Troubled Blood

72

Success, as Cormoran Strike had long since learned, is a much more complex business than most people suppose.

It wasn’t the first time that the press had turned its sights upon the detective agency, and while the acclaim was undoubtedly flattering and a good advert for the business, it was, as ever, severely prejudicial to the partners’ ability to keep working. Robin, whose home address was swiftly discovered by the press, took refuge at the house of Vanessa Ekwensi, and with the aid of a number of wigs and some skillful makeup, managed to continue to cover a certain amount of work, so that Barclay and Hutchins didn’t have to do everything themselves. Strike, on the other hand, was forced back into Nick and Ilsa’s spare room, where he let his beard grow, and lay low, directing the agency’s subcontractors by phone. Pat Chauncey alone remained based at the office in Denmark Street, taking care of administrative matters, stolidly opening and closing up each morning and evening.

“I’ve got no comment. You’d all do better sodding off,” she croaked twice a day at the knot of journalists hanging around Denmark Street.

The eruption of publicity that followed the twin discoveries of a woman’s body encased in concrete in a quiet flat in Clerkenwell, and a teenager’s skeleton hidden beneath debris in the depths of an underground well in Islington, showed no sign of abating quickly. There were far too many exciting angles to this story: the separate excavations and positive identifications of the bones of Margot Bamborough and Louise Tucker, the comments from two bereaved families, who scarcely knew whether they felt more relief or grief, the profiles of two very different killers and, of course, the private detectives now widely acclaimed as the capital’s most talented.

Gratifying though this was, Strike took no satisfaction in the way the press hounded either Gregory Talbot (“What would you say to people who say your father had blood on his hands?”) or Dinesh Gupta (“Do you regret giving Janice Beattie that glowing reference, doctor?”) nor in seeing the Athorns led out of their flat by genuine social workers, frightened, displaced and uncomprehending. Carl Oakden made a brief appearance in the Daily Mail, trying to sell himself as an expert on both Strike and Margot Bamborough, but as the article began with the words “Convicted con man Carl Brice, son of the old practice secretary, Dorothy…” it was perhaps unsurprising that Oakden soon slunk back into the shadows. Strike’s father, on the other hand, was happy to continue associating his name with Strike’s, issuing a fulsome statement of pride in his eldest son through his publicist. Fuming quietly, Strike ignored all requests for comment.

Dennis Creed, who for so long had received top billing in any news story including him, was relegated almost to a footnote in this one. Janice Beattie had outdone him, not only in the number of her suspected victims, but in remaining undetected for decades longer. Photographs of her sitting room in Nightingale Grove were leaked to the press, who highlighted the framed pictures of the dead on the walls, the folder of obituaries kept in her china cabinet, and the syringe, the cellophane and the hairdryer that Strike had found behind the sofa. The store of drugs and poisons retrieved from her kitchen were carried out of her house by forensics experts, and the rosy-cheeked, silver-haired nurse dubbed “the Poisoner Granny” blinked impassively at news cameras as she was led into court and remanded in custody.

Meanwhile, Strike could barely open a newspaper or switch on the TV without seeing Brian Tucker, who was giving interviews to anybody who’d speak to him. In a cracked voice he wept, exulted, praised Strike and Robin, told the world they deserved knighthoods (“Or the other thing, what is it for women?” “Damehood,” murmured the sympathetic blonde presenter, who was holding the emotional Tucker’s hand), cried as he reminisced about his daughter, described the preparations for her funeral, criticized the police and informed the world that he’d suspected all along that Louise was hidden in the well. Strike, who was happy for the old man, nevertheless wished, both for his own sake and for Tucker’s, that he’d go and grieve quietly somewhere, rather than taking up space on an endless succession of daytime television sofas.

A trickle of relatives, suspicious about the way their loved ones had died under Janice’s care, soon turned into a tide. Exhumation orders were made, and Irene Hickson, the contents of whose food cupboards had been removed and analyzed by the police, was profiled in the Daily Mail, sitting in her swagged and flounced sitting room, flanked by two voluptuous daughters who closely resembled her.

“I mean, Jan was always a bit of a man-eater, but I never suspected anything like this, never. I’d’ve called her my best friend. I don’t know how I could’ve been such a fool! She used to offer to go food shopping for me, before I came back from staying at my daughter’s. Then I’d eat some of the stuff she’d put in the fridge, get ill, call her and ask her to come over. I suppose this is a comfier house than hers, and she liked staying here, and I sometimes gave her money, so that’s why I’m not dead. I don’t know whether I’ll ever get over the shock, honestly. I can’t sleep, I feel sick all the time, I can’t stop thinking about it. I look back now, and ask myself, how did I never see? And if it turns out she killed Larry, poor Larry who Eddie and I introduced her to, I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself, honestly, it’s all just a nightmare. You don’t expect this from a nurse, do you?”

