Geraint Winn

Geraint Ifon Winn, d.o.b. 15th July 1950. Born Cardiff. Father a miner. Grammar school educated, met Della at University of Cardiff. Was “property consultant” prior to acting as her election agent and running her Parliamentary office post-election. No details of former career available online. No company ever registered in his name. Lives with Della, Southwark Park Road, Bermondsey.

Strike had managed to dig up a couple of poor-quality pictures of Geraint with his well-known wife, both of which Robin had already found and saved to her laptop. She knew how hard Strike had had to work to find an image of Geraint, because it had taken her a long time the previous night, while Matthew slept, to find them. Press photographers did not seem to feel he added much to pictures. A thin, balding man who wore heavy-framed glasses, he had a lipless mouth, a weak chin and a pronounced overbite, which taken together put Robin in mind of an overweight gecko.

Strike had also attached information on the Minister for Sport.

Della Winn

D.o.b. 8th August 1947. Née Jones. Born and raised Vale of Glamorgan, Wales. Both parents teachers. Blind from birth due to bilateral microphthalmia. Attended St. Enodoch Royal School for the Blind from age 5–18. Won multiple swimming awards as teenager. (See attached articles for further details, also of The Playing Field charity.)

Even though Robin had read as much as she could about Della over the weekend, she plowed diligently through both articles. They told her little that she did not already know. Della had worked for a prominent human rights charity before successfully standing for election in the Welsh constituency in which she had been born. She was a long-time advocate for the benefit of sports in deprived areas, a champion of disabled athletes and a supporter for projects that used sport to rehabilitate injured veterans. The founding of her charity, the Level Playing Field, to support young athletes and sportspeople facing challenges, whether of poverty or physical impairment, had received a fair amount of press coverage. Many high-profile sportspeople had given their time to fundraisers.

The articles that Strike had attached both mentioned something that Robin already knew from her own research: the Winns, like the Chiswells, had lost a child. Della and Geraint’s daughter and only offspring had killed herself at the age of sixteen, a year before Della had stood for Parliament. The tragedy was mentioned in every profile Robin had read on Della Winn, even those lauding her substantial achievements. Her maiden speech in Parliament had supported a proposed bullying hotline, but she had never otherwise discussed her child’s suicide.

Robin’s mobile rang. After checking that the bedroom door was closed, Robin answered.

“That was quick,” said Strike thickly, through a mouthful of Singapore noodles. “Sorry—took me by surprise—just got a takeaway.”

“I’ve read your email,” said Robin. She heard a metallic snap and was sure he was opening a can of beer. “Very useful, thanks.”

“Got your disguise sorted?” Strike asked.

“Yes,” said Robin, turning to examine herself at the mirror. It was strange how much a change of eye color transformed your face. She was planning to wear a pair of clear-lensed glasses over her hazel eyes.

“And you know enough about Chiswell to pretend to be his goddaughter?”

“Of course,” said Robin.

“Go on then,” said Strike, “impress me.”

“Born 1944,” Robin said at once, without reading her notes. “Studied Classics at Merton College, Oxford, then joined Queen’s Own Hussars, saw active service in Aden and Singapore.

“First wife, Lady Patricia Fleetwood, three children: Sophia, Isabella and Freddie. Sophia’s married and lives in Northumberland, Isabella runs Chiswell’s Parliamentary office—”

“Does she?” said Strike, sounding vaguely surprised, and Robin was pleased to know that she had discovered something he did not.

“Is she the daughter you knew?” she asked, remembering what Strike had said in the office.

“Wouldn’t go as far as ‘knew.’ I met her a couple of times with Charlotte. Everyone called her ‘Izzy Chizzy.’ One of those upper-class nicknames.”

“Lady Patricia divorced Chiswell after he got a political journalist pregnant—”

“—which resulted in the disappointing son at the art gallery.”

“Exactly—”

Robin moved the mouse around to bring up a saved picture, this time of a dark and rather beautiful young man in a charcoal suit, heading up courtroom steps accompanied by a stylish, black-haired woman in sunglasses whom he closely resembled, though she looked hardly old enough to be his mother.

“—but Chiswell and the journalist split up not long after Raphael was born,” said Robin.

“The family calls him ‘Raff,’” said Strike, “and the second wife doesn’t like him, thinks Chiswell should have disowned him after the car crash.”

Robin made a further note.

“Great, thanks. Chiswell’s current wife, Kinvara, was unwell last year,” Robin continued, bringing up a picture of Kinvara, a curvaceous redhead in a slinky black dress and heavy diamond necklace. She was some thirty years younger than Chiswell and pouting at the camera. Had she not known, Robin would have guessed them father and daughter rather than a married couple.

“With nervous exhaustion,” said Strike, beating her to it. “Yeah. Drink or drugs, d’you reckon?”

Robin heard a clang and surmised that Strike had just dropped an empty Tennent’s can in the office bin. He was alone, then. Lorelei never stayed in the tiny flat upstairs.

“Who knows?” said Robin, her eyes still on Kinvara Chiswell.

“One last thing,” said Strike. “Just in. A couple of kids went missing in Oxfordshire around the right time to tally with Billy’s story.”

There was a brief pause.

“You still there?” asked Strike.

“Yes… I thought you don’t believe Chiswell strangled a child?”

“I don’t,” said Strike. “The timescale doesn’t fit, and if Jimmy knew a Tory minister had strangled a kid, he wouldn’t have waited twenty years to try and monetise it. But I’d still like to know whether Billy’s imagining that he saw someone throttled. I’m going to do a bit of digging on the names Wardle’s given me and if either seem credible I might ask you to sound Izzy out. She might remember something about a kid disappearing in the vicinity of Chiswell House.”

Robin said nothing.

“Like I said in the pub, Billy’s very ill. It’s probably nothing,” said Strike, with a trace of defensiveness. As he and Robin were both well aware, he had previously jettisoned paid cases and rich clients to pursue mysteries that others might have let lie. “I just—”

“—can’t rest easy until you’ve looked into it,” said Robin. “All right. I understand.”

Unseen by her, Strike grinned and rubbed his tired eyes.

“Well, best of luck tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be on my mobile if you need me.”

“What are you going to be up to?”

“Paperwork. Jimmy Knight’s ex doesn’t work Mondays. I’m off to Manchester to find her on Tuesday.”