“That’s over. It was over ages ago. I never talk about Jimmy. Least said, soonest mended, don’t they say?”
But he could feel the curiosity and excitement radiating from her like heat. Radio 2 jangled in the background. She glanced towards the two women sitting at the mirrors.
“Sian!” she said loudly, and the receptionist jumped and turned. “Take out her foils and keep an eye on the perm for me, love.” She hesitated, still holding Strike’s card. “I’m not sure I should,” she said, wanting to be talked into it.
“It’s only background,” he said. “No strings.”
Five minutes later she was handing him a milky coffee in a tiny staffroom at the rear of the shop, talking merrily, a little haggard in the fluorescent overhead light, but still good-looking enough to explain why Jimmy had first shown interest in a woman thirteen years his senior.
“… yeah, a demonstration against nuclear weapons. I went with this friend of mine, Wendy, she was big into all that. Vegetarian,” she added, nudging the door into the shop closed with her foot and taking out a pack of Silk Cut. “You know the type.”
“Got my own,” said Strike, when she offered the pack. He lit her cigarette for her, then one of his Benson & Hedges. They blew out simultaneous streams of smoke. She crossed her legs towards him and rattled on.
“… yeah, so Jimmy gave a speech. Weapons and how much we could save, give to the NHS and everything, what was the point… he talks well, you know,” said Dawn.
“He does,” agreed Strike, “I’ve heard him.”
“Yeah, and I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Thought he was some kind of Robin Hood.”
Strike heard the joke coming before she made it. He knew it was not the first time.
“Robbing Hood, more like,” she said.
She was already divorced when she had met Jimmy. Her first husband had left her for another girl at the London salon they had owned together. Dawn had done well out of the divorce, managing to retain the business. Jimmy had seemed a romantic figure after her wide-boy first husband and, on the rebound, she had fallen for him hard.
“But there were always girls,” she said. “Lefties, you know. Some of them were really young. He was like a pop star to them or something. I only found out how many of them there were later, after he’d set up cards on all my accounts.”
Dawn told Strike at length how Jimmy had persuaded her to bankroll a lawsuit against his ex-employer, Zanet Industries, who had failed to follow due process in firing him.
“Very keen on his rights, Jimmy. He’s not stupid, though, you know. Ten grand payout he got from Zanet. I never saw a penny of it. He pissed it all away, trying to sue other people. He tried to take me to court, after we split up. Loss of earnings, don’t make me laugh. I’d kept him for five years and he claimed he’d been working with me, building up the business for no pay and left with occupational asthma from the chemicals—so much shit he talked—they chucked it out of court, thank God. And then he tried to get me on a harassment charge. Said I’d keyed his car.”
She ground out her cigarette and reached for another one.
“I had, too,” she said, with a sudden, wicked smile. “You know he’s been put on a list, now? Can’t sue anyone without permission.”
“I did know, yeah,” said Strike. “Was he ever involved in any criminal activity while you were together, Dawn?”
She lit up again, watching Strike over her fingers, still hoping to hear what Jimmy was supposed to have done to have Strike after him. Finally she said:
“I’m not sure he was too careful about checking all the girls he was playing around with were sixteen. I heard, after, one of them… but we’d split up by then. It wasn’t my problem anymore,” said Dawn, as Strike made a note.
“And I wouldn’t trust him if it was anything to do with Jews. He doesn’t like them. Israel’s the root of all evil, according to Jimmy. Zionism: I got sick of the bloody sound of the word. You’d think they’d suffered enough,” said Dawn vaguely. “Yeah, his manager at Zanet was Jewish and they hated each other.”
“What was his name?”
“What was it?” Dawn drew heavily on her cigarette, frowning. “Paul something… Lobstein, that’s it. Paul Lobstein. He’s probably still at Zanet.”
“D’you still have any contact with Jimmy, or any of his family?”
“Christ, no. Good riddance. The only one of his family I ever met was little Billy, his brother.”
