Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

“Let me hold your hand,” said Della. “Geraint won’t be back, don’t worry, I’ve sent him out to Chiswick. There. Thank you. Now, I needed a little private word with you. The thing is, darling, your neighbors have complained. They say they’ve been hearing funny noises through the walls.”

“Like what?” He sounded apprehensive.

“Well, they thought they might be animal,” said Della. “A dog whining or whimpering. You haven’t—?”

“Of course I haven’t,” said Aamir. “It must’ve been the telly. Why would I get a dog? I’m at work all day.”

“I thought it would be like you to bring home some poor little stray,” she said. “Your soft heart…”

“Well, I haven’t,” said Aamir. He sounded tense. “You don’t have to take my word for it. You can go and check if you want, you’ve got a key.”

“Darling, don’t be like that,” said Della. “I wouldn’t dream of letting myself in without your permission. I don’t snoop.”

“You’re within your rights,” he said, and Strike thought he sounded bitter. “It’s your house.”

“You’re upset. I knew you would be. I had to mention it, because if Geraint picks up the phone to them next time—it was the purest good luck the neighbor caught me—”

“I’ll make sure and keep the volume down from now on,” said Aamir. “OK? I’ll be careful.”

“You understand, my love, that as far as I’m concerned, you’re free to do whatever—”

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” Aamir interrupted. “I really think I should be paying you some rent. What if—”

“We’ve been over this. Don’t be silly, I don’t want your money.”

“But—”

“Apart from everything else,” she said, “you couldn’t afford it. A three-bedroomed house, on your own?”

“But—”

“We’ve been through this. You seemed happy when you first moved in… I thought you liked it—”

“Obviously, I like it. It was very generous of you,” he said stiffly.

“Generous… it’s not a question of generosity, for heaven’s sake… Now, listen: how would you like to come and have a curry? I’ve got a late vote and I was going to nip over to the Kennington Tandoori. My treat.”

“Sorry, I can’t,” said Aamir. He sounded stressed. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Oh,” said Della, with a great deal less warmth. “Oh… that’s disappointing. What a pity.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I said I’d meet a friend. University friend.”

“Ah. I see. Well, next time, I’ll make sure to call ahead. Find a slot in your diary.”

“Della, I—”

“Don’t be silly, I’m only teasing. You can walk out with me, at least?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

There was more scuffling, then the sound of the door opening. Robin turned off the tape.

“They’re shaggin’?” said Barclay loudly.

“Not necessarily,” said Robin. “The kiss might’ve been on the cheek.”

“‘Let me hold your hand’?” repeated Barclay. “Since when’s that normal office procedure?”

“How old’s this Aamir bloke?” asked Strike.

“I’d guess mid-twenties,” said Robin.

“And she’s, what…?”

“Mid-sixties,” said Robin.

“And she’s provided him with a house. He’s not related to her, is he?”

“There’s no family connection as far as I’m aware,” said Robin. “But Jasper Chiswell knows something personal about him. He quoted a Latin poem at Aamir when they met in our office.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“Sorry,” said Robin, remembering that this had happened shortly before she had refused to tail Jimmy on the march. “I forgot. Yes, Chiswell quoted something Latin, then mentioned ‘a man of your habits.’”

“What was the poem?”

“I don’t know, I never did Latin.”

She checked her watch.

“I’d better get changed, I’m supposed to be at DCMS in forty minutes.”

“Aye, that’s me off as well, Strike,” said Barclay.

“Two days, Barclay,” Strike said, as the other headed to the door, “then you’re back on Knight.”

“Nae bother,” said Barclay, “I’ll be wantin’ a break from the wean by then.”

“I like him,” said Robin, as Barclay’s footsteps died away down the metal stairs.

“Yeah,” grunted Strike, as he reached for his prosthesis. “He’s all right.”

He and Lorelei were meeting early, at his request. It was time to begin the onerous process of making himself presentable. Robin retired to the cramped toilet on the landing to change, and Strike, having put his prosthesis back on, withdrew to the inner office.

He had got as far as pulling on his suit trousers when his mobile rang. Half-hoping that it was Lorelei to say that she could not make dinner, he picked up the cracked phone and saw, with an inexplicable sense of foreboding, that it was Hutchins.

“Strike?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Strike… I’ve fucked up.”

Hutchins sounded weak.

“What’s happened?”

“Knight’s with some mates. I followed them into a pub. They’re planning something. He’s got a placard with Chiswell’s face on it—”

“And?” said Strike loudly.

“Strike, I’m sorry… my balance has gone… I’ve lost them.”

“You stupid fucker!” roared Strike, losing his temper completely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?”

“I’ve had a lot of time off lately… knew you were stretched…”

Strike switched Hutchins to speakerphone, laid his mobile onto his desk, took his shirt off the hanger and began to dress as fast as possible.

“Mate, I’m so sorry… I’m having trouble walking…”