And on this count, if no other, Strike was forced to agree with Irene Hickson. He asked himself why it had taken him so long to look closer at an alibi he’d known from the first was barely adequate, and why he’d taken Janice’s word at face value, when he’d challenged almost everyone else’s. He was forced to conclude that, like the women who’d climbed willingly into Dennis Creed’s van, he’d been hoodwinked by a careful performance of femininity. Just as Creed had camouflaged himself behind an apparently fey and gentle façade, so Janice had hidden behind the persona of the nurturer, the selfless giver, the compassionate mother. Strike had preferred her apparent modesty to Irene’s garrulity and her sweetness to her friend’s spite, yet knew he’d have been far less ready to take those traits at face value, had he met them in a man. Ceres is nurturing and protective. Cancer is kind, instinct is to protect. A hefty dose of self-recrimination tempered Strike’s celebrations, which puzzled Ilsa and Nick, who were inclined to gloat over the newspaper reports of their friend’s latest and most celebrated detective triumph.

Meanwhile, Anna Phipps was longing to thank Strike and Robin in person, but the detective partners postponed a meeting until the first effusion of press attention died down. The hypercautious Strike, whose beard was now coming along nicely, finally agreed to a meeting over two weeks after Margot’s body had been found. Though he and Robin had been in daily contact by phone, this would also be the first time they’d met since solving the case.

Rain pattered against the window of Nick and Ilsa’s spare bedroom as Strike dressed that morning. He was pulling a sock over his false foot when his mobile beeped from the bedside table. Expecting to see a message from Robin, possibly warning him that press were on the prowl outside Anna and Kim’s house, he saw, instead, Charlotte’s name.

Hello Bluey. I thought Jago had thrown this phone away, but I’ve just found it hidden at the back of a cupboard. So, you’ve done another amazing thing. I’ve been reading all about you in the press. I wish they had some decent pictures of you, but I suppose you’re glad they don’t? Congratulations, anyway. It must feel good to prove everyone who didn’t believe in the agency wrong. Which includes me, I suppose. I wish I’d been more supportive, but it’s too late now. I don’t know whether you’ll be glad to hear from me or not. Probably not. You never called the hospital, or if you did, nobody told me. Maybe you’d have been secretly glad if I’d died? A problem solved, and you like solving things… Don’t think I’m not grateful. I suppose I am, or I will be, one day. But I know you’d have done what you did for anyone. That’s your code, isn’t it? And I always wanted something particular from you, something you wouldn’t give anyone else. Funny, I’ve started to appreciate people who’re decent to everyone, but it’s too late for that, too, isn’t it? Jago and I are separating, only he doesn’t want to call it that yet, because leaving your suicidal wife isn’t a good look and nobody would believe it’s me leaving him. I still mean the thing I said to you at the end. I always will.

Strike sat back down on the spare bed, mobile in his hands, one sock on, one off. The rainy daylight illuminated the phone’s screen, reflecting his bearded face back at him as he scowled at a text so Charlottian he could have written it himself: the apparent resignation to her fate, the attempts to provoke him into reassurance, the vulnerability wielded like a weapon. Had she really left Jago? Where were the now two-year-old twins? He thought of all the things he could have told her, which would have given her hope: that he’d wanted to call the hospital, that he’d dreamed about her since the suicide attempt, that she retained a potent hold over his imagination that he’d tried to exorcize but couldn’t. He considered ignoring the message, but then, on the point of setting the mobile back down, changed his mind, and, character by careful character, typed out his brief response.

You’re right, I’d have done what I did for anyone. That doesn’t mean I’m not glad you’re alive, because I am. But you need to stay alive for yourself and your kids now. I’m about to change my number. Look after yourself.

He re-read his words before sending. She’d doubtless experience the words as a blow, but he’d done a lot of thinking since her suicide attempt. Having always told himself that he’d never changed his number because too many contacts had it, he’d lately admitted to himself that he’d wanted to keep a channel of communication open between himself and Charlotte, because he wanted to know she couldn’t forget him, any more than he could forget her. It was time to cut that last, thin thread. He pressed “send” on the text, then finished dressing.

