Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

He seemed to be deaf, which was both help and hindrance. Robin spoke more loudly, enunciating as clearly as she could. Sir Kevin grasped what she was saying on her third attempt.

“I told Geraint I’d have to resign unless he took urgent steps,” he said miserably. “You’re an old friend, Della, and it was—it is—a worthy cause, but I have to think of my own position. I did warn him.”

“But why, Kevin?” said Robin, picking up her pen.

“Hasn’t he shown you my letter?”

“No,” said Robin truthfully, pen poised.

“Oh dear,” said Sir Kevin weakly. “Well, for one thing… twenty-five thousand pounds unaccounted for is a serious matter.”

“What else?” asked Robin, making rapid notes.

“What’s that?”

“You said ‘for one thing.’ What else are you worried about?”

Robin could hear the woman who’d answered the phone talking in the background. Her voice sounded irate.

“Della, I’d rather not go into it all on the phone,” said Sir Kevin, sounding embarrassed.

“Well, this is disappointing,” said Robin, with what she hoped was a touch of Della’s mellifluous grandeur. “I hoped you’d at least tell me why, Kevin.”

“Well, there’s the Mo Farah business—”

“Mo Farah?” repeated Robin, in unaffected surprise.

“What was that?”

“Mo—Farah?”

“You didn’t know?” said Sir Kevin. “Oh dear. Oh dear…”

Robin heard footsteps and then the woman came back on the line, first muffled, then clear.

“Let me speak to her—Kevin, let go—look, Della, Kevin’s very upset about all this. He suspected you didn’t know what’s been going on and, well, here we are, he was right. Nobody ever wants to worry you, Della,” she said, sounding as though she thought this a mistaken protectiveness, “but the fact of the matter is—no, she’s got to know, Kevin—Geraint’s been promising people things he can’t deliver. Disabled children and their families have been told they’re getting visits from David Beckham and Mo Farah and I don’t know who else. It’s all going to come out, Della, now the Charity Commission’s involved, and I’m not having Kevin’s name dragged through the mud. He’s a conscientious man and he’s done his best. He’s been urging Geraint to sort out the accounts for months now, and then there’s what Elspeth… no, Kevin, I’m not, I’m just telling her… well, it could get very nasty, Della. It might yet come to the police as well as the press, and I’m sorry, but I’m thinking of Kevin’s health.”

“What’s Elspeth’s story?” said Robin, still writing fast.

Sir Kevin said something plaintive in the background.

“I’m not going into that on the phone,” said Lady Rodgers repressively. “You’ll have to ask Elspeth.”

There was more shuffling and Sir Kevin took the receiver again. He sounded almost tearful.

“Della, you know how much I admire you. I wish it could have been otherwise.”

“Yes,” said Robin, “well, I’ll have to call Elspeth, then.”

“What was that?”

“I’ll—call—Elspeth.”

“Oh dear,” said Sir Kevin. “But you know, there might be nothing in it.”

Robin wondered whether she dared ask for Elspeth’s number, but decided not. Della would surely have it.

“I wish you’d tell me what Elspeth’s story is,” she said, her pen poised over her notebook.

“I don’t like to,” said Sir Kevin wheezily. “The damage these kinds of rumors do to a man’s reputation—”

Lady Rodgers came back on the line.

“That’s all we’ve got to say. This whole business has been very hard on Kevin, very stressful. I’m sorry, but that’s our final word on the matter, Della. Goodbye.”

Robin set her mobile down on the table beside her and checked that nobody was looking her way. She picked up her mobile again and scrolled down the list of The Level Playing Field’s trustees. One of them was called Dr. Elspeth Curtis-Lacey, but her personal number was not listed on the charity’s website and appeared, from a search of directory inquiries, to be unlisted.

Robin phoned Strike. The call went straight to voicemail. She waited a couple of minutes and tried again, with the same result. After her third failed attempt to reach him, she texted:

Got some stuff on GW. Call me.

The dank shadow that had lain on the terrace when she had first arrived was moving incrementally backwards. The warm sun slid over Robin’s table as she eked out her coffee, waiting for Strike to call back. At last her phone vibrated to show that she had a text: heart leaping, she picked it up, but it was only Matthew.

Fancy a drink with Tom and Sarah tonight after work?