“Did you?”
“Of course I did. What else was I going to think, when he said he was being blackmailed by Billy’s brother?”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he had no deaths on his hands, but ‘one cannot be held accountable for unintended consequences.’”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“I asked. He gave me the hypothetical example of a man dropping a mint, on which a small child later choked to death.”
“What?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Billy hasn’t called back, I suppose?”
Robin shook her head.
“Look, the overwhelming probability is Billy’s delusional,” said Strike. “When I told Chiswell what Billy had said, I didn’t get any sense of guilt or fear…”
As he said it, he remembered the shadow that had passed over Chiswell’s face, and the impression he had received that the story was not, to Chiswell, entirely new.
“So what are they blackmailing Chiswell about?” asked Robin.
“Search me,” said Strike. “He said it happened six years ago, which doesn’t fit with Billy’s story, because he wouldn’t have been a little kid six years ago. Chiswell said some people would think what he did was immoral, but it wasn’t illegal. He seemed to be suggesting that it wasn’t against the law when he did it, but is now.”
Strike suppressed a yawn. Beer and the heat of the afternoon were making him drowsy. He was due at Lorelei’s later.
“So you trust him?” Robin asked.
“Do I trust Chiswell?” Strike wondered aloud, his eyes on the extravagantly engraved mirror behind Robin. “If I had to bet on it, I’d say he was being truthful with me today because he’s desperate. Do I think he’s generally trustworthy? Probably no more than anyone else.”
“You didn’t like him, did you?” asked Robin, incredulously. “I’ve been reading about him.”
“And?”
“Pro-hanging, anti-immigration, voted against increasing maternity leave—”
She didn’t notice Strike’s involuntary glance down her figure as she continued:
“—banged on about family values, then left his wife for a journalist—”
“All right, I wouldn’t choose him for a drinking buddy, but there’s something slightly pitiable about him. He’s lost one son, the other one’s just killed a woman—”
“Well, yes, there you are,” said Robin. “He advocates locking up petty criminals and throwing away the key, then his son runs over someone’s mother and he pulls out all the stops to get him a short sen—”
She broke off suddenly as a loud female voice said: “Robin! How lovely!”
Sarah Shadlock had entered the pub with two men.
“Oh God,” muttered Robin, before she could help herself, then, more loudly, “Sarah, hi!”
She would have given much to avoid this encounter. Sarah would be delighted to tell Matthew that she had found Robin and Strike having a tête-à-tête in a Mayfair pub, when she herself had told Matthew by phone only an hour ago that she was alone in Harley Street.
Sarah insisted on wiggling around the table to embrace Robin, something the latter was sure she would not have done had she not been with men.
“Darling, what’s happened to you? You’re all sticky!”
She was just a little posher here, in Mayfair, than anywhere else Robin had met her, and several degrees warmer to Robin.
“Nothing,” muttered Robin. “Spilled orange juice, that’s all.”
“Cormoran!” said Sarah blithely, swooping in for a kiss on his cheek. Strike, Robin was pleased to note, sat impassive and did not respond. “Bit of R and R?” said Sarah, embracing them both in her knowing smile.
“Work,” said Strike bluntly.
Receiving no encouragement to stay, Sarah moved along the bar, taking her colleagues with her.
“I forgot Christie’s is round the corner,” muttered Robin.
Strike checked his watch. He didn’t want to have to wear his suit to Lorelei’s, and indeed, it was now stained with orange juice from having taken Robin’s seat.
“We need to talk about how we’re going to do this job, because it starts tomorrow.”
“OK,” said Robin with some trepidation, because it had been a long time since she had worked a weekend. Matthew had got used to her coming home.
“It’s all right,” said Strike, apparently reading her mind, “I won’t need you till Monday.
“The job’s going to take three people at a minimum. I reckon we’ve already got enough on Webster to keep the client happy, so we’ll put Andy full time on Dodgy Doc, let the two waiting-list clients know we’re not going to be able to do them this month and Barclay can come in with us on the Chiswell case.
“On Monday, you’re going into the House of Commons.”
“I’m what?” said Robin, startled.
“You’re going to go in as Chiswell’s goddaughter, who’s interested in a career in Parliament, and get started on Geraint, who runs Della’s constituency office at the other end of the corridor to Chiswell’s. Chat him up…”
He took a swig of beer, frowning at her over the top of the glass.
“What?” said Robin, unsure what was coming.
“How d’you feel,” said Strike, so quietly that she had to lean in to hear him, “about breaking the law?”
“Well, I tend to be opposed to it,” said Robin, unsure whether to be amused or worried. “That’s sort of why I wanted to do investigative work.”
“And if the law’s a bit of a gray area, and we can’t get the information any other way? Bearing in mind that Winn’s definitely breaking the law, trying to blackmail a Minister of the Crown out of his job?”
“Are you talking about bugging Winn’s office?”
“Right in one,” said Strike. Correctly reading her dubious expression, he went on. “Listen, by Chiswell’s account, Winn’s a slapdash loudmouth, which is why he’s stuck in the constituency office and kept well away from his wife’s work at the Department for Sport. Apparently he leaves his office door open most of the time, shouts about constituents’ confidential affairs and leaves private papers lying around in the communal kitchen. There’s a good chance you’ll be able to inveigle indiscretions out of him without needing the bug, but I don’t think we can count on it.”
Robin swilled the last of her orange juice in her glass, deliberating, then said:
“All right, I’ll do it.”
“Sure?” said Strike. “OK, well you won’t be able to take devices in, because you’ll have to go through a metal detector. I’ve said I’m going to get a handful to Chiswell tomorrow. He’ll pass them to you once you’re inside.
“You’ll need a cover name. Text it to me when you’ve thought of one so I can let Chiswell know. You could use ‘Venetia Hall’ again, actually. Chiswell’s the kind of bloke who’d have a goddaughter called Venetia.”
“Venetia” was Robin’s middle name, but Robin was too full of apprehension and excitement to care that Strike, from his smirk, continued to find it amusing.
“You’re going to have to work a disguise as well,” said Strike. “Nothing major, but Chiswell remembered what you look like from the Ripper coverage, so we’ve got to assume Winn might, too.”
“It’ll be too hot for a wig,” she said. “I might try colored contact lenses. I could go and buy some now. Maybe some plain-lensed glasses on top.” A smile she could not suppress surfaced again. “The House of Commons!” she repeated excitedly.
Robin’s excited grin faded as Sarah Shadlock’s white-blonde head intruded on the periphery of her vision, on the other side of the bar. Sarah had just repositioned herself to keep Robin and Strike in her sights.
“Let’s go,” Robin said to Strike.
As they walked back towards the Tube, Strike explained that Barclay would be tailing Jimmy Knight.
“I can’t do it,” said Strike regretfully. “I’ve blown my cover with him and his CORE mates.”
“So what will you be up to?”
“Plug gaps, follow up leads, cover nights if we need them,” said Strike.
“Poor Lorelei,” said Robin.