suggested Robin as Strike chewed his noodles.

  He shrugged and made an expression indicative of ‘maybe’, swallowed, and said, ‘Has it occurred to you that Aamir is literally the only person connected with this case who’s got a motive? Chiswell threatened him, presumably with exposure. “A man of your habits.” “Lachesis knew when everyone’s time was up”.’

  ‘What happened to “forget about motive, concentrate on means”?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Strike wearily. He set aside his plate, from which he had eaten nearly all the noodles, took out his cigarettes and lighter, and sat up a little straighter. ‘OK, let’s focus on means.

  ‘Who had access to the house, to anti-depressants and helium? Who knew Jasper Chiswell’s habits well enough to be sure he’d drink his orange juice that morning? Who had a key, or, who would he have trusted enough to let in in the early hours of the morning?’

  ‘Members of his family.’

  ‘Right,’ said Strike, as his lighter flared, ‘but we know Kinvara, Fizzy, Izzy and Torquil can’t have done it, which leaves us with Raphael and his story of being ordered down to Woolstone that morning.’

  ‘You really think he could have killed his father then driven coolly down to Woolstone to wait with Kinvara until the police arrived?’

  ‘Forget psychology or probability: we’re considering opportunity,’ said Strike, blowing out a long jet of smoke. ‘Nothing I’ve heard so far precludes Raphael being at Ebury
Street at six in the morning. I know what you’re going to say,’ he forestalled her, ‘but it wouldn’t be the first time a phone call had been faked by a killer. He could have called his own mobile with Chiswell’s to make it seem as though his father had ordered him down to Woolstone.’