She softened a little as she said the name.
“He wasn’t right. He stayed with us for a bit at one point. He was a sweetheart, really, but not right. Jimmy said it was their father. Violent alkie. Raised them on his own and knocked the shit out of them, from what the boys said, used the belt and everything. Jimmy got away to London, and poor little Billy was left alone with him. No surprise he was how he was.”
“What d’you mean?”
“He ’ad a—a tic, do they call it?”
She mimicked with perfect accuracy the nose to chest tapping Strike had witnessed in his office.
“He was put on drugs, I know that. Then he left us, went to share a flat with some other lads for a bit. I never saw him again after Jimmy and I split. He was a sweet boy, yeah, but he annoyed Jimmy.”
“In what way?” Strike asked.
“Jimmy didn’t like him talking about their childhood. I dunno, I think Jimmy felt guilty he’d left Billy in the house alone. There was something funny about that whole business…”
Strike could tell she hadn’t thought about these things for a while.
“Funny?” he prompted.
“A couple of times, when he’d had a few, Jimmy went on about how his dad would burn for how he made his living.”
“I thought he was an odd-job man?”
“Was he? They told me he was a joiner. He worked for that politician’s family, what’s his name? The one with the hair.”
She mimed stiff bristles coming out of her head.
“Jasper Chiswell?” Strike suggested, pronouncing the name the way it was spelled.
“Him, yeah. Old Mr. Knight had a rent-free cottage in the family grounds. The boys grew up there.”
“And he said his father would go to hell for what he did for a living?” repeated Strike.
“Yeah. It’s probably just because he was working for Tories. It was all about politics with Jimmy. I don’t get it,” said Dawn restlessly. “You’ve got to live. Imagine me asking my clients how they vote before I’ll—
“Bloody hell,” she gasped suddenly, grinding out her cigarette and jumping to her feet, “Sian had better’ve taken out Mrs. Horridge’s rollers or she’ll be bald.”
17
I see he is altogether incorrigible.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Watching for an opportunity to plant the bug in Winn’s office, Robin spent most of the afternoon hanging around the quiet corridor on which both his and Izzy’s offices lay, but her efforts were fruitless. Even though Winn had left for a lunchtime meeting, Aamir remained inside. Robin paced up and down, box file in her arms, waiting for the moment when Aamir might go to the bathroom and returning to Izzy’s office whenever any passerby tried to engage her in conversation.
Finally, at ten past four, her luck changed. Geraint Winn swaggered around the corner, rather tipsy after what seemed to have been a prolonged lunch, and in sharp contrast to his wife, he seemed delighted to meet her as she set off towards him.
“There she is!” he said, over-loudly. “I wanted a word with you! Come in here, come in!”
He pushed open the door of his office. Puzzled, but only too eager to see the interior of the room she was hoping to bug, Robin followed him.
Aamir was working in shirtsleeves at his desk, which formed a tiny oasis of order in the general clutter. Stacks of folders lay around Winn’s desk. Robin noticed the orange logo of the Level Playing Field on a pile of letters in front of him. There was a power point directly under Geraint’s desk that
would be an ideal position for the listening device.
“Have you two met?” Geraint asked jovially. “Venetia, Aamir.”
He sat down and invited Robin to take the armchair on which a sliding pile of card folders lay.
“Did Redgrave call back?” Winn asked Aamir, struggling out of his suit jacket.
“Who?” said the latter.
“Sir Steve Redgrave!” said Winn, with the suspicion of an eye roll in Robin’s direction. She felt embarrassed for him, especially as Aamir’s muttered “no” was cold.
“Level Playing Field,” Winn told Robin.
He had managed to get his jacket off. With an attempted flourish, he threw it onto the back of his chair. It slid limply onto the floor, but Geraint appeared not to notice, and instead tapped the orange logo on the topmost letter in front of him. “Our cha—” he belched. “Pardon me—our charity. Disadvantaged and disabled athletes, you know. Lots of high profile supporters. Sir Steve keen to—” he belched again, “—pardon—help. Well, now. I wanted to apologize. For my poor wife.”
