Lethal White

What was I supposed to fucking do? he demanded of an imaginary female
inquisitor who strongly resembled his sister, Lucy.
You could try not accepting tea and blow jobs, came the snide response, to
which Strike, with his stump throbbing, answered, fuck you.
His mobile rang. He had sellotaped up the shattered screen, and through this
distorted carapace he saw an unknown number.
“Strike.”
“Hi, Strike, Culpepper here.”
Dominic Culpepper, who had worked for the News of the World until its
closure, had previously put work Strike’s way. Relations between them, never
personally warm, had become slightly antagonistic when Strike had refused
Culpepper the inside story on his two most recent murder cases. Now working
for the Sun, Culpepper had been one of those journalists who had most
enthusiastically raked over Strike’s personal life in the aftermath of the
Shacklewell Ripper arrest.
“Wondered if you were free to do a job for us,” said Culpepper.
You’ve got a fucking nerve.
“What kind of thing’re you after?”
“Digging up dirt on a government minister.”
“Which one?”
“You’ll know if you take the job.”
“I’m pretty stretched just now. What kind of dirt are we talking?”
“That’s what we need you to find out.”
“How do you know there’s dirt there?”
“A well-placed source,” said Culpepper.

---

“Why do you need me if there’s a well-placed source?”
“He’s not ready to talk. He just hinted that there are beans to be spilled. Lots
of them.”
“Sorry, can’t do it, Culpepper,” said Strike. “I’m booked solid.”
“Sure? We’re paying good money, Strike.”
“I’m not doing too badly these days,” said the detective, lighting a second
cigarette from the tip of his first.
“No, I’ll bet you aren’t, you jammy bastard,” said Culpepper. “All right, it’ll
have to be Patterson. D’you know him?”
“The ex-Met guy? Run across him a couple of times,” said Strike.
The call finished with mutually insincere good wishes, leaving Strike with an
increased feeling of foreboding. He Googled Culpepper’s name and found his
byline on a story about the Level Playing Field from two weeks previously.
Of course, it was possible that more than one government minister was
currently in danger of being exposed by the Sun for an offense against public
taste or morals, but the fact that Culpepper had recently been in close proximity
with the Winns strongly suggested Robin had been right in suspecting Geraint of
tipping off the Sun, and that it was Chiswell whom Patterson would shortly be
investigating.
Strike wondered whether Culpepper knew that he, Strike, was already
working for Chiswell, whether his call had been designed to startle information
out of the detective, but it seemed unlikely. The newspaperman would have been
very stupid to tell Strike whom he was about to hire, if he was aware that Strike
was already in the minister’s pay.
Strike knew of Mitch Patterson by reputation: they had twice been hired by
different halves of divorcing couples in the last year. Previously a senior officer
in the Metropolitan Police who had “taken early retirement,” Patterson was
prematurely silver-haired and had the face of an angry pug. Though personally
unpleasant, or so Eric Wardle had told Strike, Patterson was a man who “got
results.”
“Course, he won’t be able to kick the shit out of people in his new career,”
Wardle had commented, “so that’s one useful tool in his arsenal gone.”
Strike didn’t much relish the thought that Patterson would shortly be on the
case. Picking up his mobile again, he noted that neither Robin nor Barclay had
called in an update within the last twelve hours. Only the previous day, he had
had to reassure Chiswell, who had called to express his doubts about Robin,
given her lack of results thus far.
Frustrated by his employees and his own incapacity, Strike texted Robin and
Barclay the same message:

---

Sun just tried to hire me to investigate Chiswell. Call with update asap.
Need usable info NOW.
Pulling his crutches back towards him, he got up to examine the contents of
his fridge and kitchen cupboards, discovering that he would be eating nothing
but tinned soup for the next four meals unless he made a trip to the supermarket.
After pouring spoiled milk down the sink, he made himself a mug of black tea
and returned to the Formica table, where he lit a third cigarette and
contemplated, without pleasure, the prospect of doing his hamstring stretches.
His phone rang again. Seeing that it was Lucy, he let it go to voicemail. The
last thing he needed right now was updates on the school board’s last meeting.
A few minutes after that, when Strike was in the bathroom, she called back.
He had hopped back into the kitchen with his trousers at half-mast, in the hope
that it was either Robin or Barclay. When he saw his sister’s number for a
second time, he merely swore loudly and returned to the bathroom.
The third call told him that she was not about to give up. Slamming down the
can of soup he had been opening, Strike swept up the mobile.
“Lucy, I’m busy, what is it?” he said testily.
“It’s Barclay.”
“Ah, about time. Any news?”
“A bit on Jimmy’s bird, if that helps. Flick.”
“It all helps,” said Strike. “Why didn’t you let me know earlier?”
“Only found out ten minutes ago,” said Barclay, unfazed. “I’ve just heard her
tellin’ Jimmy in the kitchen. She’s been bumpin’ money from her work.”
“What work?”
“Didnae tell me. Trouble is, Jimmy’s no that keen on her, from whut I’ve
seen. I’m no sure he’d care if she got nicked.”
A distracting beeping sounded in Strike’s ear. Another caller was trying to
get him. Glancing at the phone, he saw that it was Lucy again.
“Tell ye somethin’ else I got out o’ him, though,” said Barclay. “Last night,
when he was stoned. He said he knew a government minister who had blood on
his hands.”