Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

However, from the moment that she arrived at the Palace of Westminster, she knew that what happened here would live in her memory forever. She felt a ripple of pleasure simply to leave the tourists behind and pass through the gate where the policeman stood guard. As she approached the palace, with its intricate gold moldings starkly shadowed in the early morning sun, the famous clock tower silhouetted against the sky, her nerves and her excitement mounted.

Strike had told her which side door to use. It led into a long, dimly lit stone hall, but first she must pass through a metal detector and X-ray machine of the kind used at airports. As she took off her shoulder bag to be scanned, Robin noticed a tall, slightly disheveled natural blonde in her thirties waiting a short distance away, holding a small package wrapped in brown paper. The woman watched as Robin stood for an automated picture that would appear on a paper day pass, to be worn on a lanyard around her neck, and when the security man waved Robin on, stepped forwards.

“Venetia?”

“Yes,” said Robin.

“Izzy,” said the other, smiling and holding out a hand. She was wearing a loose blouse with a splashy pattern of oversize flowers on it, and wide-legged trousers. “This is from Papa.” She pressed the package she was holding into Robin’s hands. “I’m rilly sorry, we’ve got to dash—so glad you got here on time—”

She set off at a brisk walk, and Robin hastened to follow.

“—I’m in the middle of printing off a bunch of papers to take over to Papa at DCMS—I’m snowed under just now. Papa being Minister for Culture, with the Olympics coming, it’s just crazy—”

She led Robin at a near jog through the hall, which had stained-glass windows at the far end, and off along labyrinthine corridors, talking all the while in a confident, upper-class accent, leaving Robin impressed by her lungpower.

“Yah, I’m leaving at the summer recess—setting up a decorating company with my friend Jacks—I’ve been here for five years—Papa’s not happy—he needs somebody rilly good and the only applicant he liked turned us down.”

She talked over her shoulder at Robin, who was hurrying to keep up.

“I don’t s’pose you know any fabulous PAs?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Robin, who had retained no friends from her temping career.

“Nearly there,” said Izzy, who had led Robin through a bewildering number of narrow corridors, all carpeted in the same forest green as the leather seats Robin had seen in the Commons on TV. At last they reached a side-passage off which led several heavy wooden doors, arched in the gothic style.

“That,” said Izzy in a stage whisper, pointing as they passed the first door on the right, “is Winn’s. This,” she said, marching to the last door on the left, “is ours.”

She stood aside to let Robin pass into the room first.

The office was cramped and cluttered. The arched stone windows were hung with net curtains, beyond which lay the terrace bar, where shadowy figures moved against the dazzling brightness of the Thames. There were two desks, a multitude of bookshelves and a sagging green armchair. Green drapes hung at the overflowing bookshelves that covered one wall, only partially concealing the untidy stacks of files stacked there. On top of a filing cabinet stood a TV monitor, showing the currently empty interior of the Commons, its green benches deserted. A kettle sat beside mismatched mugs on a low shelf and had stained the wallpaper above it. The desktop printer whirred wheezily in a corner. Some of the papers it was disgorging had slid onto the threadbare carpet.

“Oh, shit,” said Izzy, dashing over and scooping them up, while Robin closed the door behind her. As she tapped the fallen papers back into a neat stack on her desk, Izzy said:

“I’m thrilled Papa’s brought you in. He’s been under so much strain, which he really doesn’t need with everything we’ve got on now, but you and Strike will sort it out, won’t you? Winn’s a horrible little man,” said Izzy, reaching for a leather folder. “Inadequate, you know. How long have you worked with Strike?”

“A couple of years,” said Robin, as she undid the package Izzy had given her.

“I’ve met him, did he tell you? Yah—I was at school with his ex, Charlie Campbell. Gorgeous but trouble, Charlie. D’you know her?”

“No,” said Robin. A long-ago near-collision outside Strike’s office had been her only contact with Charlotte.

“I always quite fancied Strike,” said Izzy.

Robin glanced around, surprised, but Izzy was matter-of-factly inserting papers into the folder.

“Yah, people couldn’t see it, but I could. He was so butch and so… well… unapologetic.”

“Unapologetic?” Robin repeated.

“Yah. He never took any crap from anyone. Didn’t give a toss that people thought he wasn’t, you know—”

“Good enough for her?”

As soon as the words escaped her, Robin felt embarrassed. She had felt suddenly strangely protective of Strike. It was absurd, of course: if anybody could look after themselves, it was he.