Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“Want to come for a coffee, Venetia?” asked Raphael.

“Can’t,” said Robin. “Busy.”

The fan on Izzy’s desk swept Robin’s way and she enjoyed a few seconds of cool breeze. The net-curtained window gave but a misty impression of the glorious June day. Truncated parliamentarians appeared as glowing wraiths on the terrace beyond the glass. It was stuffy inside the cluttered office. Robin was wearing a cotton dress, her hair in a ponytail, but still she occasionally blotted her upper lip with the back of her hand as she pretended to be working.

Having Raphael in the office was, as she had told Strike, a disadvantage. There had been no need to come up with excuses for lurking in the corridor when she had been alone with Izzy. What was more, Raphael watched her a lot, in an entirely different way to Geraint’s lewd up-and-down looks. She didn’t approve of Raphael, but every now and then she found herself coming perilously close to feeling sorry for him. He seemed nervy around his father, and then—well, anybody would think him handsome. That was the main reason she avoided looking at him: it was best not to, if you wanted to preserve any objectivity.

He kept trying to foster a closer relationship with her, which she was attempting to discourage. Only the previous day he had interrupted her as she hovered outside Geraint and Aamir’s door, listening with all her might to a conversation that Aamir was having on the phone about an “inquiry.” From the scant details that Robin had so far heard, she was convinced that the Level Playing Field was under discussion.

“But this isn’t a statutory inquiry?” Aamir was asking, sounding worried. “It isn’t official? I thought this was just a routine… but Mr. Winn understood that his letter to the fundraising regulator had answered all their concerns.”

Robin could not pass up the opportunity to listen, but knew her situation to be perilous. What she had not expected was to be surprised by Raphael rather than Winn.

“What are you doing, skulking there?” he had asked, laughing.

Robin walked hastily away, but she heard Aamir’s door slam behind her and suspected that he, at least, would make sure that it was closed in future.

“Are you always this jumpy, or is it just me?” Raphael had asked, hurrying after her. “Come for a coffee, come on, I’m so bloody bored.”

Robin had declined brusquely, but even as she pretended to be busy again, she had to admit that part of her—a tiny part—was flattered by his attentions.

There was a knock on the door and, to Robin’s surprise, Aamir Mallik entered the room, holding a list of names. Nervous but determined, he addressed Izzy.

“Yeah, uh, hi. Geraint would like to add the Level Playing Field trustees to the Paralympian reception on the twelfth of July,” he said.

“I’ve got nothing to do with that reception,” snapped Izzy. “DCMS are organizing it, not me. Why,” she erupted, wiping her sweaty fringe off her forehead, “does everyone come to me?”

“Geraint needs them to come,” said Aamir. The list of names quivered in his hand.

Robin wondered whether she dared creep into Aamir’s empty office right now and swap the listening devices. She got to her feet quietly, trying not to draw attention to herself.

“Why doesn’t he ask Della?” asked Izzy.

“Della’s busy. It’s only eight people,” said Aamir. “He really needs—”

“‘Hear the word of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity!’”

The Minister for Culture’s booming tones preceded him into the room. Chiswell stood in the doorway, wearing a crumpled suit and blocking Robin’s exit. She sat down quietly again. Aamir, or so it seemed to Robin, braced himself.

“Know who Lachesis was, Mr. Mallik?” asked Chiswell.

“Can’t say I do,” said Aamir.

“No? Didn’t study the Greeks in your Harringay Comprehensive? You seem to have time on your hands, Raff. Teach Mr. Mallik about Lachesis.”

“I don’t know, either,” said Raphael, peering up at his father through his thick, dark lashes.

“Playing stupid, eh? Lachesis,” said Chiswell, “was one of the Fates. She measured out each man’s allotted lifespan. Knew when everyone’s number would be up. Not a fan of Plato, Mr. Mallik? Catullus more up your street, I expect. He produced some fine poetry about men of your habits. Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo, Aurelia pathice et cinaede Furi, eh? Poem 16, look it up, you’ll enjoy it.”

Raphael and Izzy were both staring at their father. Aamir stood for a few seconds as though he had forgotten what he had come for, then stalked out of the room.

“A little Classics education for everyone,” said Chiswell, turning to watch him go with what appeared to be malicious satisfaction. “We are never too old to learn, eh, Raff?”

Robin’s mobile vibrated on her desk. Strike had texted. They had agreed not to contact each other during working hours unless it was urgent. She slid the phone into her bag.