Lethal White (A Cormoran Strike Novel)

To set the seal on a particularly shitty few days, the temp he had hired to cover basic paperwork and answer the phone in Robin’s absence was as irritating a woman as Strike had ever met. Denise talked nonstop in a whiny, nasal voice that carried even through the closed door of his inner office. Strike had latterly resorted to listening to music on headphones, with the result that she had had to bang on the door repeatedly and shout before he heard her.

“What?”

“I’ve just found this,” said Denise, brandishing a scribbled note in front of him. “It says ‘clinic’… there’s a word beginning with ‘V’ in front… the appointment’s for half an hour’s time—should I have reminded you?”

Strike saw Robin’s handwriting. The first word was indeed illegible.

“No,” he said. “Just throw it away.”

Mildly hopeful that Robin was quietly seeking professional help for any mental problems she might be suffering, Strike replaced his earphones and returned to the report he was reading, but found it hard to concentrate. He therefore decided to leave early for the interview he had scheduled with a possible new subcontractor. Mainly to get away from Denise, he was meeting the man in his favorite pub.

Strike had had to avoid the Tottenham for months in the aftermath of his capture of the Shacklewell Ripper, because journalists had lain in wait for him here, word having got out that he was a regular. Even today, he glanced around suspiciously before deciding that it was safe to advance on the bar, order his usual pint of Doom Bar and retire to a corner table.

Partly because he had made an effort to give up the chips that were a staple of his diet, partly because of his workload, Strike was thinner now than he had been a year ago. The weight loss had relieved pressure on his amputated leg, so that both the effort and the relief of sitting were less noticeable. Strike took a swig of his pint, stretching his knee from force of habit and enjoying the relative ease of movement, then opened the cardboard file he had brought with him.

The notes within had been made by the idiot who had crashed his moped into the back of the taxi, and they were barely adequate. Strike couldn’t afford to lose this client, but he and Hutchins were struggling to cover workload as it was. He urgently needed a new hire, and yet he wasn’t entirely sure that the interview he was about to conduct was wise. He had not consulted Robin before making the bold decision to hunt down a man he had not seen for five years, and even as the door of the Tottenham opened to admit Sam Barclay, who was punctual to the minute, Strike was wondering whether he was about to make an almighty mistake.

He would have known the Glaswegian almost anywhere as an ex-squaddie, with his T-shirt under his thin V-neck jumper, his close-cropped hair, his tight jeans and over-white trainers. As Strike stood up and held out his hand, Barclay, who appeared to have recognized him with similar ease, grinned and said:

“Already drinking, aye?”

“Want one?” asked Strike.

While waiting for Barclay’s pint, he watched the ex-Rifleman in the mirror behind the bar. Barclay was only a little over thirty, but his hair was prematurely graying. He was otherwise exactly as Strike remembered. Heavy browed, with large round blue eyes and a strong jaw, he had the slightly beaky appearance of an affable owl. Strike had liked Barclay even while working to court-martial him.

“Still smoking?” Strike asked, once he’d handed over the beer and sat down.

“Vapin’ now,” said Barclay. “We’ve had a baby.”

“Congratulations,” said Strike. “On a health kick, then?”

“Aye, somethin’ like that.”

“Dealing?”

“I wasnae dealin’,” said Barclay hotly, “as you fuckin’ well know. Recreational use only, pal.”

“Where are you buying it now, then?”

“Online,” said Barclay, sipping his pint. “Easy. First time I did it, I thought, this cannae fuckin’ work, can it? But then I thought, ‘Och, well, it’s an adventure.’ They send it to you disguised in fag packets and that. Choose off a whole menu. Internet’s a great thing.”

He laughed and said, “So whut’s this all about? Wasnae expectin’ to hear from you anytime soon.”

Strike hesitated.

“I was thinking of offering you a job.”

There was a beat as Barclay stared at him, then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Fuck,” he said. “Why didn’t ye say that straight off, like?”

“Why d’you think?”

“I’m no vapin’ every night,” said Barclay earnestly. “I’m no, seriously. The wife doesnae like it.”

Strike kept his hand closed on the file, thinking.

He had been working a drugs case in Germany when he had run across Barclay. Drugs were bought and sold within the British army as in every other part of society, but the Special Investigation Branch had been called in to investigate what appeared to be a rather more professional operation than most. Barclay had been fingered as a key player and the discovery of a kilo brick of prime Moroccan hash among his effects had certainly justified an interview.