Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

At ten to one, Flick strolled back into the shop with a dark, thuggishly handsome man in a tight blue T-shirt. He subjected Robin to the hard, arrogant stare of a certain brand of womanizer, melding appreciation and disdain to signal that she might be good-looking, but she would have to try a little harder than that to arouse his interest. It was a strategy that Robin had seen work on other young women in offices. It had never worked on her.

“Sorry I was so long,” Flick told Robin. Her bad mood did not seem entirely dissipated. “Ran into Jimmy. Jimmy, this is Bobbi.”

“All right?” said Jimmy, holding out a hand.

Robin shook it.

“You go,” said Flick to Robin. “Go and get something to eat.”

“Oh, right,” said Robin. “Thanks.”

Jimmy and Flick waited while, under cover of checking her bag for money, Robin crouched down and, hidden by the counter, set her mobile to record before placing it carefully at the back of the dark shelf.

“See tha in a bit, then,” she said brightly, and strolled away into the market.

48

But what do you say to it all, Rebecca?

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

A whining wasp zigzagged from inner to outer rooms of Strike’s office, passing between the two windows that were flung open to admit the fume-laden evening air. Barclay waved the insect away with the takeaway menu that had just arrived with a large delivery of Chinese food. Robin peeled lids off the cartons and laid them out on her desk. Over by the kettle, Strike was trying to find a third fork.

Matthew had been surprisingly accommodating when Robin had called him from Charing Cross Road three-quarters of an hour previously, to say that she needed to meet Strike and Barclay, and was likely to be back late.

“Fine,” he had said, “Tom wants to go for a curry, anyway. I’ll see you at home.”

“How was today?” Robin asked, before he could hang up. “The office out in…”

Her mind went blank.

“Barnet,” he said. “Games developer. Yeah, it was all right. How was yours?”

“Not bad,” said Robin.

Matthew was so determinedly uninterested in the details of the Chiswell job after their many arguments about it that there seemed no point in telling him where she had been, who she was impersonating, or what had happened that day. After they had said goodbye, Robin walked on through meandering tourists and Friday night drinkers, knowing that a casual listener would have taken the conversation to be that of two people connected merely by proximity or circumstance, with no particular liking for each other.

“Want a beer?” Strike asked her, holding up a four pack of Tennent’s.

“Yes, please,” said Robin.

She was still wearing her short black dress and lace-up boots, but had tied back her chalked hair, cleaned her face of its thick makeup and removed her dark lenses. Seeing Strike’s face in a patch of evening sunlight, she thought he looked unwell. There were deeper lines than usual around his mouth and across his forehead, lines etched there, she suspected, by grinding, daily pain. He was also moving awkwardly, using his upper body to turn and trying to disguise his limp as he returned to her desk with the beer.

“What’ve you been up to today?” she asked Strike, as Barclay heaped his plate with food.

“Following Geraint Winn. He’s holed up in a miserable B&B five minutes away from the marital home. He led me all the way into central London and back to Bermondsey again.”

“Risky, following him,” commented Robin. “He knows what you look like.”

“All three of us could’ve been behind him and he wouldn’t have noticed. He’s lost about a stone since I last saw him.”

“What did he do?”

“Went to eat in a place right by the Commons, called the Cellarium. No windows, like a crypt.”

“Sounds cheerful,” said Barclay, settling down on the fake leather sofa and starting on his sweet and sour pork balls.

“He’s like a sad homing pigeon,” said Strike, tipping the whole tub of Singapore noodles onto his own plate, “returning to the place of his former glories with the tourists. Then we went to King’s Cross.”

Robin paused in the act of helping herself to beansprouts.

“Blow job in a dark stairwell,” said Strike matter-of-factly.

“Eurgh,” muttered Robin, continuing to help herself to food.

“Did ye see it, aye?” asked Barclay with interest.

“Back view. Elbowed my way through the front door, then backed out with apologies. He was in no state to recognize me. After that, he bought himself some new socks from Asda and went back to his B&B.”

“There are worse days out,” said Barclay, who had already eaten half the food on his plate. Catching Robin’s eye, he said through a mouthful, “Wife wants me home by half eight.”

“All right, Robin,” said Strike, lowering himself gingerly onto his own desk chair, which he had brought through to the outer office, “let’s hear what Jimmy and Flick had to say to each other when they thought no one was listening.”