Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“And what did he say?”

“He said he had no deaths on his hands, but ‘one cannot be held accountable for unintended consequences.’”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“I asked. He gave me the hypothetical example of a man dropping a mint, on which a small child later choked to death.”

“What?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Billy hasn’t called back, I suppose?”

Robin shook her head.

“Look, the overwhelming probability is Billy’s delusional,” said Strike. “When I told Chiswell what Billy had said, I didn’t get any sense of guilt or fear…”

As he said it, he remembered the shadow that had passed over Chiswell’s face, and the impression he had received that the story was not, to Chiswell, entirely new.

“So what are they blackmailing Chiswell about?” asked Robin.

“Search me,” said Strike. “He said it happened six years ago, which doesn’t fit with Billy’s story, because he wouldn’t have been a little kid six years ago. Chiswell said some people would think what he did was immoral, but it wasn’t illegal. He seemed to be suggesting that it wasn’t against the law when he did it, but is now.”

Strike suppressed a yawn. Beer and the heat of the afternoon were making him drowsy. He was due at Lorelei’s later.

“So you trust him?” Robin asked.

“Do I trust Chiswell?” Strike wondered aloud, his eyes on the extravagantly engraved mirror behind Robin. “If I had to bet on it, I’d say he was being truthful with me today because he’s desperate. Do I think he’s generally trustworthy? Probably no more than anyone else.”

“You didn’t like him, did you?” asked Robin, incredulously. “I’ve been reading about him.”

“And?”

“Pro-hanging, anti-immigration, voted against increasing maternity leave—”

She didn’t notice Strike’s involuntary glance down her figure as she continued:

“—banged on about family values, then left his wife for a journalist—”

“All right, I wouldn’t choose him for a drinking buddy, but there’s something slightly pitiable about him. He’s lost one son, the other one’s just killed a woman—”

“Well, yes, there you are,” said Robin. “He advocates locking up petty criminals and throwing away the key, then his son runs over someone’s mother and he pulls out all the stops to get him a short sen—”

She broke off suddenly as a loud female voice said: “Robin! How lovely!”

Sarah Shadlock had entered the pub with two men.

“Oh God,” muttered Robin, before she could help herself, then, more loudly, “Sarah, hi!”

She would have given much to avoid this encounter. Sarah would be delighted to tell Matthew that she had found Robin and Strike having a tête-à-tête in a Mayfair pub, when she herself had told Matthew by phone only an hour ago that she was alone in Harley Street.

Sarah insisted on wiggling around the table to embrace Robin, something the latter was sure she would not have done had she not been with men.

“Darling, what’s happened to you? You’re all sticky!”

She was just a little posher here, in Mayfair, than anywhere else Robin had met her, and several degrees warmer to Robin.

“Nothing,” muttered Robin. “Spilled orange juice, that’s all.”

“Cormoran!” said Sarah blithely, swooping in for a kiss on his cheek. Strike, Robin was pleased to note, sat impassive and did not respond. “Bit of R and R?” said Sarah, embracing them both in her knowing smile.

“Work,” said Strike bluntly.

Receiving no encouragement to stay, Sarah moved along the bar, taking her colleagues with her.

“I forgot Christie’s is round the corner,” muttered Robin.

Strike checked his watch. He didn’t want to have to wear his suit to Lorelei’s, and indeed, it was now stained with orange juice from having taken Robin’s seat.

“We need to talk about how we’re going to do this job, because it starts tomorrow.”

“OK,” said Robin with some trepidation, because it had been a long time since she had worked a weekend. Matthew had got used to her coming home.

“It’s all right,” said Strike, apparently reading her mind, “I won’t need you till Monday.

“The job’s going to take three people at a minimum. I reckon we’ve already got enough on Webster to keep the client happy, so we’ll put Andy full time on Dodgy Doc, let the two waiting-list clients know we’re not going to be able to do them this month and Barclay can come in with us on the Chiswell case.

“On Monday, you’re going into the House of Commons.”

“I’m what?” said Robin, startled.

“You’re going to go in as Chiswell’s goddaughter, who’s interested in a career in Parliament, and get started on Geraint, who runs Della’s constituency office at the other end of the corridor to Chiswell’s. Chat him up…”

He took a swig of beer, frowning at her over the top of the glass.

“What?” said Robin, unsure what was coming.

“How d’you feel,” said Strike, so quietly that she had to lean in to hear him, “about breaking the law?”

“Well, I tend to be opposed to it,” said Robin, unsure whether to be amused or worried. “That’s sort of why I wanted to do investigative work.”