Роберт Гэлбрейт - Lethal White

A tendency to size Strike up as a potential lover was not uncommon in the sometimes fragile and lonely women he dealt with in his professional life. He had never slept with a client, in spite of occasional temptation. The agency meant too much to him, but even had Izzy held attraction for him, he would have been careful to keep his manner on the antiseptic side of professional, because she would be forever tainted in his mind by association with Charlotte.

In spite of his genuine desire to cut the call short – Lorelei had cooked, and was looking particularly lovely in a silky sapphire blue dress that resembled nightwear – Izzy had displayed the persistent adhesiveness of a teasel. It took Strike nearly three-quarters of an hour to disentangle himself from his client, who laughed long and loudly at even his mildest jokes, so that Lorelei could hardly fail to know that it was a woman who was at the end of the line. Hardly had he got rid of Izzy and begun to explain to Lorelei that she was a grief-stricken client, than Barclay had called with an update on Jimmy Knight. The mere fact that he had taken the second call, considerably briefer though it was, had, in Lorelei’s eyes, compounded his original offence.

This was the first time he and Lorelei had met since she had retracted her declaration of love. Her wounded and affronted demeanour over dinner confirmed him in the unwilling belief that, far from wanting their no-strings arrangement to continue, she had clung to the hope that if she stopped pressuring him, he would be free to reach the realisation that he was, in fact, deeply in love with her. Talking on the phone for the best part of an hour, while dinner slowly shrivelled in the oven, had dashed her hopes of a perfect evening, and the reset of their relationship.

Had Lorelei only accepted his sincere apology, he might have felt like sex. However, by half-past two in the morning, at which time she finally burst into tears of mingled self-recrimination and self-justification, he was too tired and bad-tempered to accept physical overtures which would, he feared, assume an importance in her mind that he did not want to give them.

This has to end , he thought, as he rose, hollow-eyed and dark-jawed, at six o’clock, moving as quietly as possible in the hope that she would not wake before he made his way out of her flat. Forgoing breakfast, because Lorelei had replaced the kitchen door with an amusingly retro bead curtain that rattled loudly, Strike made it all the way to the top of the stairs to the street before Lorelei emerged from the dark bedroom, sleep tousled, sad and desirable in a short kimono.

‘Weren’t you even going to say goodbye?’

Don’t cry. Please don’t fu cking cry.

‘You looked very peaceful. I’ve got to go, Robin’s picking me up at—’

‘Ah,’ said Lorelei. ‘No, you wouldn’t want to keep Robin hanging around.’

‘I’ll call you,’ said Strike.

He thought he caught a sob as he reached the front door, but by making a noisy business of opening it, he could credibly claim not to have heard.

Having left in plenty of time, Strike made a detour to a handy McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and a large coffee, which he consumed at an unwiped table, surrounded by other early Saturday risers. A young man with a boil on the back of his neck was reading the Independent right ahead of Strike, who read the words ‘ Sports Minister in Marriage Split ’ over the youth’s shoulder before he turned a page.

Drawing out his phone, Strike Googled ‘Winn marriage’. The news stories popped up immediately: ‘ Minister for Sport Splits from Husband: Separation “Amicable” ’, ‘ Della Winn Calls Time on Marriage ’, ‘ Blind Paralympics Minister to Divorce ’.

The stories from major newspapers were all factual and on the short side, a few padded out with details of Della’s impressive career within politics and outside. The press’s lawyers would, of course, be particularly careful around the Winns just now, with their super-injunction still in place. Strike finished his McMuffin in two bites, jammed an unlit cigarette in his mouth and limped out of the restaurant. Out on the pavement he lit up, then brought up the website of a well-known and scurrilous political blogger on his phone.

The brief paragraph had been written only a few hours previously.

Which creepy Westminster couple known to share a predilection for youthful employees are rumoured to be splitting at last? He is about to lose access to the nubile political wannabes on whom he has preyed so long, but she has already found a handsome young ‘helper’ to ease the pain of separation.

Less than forty minutes later, Strike emerged from Barons Court Tube station to lean up against the pillar-box in front of the entrance. Cutting a solitary figure beneath the Art Nouveau lettering and open segmented pediment of the grand station behind him, he took out his phone again and continued to read about the Winns’ separation. They had been married over thirty years. The only couple he knew who had been together that long were the aunt and uncle back in Cornwall, who had served as surrogate parents to Strike and his sister during those regular intervals when his mother had been unwilling or unable to care for them.

A familiar roar and rattle made Strike look up. The ancient Land Rover that Robin had taken off her parents’ hands was trundling towards him. The sight of Robin’s bright gold head behind the wheel caught the tired and faintly depressed Strike off-guard. He experienced a wave of unexpected happiness.

‘Morning,’ said Robin, thinking that Strike looked terrible as he opened the door and shoved in a holdall. ‘Oh, sod off,’ she added, as a driver behind her slammed on his horn, aggravated by the time Strike was taking to get inside.

‘Sorry . . . leg’s giving me trouble. Dressed in a hurry.’

‘No problem – and you! ’ Robin shouted at the driver now overtaking them, who was gesticulating and mouthing obscenities at her.

Finally dropping down into the passenger seat, Strike slammed the door and Robin pulled away from the kerb.

‘Any trouble getting away?’ he asked.

‘What d’you—?’

‘The journalist.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No – he’s gone. Given up.’

Strike wondered just how difficult Matthew had been about Robin giving up a Saturday for work.

‘Heard about the Winns?’ he asked her.

‘No, what’s happened?’

‘They’ve split up.’

‘ No! ’

‘Yep. In all the papers. Listen to this . . . ’

He read aloud the blind item on the political website.

‘God,’ said Robin quietly.

‘I had a couple of interesting calls last night,’ Strike said, as they sped towards the M4.

‘Who from?’

‘One from Izzy, the other from Barclay. Izzy got a letter from Geraint yesterday,’ said Strike.

‘Really?’ said Robin.

‘Yeah. It was sent to Chiswell House a few days back, not her London flat, so she only opened it when she went back to Woolstone. I got her to scan and email it to me. Want to hear?’

‘Go on,’ said Robin.

‘“My very dear Isabella—”’

‘Ugh,’ said Robin, with a small shudder.

‘“As I hope you will understand”,’ read Strike, ‘“Della and I did not feel it appropriate to contact you in the immediate, shocking aftermath of your father’s death. We do so now in a spirit of friendliness and compassion”.’

‘If you need to point that out . . . ’

‘“Della and I may have had political and personal differences with Jasper, but I hope we never forgot that he was a family man, and we are aware that your personal loss will be severe. You ran his office with courtesy and efficiency and our little corridor will be the poorer for your absence”.’