He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Aamir fling Geraint a sharp look, like the flash of a claw, swiftly retracted.
“I don’t understand,” said Robin.
“Gets names wrong. Does it all the time. If I didn’t keep an eye on her, we’d have all sorts going on, wrong letters going out to the wrong people… she thought you were someone else. I had her on the phone over lunch, insisting you were somebody our daughter ran across years ago. Verity Pulham. ’Nother of your godfather’s godchildren. Told her straight away it wasn’t you, said I’d pass on her apologies. Silly girl, she is. Very stubborn when she thinks she’s right, but,” he rolled his eyes again and tapped his forehead, the long-suffering husband of an infuriating wife, “I managed to penetrate in the end.”
“Well,” said Robin carefully, “I’m glad she knows she was mistaken, because she didn’t seem to like Verity very much.”
“Truth to tell, Verity was a little bitch,” said Winn, still beaming. Robin could tell he enjoyed using the word. “Nasty to our daughter, you see.”
“Oh dear,” said Robin, with a thud of dread beneath her ribs as she remembered that Rhiannon Winn had killed herself. “I’m sorry. How awful.”
“You know,” said Winn, sitting down and tipping back his chair against the wall, hands behind his head, “you seem far too sweet a girl to be associated with the Chiswell family.” He was definitely a little drunk. Robin could smell faint wine dregs on his breath and Aamir threw him another of those sharp, scathing looks. “What were you doing before this, Venetia?”
“PR,” said Robin, “but I’d like to do something more worthwhile. Politics, or maybe a charity. I was reading about the Level Playing Field,” she said truthfully. “It seems wonderful. You do a lot with veterans, too, don’t you? I saw an interview with Terry Byrne yesterday. The Paralympian cyclist?”
Her attention had been caught by the fact that Byrne had the same below the knee amputation as Strike.
“You’ll have a personal interest in veterans, of course,” said Winn.
Robin’s stomach swooped and fell again.
“Sorry?”
“Freddie Chiswell?” Winn prompted.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Robin. “Although I didn’t know Freddie very well. He was a bit older than me. Obviously, it was dreadful when he—when he was killed.”
“Oh, yes, awful,” said Winn, though he sounded indifferent. “Della was very much against the Iraq war. Very much against it. Your Uncle Jasper was all for it, mind you.”
For a moment, the air seemed to thrum with Winn’s unexpressed implication that Chiswell had been well served for his enthusiasm.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Robin carefully. “Uncle Jasper thought military action justified on the evidence we had at the time. Anyway,” she said bravely, “nobody can accuse him of acting out of self-interest, can they, when his son had to go and fight?”
“Ah, if you’re going to take that line, who can argue?” said Winn. He raised his hands in mock surrender, his chair slipped a little on the wall and for a few seconds he struggled to maintain balance, seizing the desk and pulling himself and the chair upright again. With a substantial effort, Robin managed not to laugh.
“Geraint,” said Aamir, “we need those letters signed if we’re going to get them off by five.”
“’S’only half four,” said Winn, checking his watch. “Yes, Rhiannon was on the British junior fencing team.”
“How marvelous,” said Robin.
“Sporty, like her mother. Fencing for the Welsh juniors at fourteen. I used to drive her all over the place for tournaments. Hours on the road together! She made the British juniors at sixteen.
“But the English lot were very stand-offish to her,” said Winn, with a glimmer of Celtic resentment. “She wasn’t at one of your big public schools, you see. It was all about connections with them. Verity Pulham, she didn’t have the ability, not really. As a matter of fact, it was only when Verity broke her ankle that Rhiannon, who was a far better fencer, got on the British team at all.”
“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, Rosme
rsholm
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.
Lethal White Page 17
