Lethal White

… certain games are going on behind your back
in this house.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
“Why are you so busy and I’ve got bugger all to do?” Raphael asked Robin,
late on Friday morning.
She had just returned from tailing Geraint to Portcullis House. Observing
him from a distance, she had seen how the polite smiles of the many young
women he greeted turned to expressions of dislike as he passed. Geraint had
disappeared into a meeting room on the first floor, so Robin had returned to
Izzy’s office. Approaching Geraint’s room she had hoped she might be able to
slip inside and retrieve the second listening device, but through the open door
she saw Aamir working at his computer.
“Raff, I’ll give you something to do in a moment, babes,” muttered a fraught
Izzy, who was hammering at her keyboard. “I’ve got to finish this, it’s for the
local party chairwoman. Papa’s coming to sign it in five minutes.”
She threw a harried glance at her brother, who was sprawled in the armchair,
his long legs spread out in front of him, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened,
playing with the paper visitor’s pass that hung around his neck.
“Why don’t you go and get yourself a coffee on the terrace?” Izzy suggested.
Robin knew she wanted him out the way when Chiswell turned up.
“Want to come for a coffee, Venetia?” asked Raphael.
“Can’t,” said Robin. “Busy.”
The fan on Izzy’s desk swept Robin’s way and she enjoyed a few seconds of
cool breeze. The net-curtained window gave but a misty impression of the
glorious June day. Truncated parliamentarians appeared as glowing wraiths on
the terrace beyond the glass. It was stuffy inside the cluttered office. Robin was
wearing a cotton dress, her hair in a ponytail, but still she occasionally blotted
her upper lip with the back of her hand as she pretended to be working.
Having Raphael in the office was, as she had told Strike, a disadvantage.
There had been no need to come up with excuses for lurking in the corridor
when she had been alone with Izzy. What was more, Raphael watched her a lot,
in an entirely different way to Geraint’s lewd up-and-down looks. She didn’t
approve of Raphael, but every now and then she found herself coming perilously

---

close to feeling sorry for him. He seemed nervy around his father, and then—
well, anybody would think him handsome. That was the main reason she avoided
looking at him: it was best not to, if you wanted to preserve any objectivity.
He kept trying to foster a closer relationship with her, which she was
attempting to discourage. Only the previous day he had interrupted her as she
hovered outside Geraint and Aamir’s door, listening with all her might to a
conversation that Aamir was having on the phone about an “inquiry.” From the
scant details that Robin had so far heard, she was convinced that the Level
Playing Field was under discussion.
“But this isn’t a statutory inquiry?” Aamir was asking, sounding worried. “It
isn’t official? I thought this was just a routine… but Mr. Winn understood that
his letter to the fundraising regulator had answered all their concerns.”
Robin could not pass up the opportunity to listen, but knew her situation to
be perilous. What she had not expected was to be surprised by Raphael rather
than Winn.
“What are you doing, skulking there?” he had asked, laughing.
Robin walked hastily away, but she heard Aamir’s door slam behind her and
suspected that he, at least, would make sure that it was closed in future.
“Are you always this jumpy, or is it just me?” Raphael had asked, hurrying
after her. “Come for a coffee, come on, I’m so bloody bored.”
Robin had declined brusquely, but even as she pretended to be busy again,
she had to admit that part of her—a tiny part—was flattered by his attentions.
There was a knock on the door and, to Robin’s surprise, Aamir Mallik
entered the room, holding a list of names. Nervous but determined, he addressed
Izzy.
“Yeah, uh, hi. Geraint would like to add the Level Playing Field trustees to
the Paralympian reception on the twelfth of July,” he said.
“I’ve got nothing to do with that reception,” snapped Izzy. “DCMS are
organizing it, not me. Why,” she erupted, wiping her sweaty fringe off her
forehead, “does everyone come to me?”
“Geraint needs them to come,” said Aamir. The list of names quivered in his
hand.
Robin wondered whether she dared creep into Aamir’s empty office right
now and swap the listening devices. She got to her feet quietly, trying not to
draw attention to herself.
“Why doesn’t he ask Della?” asked Izzy.
“Della’s busy. It’s only eight people,” said Aamir. “He really needs—”
“‘Hear the word of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity!’”
The Minister for Culture’s booming tones preceded him into the room.

---

Chiswell stood in the doorway, wearing a crumpled suit and blocking Robin’s
exit. She sat down quietly again. Aamir, or so it seemed to Robin, braced
himself.
“Know who Lachesis was, Mr. Mallik?” asked Chiswell.
“Can’t say I do,” said Aamir.
“No? Didn’t study the Greeks in your Harringay Comprehensive? You seem
to have time on your hands, Raff. Teach Mr. Mallik about Lachesis.”
“I don’t know, either,” said Raphael, peering up at his father through his
thick, dark lashes.
“Playing stupid, eh? Lachesis,” said Chiswell, “was one of the Fates. She
measured out each man’s allotted lifespan. Knew when everyone’s number
would be up. Not a fan of Plato, Mr. Mallik? Catullus more up your street, I
expect. He produced some fine poetry about men of your habits. Pedicabo ego