Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“Hi,” said Robin, walking into the office with a holdall over her shoulder. Answering Strike’s questioning look, she explained, “Outfit for the Paralympic reception. I’ll change in the loo, I won’t have time to go home.”

Barclay followed Robin into the room and closed the door.

“We met downstairs,” he told Strike cheerfully. “Firs’ time.”

“Sam was just telling me how much dope he’s had to smoke to keep in with Jimmy,” said Robin, laughing.

“I’ve no been inhalin’,” said Barclay, deadpan. “That’d be remiss, on a job.”

The fact that the pair of them seemed to have hit it off was perversely annoying to Strike, who was now making heavy weather of hoisting himself off the fake leather cushions, which made their usual farting noises.

“It’s the sofa,” he snapped at Barclay, who had looked around, grinning. “I’ll get your money.”

“Stay there, I’ll do it,” Robin said, setting down her holdall and reaching for the checkbook in the lower drawer of the desk, which she handed to Strike, with a pen. “Want some tea, Cormoran? Sam?”

“Aye, go on, then,” said Barclay.

“You’re both bloody cheerful,” said Strike sourly, writing Barclay his check, “considering we’re about to lose the job that’s keeping us all in employment. Unless either of you have got information I don’t know about, of course.”

“Only excitin’ thing tae happen in Knightville this week was Flick havin’ a big bust up wi’ one o’ her flatmates,” said Barclay. “Lassie called Laura. She reckoned Jimmy had stolen a credit card out o’ her handbag.”

“Had he?” asked Strike sharply.

“I’d say it was more likely to be Flick herself. Told ye she was boastin’ about helpin’ herself to cash from her work, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“It all kicked off in the pub. The girl, Laura, was scunnered. She and Flick got intae a row about who was more middle class.”

In spite of the pain he was in, and his grumpy mood, Strike grinned.

“Aye, it got nasty. Ponies and foreign holidays dragged in. Then this Laura said she reckoned Jimmy nicked her new credit card off her, months back. Jimmy got aggressive, said that was slander—”

“Shame he’s banned, or he could’ve sued her,” said Strike, ripping out the check.

“—and Laura ran off intae the night, bawlin’. She’s left the flat.”

“Got a surname for her?”

“I’ll try and find out.”

“What’s Flick’s background, Barclay?” asked Strike as Barclay put his check into his wallet.

“Well, she told me she dropped out o’ uni,” said Barclay. “Failed her first-year exams and gave up.”

“Some of the best people drop out,” said Robin, carrying two mugs of tea over. She and Strike had both left their degree courses without a qualification.

“Cheers,” said Barclay, accepting a mug from Robin. “Her parents are divorced,” he went on, “and she’s no speaking tae either of them. They don’t like Jimmy. Cannae blame them. If my daughter ever hooks up wi’ a bawbag like Knight, I’ll know what tae do about it. When she’s not around, he tells the lads what he gets up to wi’ young girls. They all think they’re shaggin’ a great revolutionary, doin’ it for the cause. Flick doesnae know the half o’ what he’s up tae.”

“Any of them underage? His wife suggested he’s got form there. That’d be a bargaining chip.”

“All over sixteen so far’s I know.”

“Pity,” said Strike. He caught Robin’s eye, as she returned to them holding her own tea. “You know what I mean.” He turned to Barclay again. “From what I heard on that march, she’s not so monogamous herself.”

“Aye, one o’ her pals made a gag about an Indian waiter.”

“A waiter? I heard a student.”

“No reason it couldn’ta been both,” said Barclay. “I’d say she’s a—”

But catching Robin’s eye, Barclay decided against saying the word, and instead drank his tea.

“Anything new your end?” Strike asked Robin.

“Yes. I got the second listening device back.”

“You’re kidding,” said Strike, sitting up straighter.

“I’ve only just finished transcribing it all, there was hours of stuff on there. Most of it’s useless, but…”

She set down her tea, unzipped the holdall and took out the recording device.

“… there’s one strange bit. Listen to this.”

Barclay sat down on the arm of the sofa. Robin straightened up in her desk chair and flicked the switch on the device.

Geraint’s lilting accent filled the office.

“… keep them sweet, make sure I introduce Elspeth to Prince Harry,” said Geraint. “Right, that’s me off, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“G’night,” said Aamir.

Robin shook her head at Strike and Barclay and mouthed, “Wait.”

They heard the door close. After the usual thirty-second silence, there was a click, where the tape had stopped then restarted. A deep, Welsh female voice spoke.

“Are you there, sweetheart?”

Strike raised his eyebrows. Barclay stopped chewing.

“Yes,” said Aamir, in his flat London accent.

“Come and give me a kiss,” said Della.

Barclay made a small choking noise into his tea. The sound of lips smacking emanated from the bug. Feet shuffled. A chair was moved. There was a faint, rhythmic thudding.

“What’s that?” muttered Strike.

“The guide dog’s tail wagging,” said Robin.