Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“And I wouldn’t trust him if it was anything to do with Jews. He doesn’t like them. Israel’s the root of all evil, according to Jimmy. Zionism: I got sick of the bloody sound of the word. You’d think they’d suffered enough,” said Dawn vaguely. “Yeah, his manager at Zanet was Jewish and they hated each other.”

“What was his name?”

“What was it?” Dawn drew heavily on her cigarette, frowning. “Paul something… Lobstein, that’s it. Paul Lobstein. He’s probably still at Zanet.”

“D’you still have any contact with Jimmy, or any of his family?”

“Christ, no. Good riddance. The only one of his family I ever met was little Billy, his brother.”

She softened a little as she said the name.

“He wasn’t right. He stayed with us for a bit at one point. He was a sweetheart, really, but not right. Jimmy said it was their father. Violent alkie. Raised them on his own and knocked the shit out of them, from what the boys said, used the belt and everything. Jimmy got away to London, and poor little Billy was left alone with him. No surprise he was how he was.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He ’ad a—a tic, do they call it?”

She mimicked with perfect accuracy the nose to chest tapping Strike had witnessed in his office.

“He was put on drugs, I know that. Then he left us, went to share a flat with some other lads for a bit. I never saw him again after Jimmy and I split. He was a sweet boy, yeah, but he annoyed Jimmy.”

“In what way?” Strike asked.

“Jimmy didn’t like him talking about their childhood. I dunno, I think Jimmy felt guilty he’d left Billy in the house alone. There was something funny about that whole business…”

Strike could tell she hadn’t thought about these things for a while.

“Funny?” he prompted.

“A couple of times, when he’d had a few, Jimmy went on about how his dad would burn for how he made his living.”

“I thought he was an odd-job man?”

“Was he? They told me he was a joiner. He worked for that politician’s family, what’s his name? The one with the hair.”

She mimed stiff bristles coming out of her head.

“Jasper Chiswell?” Strike suggested, pronouncing the name the way it was spelled.

“Him, yeah. Old Mr. Knight had a rent-free cottage in the family grounds. The boys grew up there.”

“And he said his father would go to hell for what he did for a living?” repeated Strike.

“Yeah. It’s probably just because he was working for Tories. It was all about politics with Jimmy. I don’t get it,” said Dawn restlessly. “You’ve got to live. Imagine me asking my clients how they vote before I’ll—

“Bloody hell,” she gasped suddenly, grinding out her cigarette and jumping to her feet, “Sian had better’ve taken out Mrs. Horridge’s rollers or she’ll be bald.”

17

I see he is altogether incorrigible.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Watching for an opportunity to plant the bug in Winn’s office, Robin spent most of the afternoon hanging around the quiet corridor on which both his and Izzy’s offices lay, but her efforts were fruitless. Even though Winn had left for a lunchtime meeting, Aamir remained inside. Robin paced up and down, box file in her arms, waiting for the moment when Aamir might go to the bathroom and returning to Izzy’s office whenever any passerby tried to engage her in conversation.

Finally, at ten past four, her luck changed. Geraint Winn swaggered around the corner, rather tipsy after what seemed to have been a prolonged lunch, and in sharp contrast to his wife, he seemed delighted to meet her as she set off towards him.

“There she is!” he said, over-loudly. “I wanted a word with you! Come in here, come in!”

He pushed open the door of his office. Puzzled, but only too eager to see the interior of the room she was hoping to bug, Robin followed him.

Aamir was working in shirtsleeves at his desk, which formed a tiny oasis of order in the general clutter. Stacks of folders lay around Winn’s desk. Robin noticed the orange logo of the Level Playing Field on a pile of letters in front of him. There was a power point directly under Geraint’s desk that would be an ideal position for the listening device.

“Have you two met?” Geraint asked jovially. “Venetia, Aamir.”

He sat down and invited Robin to take the armchair on which a sliding pile of card folders lay.

“Did Redgrave call back?” Winn asked Aamir, struggling out of his suit jacket.

“Who?” said the latter.

“Sir Steve Redgrave!” said Winn, with the suspicion of an eye roll in Robin’s direction. She felt embarrassed for him, especially as Aamir’s muttered “no” was cold.

“Level Playing Field,” Winn told Robin.

He had managed to get his jacket off. With an attempted flourish, he threw it onto the back of his chair. It slid limply onto the floor, but Geraint appeared not to notice, and instead tapped the orange logo on the topmost letter in front of him. “Our cha—” he belched. “Pardon me—our charity. Disadvantaged and disabled athletes, you know. Lots of high profile supporters. Sir Steve keen to—” he belched again, “—pardon—help. Well, now. I wanted to apologize. For my poor wife.”