Lethal White

Geraint Winn
Geraint Ifon Winn, d.o.b. 15th July 1950. Born Cardiff. Father a miner.
Grammar school educated, met Della at University of Cardiff. Was “property
consultant” prior to acting as her election agent and running her Parliamentary
office post-election. No details of former career available online. No company

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ever registered in his name. Lives with Della, Southwark Park Road,
Bermondsey.
Strike had managed to dig up a couple of poor-quality pictures of Geraint
with his well-known wife, both of which Robin had already found and saved to
her laptop. She knew how hard Strike had had to work to find an image of
Geraint, because it had taken her a long time the previous night, while Matthew
slept, to find them. Press photographers did not seem to feel he added much to
pictures. A thin, balding man who wore heavy-framed glasses, he had a lipless
mouth, a weak chin and a pronounced overbite, which taken together put Robin
in mind of an overweight gecko.
Strike had also attached information on the Minister for Sport.
Della Winn
D.o.b. 8
th
August 1947. Née Jones. Born and raised Vale of Glamorgan,
Wales. Both parents teachers. Blind from birth due to bilateral
microphthalmia. Attended St. Enodoch Royal School for the Blind from age
5–18. Won multiple swimming awards as teenager. (See attached articles for
further details, also of The Playing Field charity.)
Even though Robin had read as much as she could about Della over the
weekend, she plowed diligently through both articles. They told her little that she
did not already know. Della had worked for a prominent human rights charity
before successfully standing for election in the Welsh constituency in which she
had been born. She was a long-time advocate for the benefit of sports in
deprived areas, a champion of disabled athletes and a supporter for projects that
used sport to rehabilitate injured veterans. The founding of her charity, the Level
Playing Field, to support young athletes and sportspeople facing challenges,
whether of poverty or physical impairment, had received a fair amount of press
coverage. Many high-profile sportspeople had given their time to fundraisers.
The articles that Strike had attached both mentioned something that Robin
already knew from her own research: the Winns, like the Chiswells, had lost a
child. Della and Geraint’s daughter and only offspring had killed herself at the
age of sixteen, a year before Della had stood for Parliament. The tragedy was
mentioned in every profile Robin had read on Della Winn, even those lauding
her substantial achievements. Her maiden speech in Parliament had supported a
proposed bullying hotline, but she had never otherwise discussed her child’s
suicide.
Robin’s mobile rang. After checking that the bedroom door was closed,
Robin answered.

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“That was quick,” said Strike thickly, through a mouthful of Singapore
noodles. “Sorry—took me by surprise—just got a takeaway.”
“I’ve read your email,” said Robin. She heard a metallic snap and was sure
he was opening a can of beer. “Very useful, thanks.”
“Got your disguise sorted?” Strike asked.
“Yes,” said Robin, turning to examine herself at the mirror. It was strange
how much a change of eye color transformed your face. She was planning to
wear a pair of clear-lensed glasses over her hazel eyes.
“And you know enough about Chiswell to pretend to be his goddaughter?”
“Of course,” said Robin.
“Go on then,” said Strike, “impress me.”
“Born 1944,” Robin said at once, without reading her notes. “Studied
Classics at Merton College, Oxford, then joined Queen’s Own Hussars, saw
active service in Aden and Singapore.
“First wife, Lady Patricia Fleetwood, three children: Sophia, Isabella and
Freddie. Sophia’s married and lives in Northumberland, Isabella runs Chiswell’s
Parliamentary office—”
“Does she?” said Strike, sounding vaguely surprised, and Robin was pleased
to know that she had discovered something he did not.
“Is she the daughter you knew?” she asked, remembering what Strike had
said in the office.
“Wouldn’t go as far as ‘knew.’ I met her a couple of times with Charlotte.
Everyone called her ‘Izzy Chizzy.’ One of those upper-class nicknames.”
“Lady Patricia divorced Chiswell after he got a political journalist pregnant
—”
“—which resulted in the disappointing son at the art gallery.”
“Exactly—”
Robin moved the mouse around to bring up a saved picture, this time of a
dark and rather beautiful young man in a charcoal suit, heading up courtroom
steps accompanied by a stylish, black-haired woman in sunglasses whom he
closely resembled, though she looked hardly old enough to be his mother.
“—but Chiswell and the journalist split up not long after Raphael was born,”
said Robin.
“The family calls him ‘Raff,’” said Strike, “and the second wife doesn’t like
him, thinks Chiswell should have disowned him after the car crash.”
Robin made a further note.
“Great, thanks. Chiswell’s current wife, Kinvara, was unwell last year,”
Robin continued, bringing up a picture of Kinvara, a curvaceous redhead in a
slinky black dress and heavy diamond necklace. She was some thirty years

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younger than Chiswell and pouting at the camera. Had she not known, Robin
would have guessed them father and daughter rather than a married couple.
“With nervous exhaustion,” said Strike, beating her to it. “Yeah. Drink or
drugs, d’you reckon?”
Robin heard a clang and surmised that Strike had just dropped an empty
Tennent’s can in the office bin. He was alone, then. Lorelei never stayed in the
tiny flat upstairs.
“Who knows?” said Robin, her eyes still on Kinvara Chiswell.
“One last thing,” said Strike. “Just in. A couple of kids went missing in
Oxfordshire around the right time to tally with Billy’s story.”
There was a brief pause.
“You still there?” asked Strike.
“Yes… I thought you don’t believe Chiswell strangled a child?”
“I don’t,” said Strike. “The timescale doesn’t fit, and if Jimmy knew a Tory
minister had strangled a kid, he wouldn’t have waited twenty years to try and
monetise it. But I’d still like to know whether Billy’s imagining that he saw
someone throttled. I’m going to do a bit of digging on the names Wardle’s given
me and if either seem credible I might ask you to sound Izzy out. She might
remember something about a kid disappearing in the vicinity of Chiswell
House.”
Robin said nothing.
“Like I said in the pub, Billy’s very ill. It’s probably nothing,” said Strike,
with a trace of defensiveness. As he and Robin were both well aware, he had
previously jettisoned paid cases and rich clients to pursue mysteries that others
might have let lie. “I just—”
“—can’t rest easy until you’ve looked into it,” said Robin. “All right. I
understand.”
Unseen by her, Strike grinned and rubbed his tired eyes.
“Well, best of luck tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be on my mobile if you need
me.”
“What are you going to be up to?”
“Paperwork. Jimmy Knight’s ex doesn’t work Mondays. I’m off to
Manchester to find her on Tuesday.”
Robin experienced a sudden wave of nostalgia for the previous year, when
she and Strike had undertaken a road trip together to interrogate women left
behind in the wake of dangerous men. She wondered whether he had thought
about it while he planned this journey.
“Watching England–Italy?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Strike. “There’s nothing else, is there?”

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“No,” said Robin hurriedly. She had not meant to sound as though she
wanted to detain him. “Speak soon, then.”
She cut the call on his farewell and tossed the mobile aside onto the bed.

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