Lethal White

partial, sometimes unnervingly complete, of the lives led by their flesh and blood
counterparts. Strike had learned many tricks and secrets, become adept ferreting
in even the darkest corners of the internet, but often the most innocent social
media sites held untold wealth, a minor amount of cross-referencing all that was
necessary to compile detailed private histories that their careless owners had
never meant to share with the world.
Strike first consulted Google Maps to examine the place where Jimmy and
Billy had grown up. Steda Cottage was evidently too small and insignificant to
be named, but Chiswell House was clearly marked, a short way outside the
village of Woolstone. Strike spent five minutes fruitlessly scanning the patches
of woodland around Chiswell House, noticing a couple of tiny squares that
might be estate cottages—they buried it down in the dell by my dad’s house—
before resuming his investigation of the older, saner brother.
CORE had a website where Strike found, sandwiched between lengthy
polemics about celebration capitalism and neo-liberalism, a useful schedule of
protests at which Jimmy was planning to demonstrate or speak, which the
detective printed out and added to his file. He then followed a link to the Real
Socialist Party website, which was an even busier and more cluttered affair than
that of CORE. Here he found another lengthy article by Jimmy, arguing for the
dissolution of the “apartheid state” of Israel and the defeat of the “Zionist lobby”
which had a stranglehold on the Western capitalist establishment. Strike noted
that Jasper Chiswell was among the “Western Political Elite” listed at the bottom
of this article as a “publicly declared Zionist.”
Jimmy’s girlfriend, Flick, appeared in a couple of photographs on the Real
Socialist website, sporting black hair as she marched against Trident and blonde
shaded to pink as she cheered Jimmy, who was speaking on an open-air stage at
a Real Socialist Party rally. Following a link to Flick’s Twitter handle, he

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perused her timeline, which was a strange mixture of the cloying and the
vituperative. “I hope you get fucking arse cancer, you Tory cunt” sat directly
above a video clip of a kitten sneezing so hard that it fell out of its basket.
As far as Strike could tell, neither Jimmy nor Flick owned or ever had owned
property, something that he had in common with both of them. He could find no
indication online of how they were supporting themselves, unless writing for far-
left websites paid better than he had imagined. Jimmy was renting the miserable
flat in Charlemont Road from a man called Kasturi Kumar, and while Flick made
casual mention on social media of living in Hackney, he could not find an
address for her anywhere online.
Digging deeper into online records, Strike discovered a James Knight of the
correct age who seemed to have cohabited for five years with a woman called
Dawn Clancy, and upon delving into Dawn’s highly informative, emoji-strewn
Facebook page, Strike discovered that they had been married. Dawn was a
hairdresser who had run a successful business in London before returning to her
native Manchester. Thirteen years older than Jimmy, she seemed to have neither
children nor any present-day contact with her ex-husband. However, a comment
she had made to a jilted girlfriend’s “all men are trash” post, caught Strike’s eye:
“Yeah, he’s a shit, but at least he hasn’t sued you! I win (again)!”
Intrigued, Strike turned his attention to court records and, after a little
digging, found several useful nuggets of information. Jimmy had been charged
with affray twice, once on an anti-capitalism march, once at an anti-Trident
protest, but this, Strike had expected. What was far more interesting was to find
Jimmy on a list of vexatious litigants on the website of HM Courts and Tribunals
Service. Due to a longstanding habit of beginning frivolous legal actions, Knight
was now “forbidden from starting civil cases in courts without permission.”
Jimmy had certainly had a good run for his, or the state’s, money. Over the
past decade he had brought civil actions against sundry individuals and
organizations. The law had taken his side only once, when, in 2007, he had won
compensation from Zanet Industries, who were found not to have followed due
process when dismissing him.
Jimmy had represented himself in court against Zanet and, presumably elated
by his win, had gone on to represent himself in suing several others, among them
a garage owner, two neighbors, a journalist he alleged had defamed him, two
officers in the Metropolitan Police he claimed had assaulted him, two more
employers and, finally, his ex-wife, who he said had harassed him and caused
him loss of earnings.
In Strike’s experience, those who disdained the use of representation in court
were either unbalanced or so arrogant that it came to the same thing. Jimmy’s

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litigious history suggested that he was greedy and unprincipled, sharp without
being wise. It was always useful to have a handle on a man’s vulnerabilities
when trying to ferret out his secrets. Strike added the names of all the people
Jimmy had tried to sue, plus the current address of his ex-wife, to the file beside
him.
At close to midnight Strike retired to his flat for some much-needed sleep,
rose early on Sunday, and transferred his attention to Geraint Winn, remaining
hunched at the computer until the light began to fade again, by which time a new
cardboard file labeled CHISWELL sat beside him, fat with miscellaneous but
crosschecked information on Chiswell’s two blackmailers.
Stretching and yawning, he became suddenly aware of the noises reaching
him through the open windows. The music shops had closed at last, the bongos
had ceased, but traffic continued to swish and rumble along Charing Cross Road.
Strike heaved himself up, supporting himself on the desk because his remaining
ankle was numb after hours in the computer chair, and stooped to look through
the inner office window at a tangerine sky spread beyond the rooftops.
It was Sunday evening and in less than two hours England would be playing
Italy at the quarter-finals of the European Football Championships in Kiev. One
of the few personal indulgences Strike had allowed himself was a subscription to
Sky so that he could watch football. The small portable TV that was all his flat
upstairs could comfortably accommodate might not be the ideal medium on
which to watch such an important game, but he could not justify a night in a pub
given that he had an early start on Monday, covering Dodgy Doc again, a
prospect that gave him little pleasure.
He checked his watch. He had time to get a Chinese takeaway before the
match, but he still needed to call both Barclay and Robin with instructions for
the next few days. As he was on the point of picking up the phone, a musical
alert told him that he had received an email.
The subject line read: “Missing Kids in Oxfordshire.” Strike laid his mobile
and keys back on the desk and clicked it open.
Strike—
This is best I can do on a quick search. Obviously without exact time
frame it’s difficult. 2 missing child cases in Oxfordshire/Wiltshire from the
early/mid 90s unresolved as far as I can tell. Suki Lewis, 12, went missing
from care October 1992. Also Immamu Ibrahim, 5-year-old, disappeared
1996. Father disappeared at the same time, is believed to be in Algeria.
Without further information, not much to be done.
Best, E

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