Lethal White

So matters have got as far as that already, have
they!
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
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.
She and Matthew had just eaten a takeaway curry off their knees while
watching the news. He had arrived home late and tired; she didn’t need another
argument.
Picking up the mobile, she headed out through the French doors onto the
patio that had served as the smoking area for the party. After making sure that
the doors were completely closed, she answered.
“Hi. Everything OK?”
“Fine. All right to talk for a moment?”
“Yes,” said Robin, leaning against the garden wall, and watching a moth

---

banging fruitlessly against the bright glass, trying to enter the house. “How did it
go with Dawn Clancy?”
“Nothing usable,” said Strike. “I thought I might have a lead, some Jewish
ex-boss Jimmy had a vendetta against, but I rang the company and the poor
bloke died of a stroke last September. Then I got a call from Chiswell just after I
left her. He says the Sun’s sniffing around.”
“Yes,” said Robin. “They called his wife.”
“We could’ve done without that,” said Strike, with what Robin felt was
considerable understatement. “I wonder who’s tipped off the papers?”
“I’d bet on Winn,” said Robin, remembering the way that Geraint had talked
that afternoon, the name-dropping, the self-importance. “He’s just the type to
hint to a journalist that there’s a story on Chiswell, even if he hasn’t got proof of
it yet. Seriously,” she said again, with no real hope of an answer, “what d’you
think Chiswell did?”
“Be nice to know, but it doesn’t really matter,” said Strike, who sounded
tired. “We aren’t being paid to get the goods on him. Speaking of which—”
“I haven’t been able to plant the bug yet,” said Robin, anticipating the
question. “I hung around as late as possible, but Aamir locked the door after they
both left.”
Strike sighed.
“Well, don’t get overeager and balls it up,” he said, “but we’re up against it if
the Sun’s involved. Anything you can do. Get in early or something.”
“I will, I’ll try,” said Robin. “I did get something odd about the Winns today,
though,” and she told him about the confusion Della had made between herself
and one of Chiswell’s real goddaughters, and the story of Rhiannon on the
fencing team. Strike seemed only distantly interested.
“Doubt that explains the Winns wanting Chiswell out of office. Anyway—”
“—means before motive,” she said, quoting Strike’s own, oft-repeated
words.
“Exactly. Listen, can you meet me after work tomorrow, and we’ll have a
proper debrief?”
“All right,” said Robin.
“Barclay’s doing good work, though,” said Strike, as though the thought of it
cheered him up. “He’s already well in with Jimmy.”
“Oh,” said Robin. “Good.”
After telling her that he would text the name of a convenient pub, Strike rang
off, leaving Robin alone and pensive in the quiet dark of the yard, while stars
grew pin-bright overhead.