Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“Yeah,” said Robin.

Flick took out her mobile from her messenger bag, which she had stowed beneath the counter, checked it, appeared not to see what she had hoped to see, then stuffed it out of sight again.

“You must’ve been hard up for work, were you?” she asked Robin.

“Had to take what I could,” Robin said. “I were sacked.”

“Yeah?”

“Fookin’ Amazon,” said Robin.

“Those tax-dodging bastards,” said Flick, slightly more interested. “What happened?”

“Didn’t make my daily rate.”

Robin had lifted her story directly from a recent news report about working conditions in one of the retail company’s warehouses: the relentless pressure to make targets, packing and scanning thousands of products a day under unforgiving pressure from supervisors. Flick’s expression wavered between sympathy and anger as Robin talked.

“That’s outrageous!” she said, when Robin had finished.

“Yeah,” said Robin, “and no union or nothing, obviously. Me dad were a big trade union man back in Yorkshire.”

“Bet he was furious.”

“He’s dead,” said Robin, unblushingly. “Lungs. Ex-miner.”

“Oh, shit,” said Flick. “Sorry.”

She was looking upon Robin with respect and interest now.

“See, you’ll have been a worker, not an employee. That’s how the bastards get away with it.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Fewer statutory rights,” said Flick. “You might have a case against them if they deducted from your wages, though.”

“Dunno if I could prove that,” said Robin. “How come you know all this?”

“I’m pretty active in the labor movement,” said Flick, with a shrug. She hesitated, “And my mother’s an employment lawyer.”

“Yeah?” said Robin, allowing herself to sound politely surprised.

“Yeah,” said Flick, picking her nails, “but we don’t get on. I don’t see any of my family, actually. They don’t like my partner. Or my politics.”

She smoothed out the Hezbollah T-shirt and showed Robin.

“What, are they Tories?” asked Robin.

“Might as well be,” said Flick. “They loved bloody Blair.”

Robin felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her second-hand dress.

“Is there a bog anywhere here?”

“Through here,” said Flick, pointing to a well-hidden purple painted door with more racks of jewelry nailed to it.

Beyond the purple door Robin found a small cubbyhole with a cracked, dirty window. A safe sat beside a dilapidated kitchen unit with a kettle, a couple of cleaning products and a stiff J-cloth on top. There was no room to sit down and barely room to stand, because a grubby toilet had been plumbed into the corner.

Robin shut herself inside the chipboard cubicle, put down the toilet lid and sat down to read the lengthy text that Barclay had just sent to both her and Strike.

Billy’s been found. He was picked up off street 2 weeks ago. Psychotic episode, sectioned, hospital in north London, don’t know which yet. Wouldn’t tell docs his next of kin till yesterday. Social worker contacted Jimmy this morning. Jimmy wants me to go with him to persuade Billy to discharge himself. Scared what Billy’s going to tell the doctors, says he talks too much. Also, Jimmy’s lost bit of paper with Billy’s name on & he’s shitting himself about it. Asked me if I’d seen it. He says it’s handwritten, no other details, I don’t know why so important. Jimmy thinks Flick’s nicked it. Things bad between them again.

As Robin was reading this for a second time, a response came in from Strike.

Barclay: find out visiting arrangements at the hospital, I want to see Billy. Robin: try and search Flick’s bag.

Thanks, Robin texted back, exasperated. I’d never have thought of that on my own.

She got up, flushed the toilet and returned to the shop, where a gang of black-clad goths were picking over the stock like drooping crows. As she sidled past Flick, Robin saw that her messenger bag was sitting on a shelf beneath the counter. When the group had finally left in possession of essential oils and black candles, Flick took out her phone to check it again, before sinking once more into a morose silence.

Robin’s experience in many temporary offices had taught her that little bonded women more than discovering that they were not alone in their particular man-related miseries. Taking out her own phone, she saw a further text from Strike:

That’s why I get paid the big money. Brains.

Amused against her will, Robin suppressed a grin and said:

“He must think I’m fooking stupid.”

“Wassup?”

“Boyfriend. So-called,” said Robin, ramming her phone back into her pocket. “S’posed to be separated from his wife. Guess where he was last night? Mate of mine saw him leaving hers this morning.” She exhaled loudly and slumped down on the counter.

“Yeah, my boyfriend likes old women and all,” said Flick, picking at her nails. Robin, who had not forgotten that Jimmy had been married to a woman thirteen years his senior, hoped for more confidences, but before she could ask more, another group of young women entered, chattering in a language that Robin did not recognize, though she thought it sounded Eastern European. They clustered around the basket of supposed charms.