Having made sure that both of Nick and Ilsa’s cats were shut up in the kitchen, he left the house. Another text from Charlotte arrived as he was walking up the road in the rain.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so envious in my life as I am of that girl Robin.

And this, Strike decided to ignore.

He’d set off for Clapham South station deliberately early, because he wanted time for a cigarette before Robin picked him up and drove them the short distance to Anna and Kim’s flat. Standing beneath the overhang outside the station, he lit up, looking out over a row of bicycles at a muddy corner of Clapham Common, where ochre-leaved trees shivered in the downpour. He’d only taken a couple of drags on his cigarette when his mobile rang in his pocket. Resolving not to answer if it was Charlotte, he pulled it out and saw Polworth’s name.

“All right, Chum?”

“Still got time for the little people, then, Sherlock?”

“I can spare you a minute or two,” said Strike, watching the rain. “Wouldn’t want people to think I’ve lost the common touch. How’s things?”

“We’re coming up to London for a weekend.”

Polworth sounded about as excited as a man facing a colonoscopy.

“I thought London was the heart of all evil?”

“Not my choice. It’s Roz’s birthday. She wants to see the fucking Lion King and Trafalgar Square and shit.”

“If you’re looking for somewhere to stay, I’ve only got one bedroom.”

“We’re booked into an Airbnb. Weekend after next. Just wondered if you were up for a pint. Could bring your Robin along, so Penny’s got someone to talk to. Unless, I dunno, the fucking Queen’s got a job for you.”

“Well, she has, but I told her the waiting list’s full. That’d be great,” said Strike. “What else is new?”

“Nothing,” said Polworth. “You saw the Scots bottled it?”

The old Land Rover had appeared in a line of traffic. Having no desire to get onto the subject of Celtic nationalism, Strike said,

“If ‘bottling’ ’s what you want to call it, yeah. Listen, I’m gonna have to go, mate, Robin’s about to pick me up in the car. I’ll ring you later.”

Chucking his cigarette end down a nearby storm drain, he was ready to climb into the Land Rover as soon as Robin pulled up.

“Morning,” she said, as Strike hoisted himself into the passenger seat. “Am I late?”

“No, I was early.”

“Nice beard,” said Robin, as she pulled away from the curb in the rain. “You look like a guerrilla leader who’s just pulled off a successful coup.”

“Feel like one,” said Strike, and in fact, right now, reunited with Robin, he felt the straightforward sense of triumph that had eluded him for days.

“Was that Pat you were just talking to?” asked Robin. “On the phone?”

“No, Polworth. He’s coming up to London weekend after next.”

“I thought he hated London?”

“He does. One of his kids wants to visit. He wants to meet you, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Why not?” asked Robin, who was mildly flattered.

“Women don’t usually like Polworth.”

“I thought he was married?”

“He is. His wife doesn’t like him.”

Robin laughed.

“Why did you think Pat would be calling me?” asked Strike.

“I’ve just had her on the phone. Miss Jones is upset at not getting updates from you personally.”

“I’ll FaceTime her later,” said Strike, as they drove across the common, windscreen wipers working. “Hopefully the beard’ll put her off.”

“Some women like them,” said Robin, and Strike couldn’t help wondering whether Robin was one of them.

“Sounds like Hutchins and Barclay are closing in on Dopey’s partner,” he said.

“Yes,” said Robin. “Barclay’s offering to go out to Majorca and have a look around.”

“I’ll bet he is. Are you still on for interviewing the new subcontractor together, Monday?”

“Michelle? Yes, definitely,” said Robin

“Hopefully we’ll be back in the office by then.”

Robin turned into Kyrle Road. There was no sign of press, so she parked outside a Victorian terraced house divided into two flats.

When Strike rang the bell labeled “Phipps/Sullivan,” they heard footsteps on stairs through the door, which opened to reveal Anna Phipps, who was wearing the same baggy blue cotton jumpsuit and white canvas shoes as the first time they’d met her, in Falmouth.

“Come in,” she said, smiling as she retreated so that they could enter a small square of space at the bottom of the staircase. The walls were painted white: a series of abstract, monochrome prints covered the walls, and the fanned window over the door cast pools of light onto the uncarpeted stairs, reminding Robin of the St. Peter’s nursing home, and the life-size Jesus watching over the entrance.

“I’m going to try not to cry,” said Anna quietly, as though scared of being overheard, but in spite of her resolution, her eyes were already full of tears. “I’m sorry, but I—I’d really like to hug you,” she said, and she promptly did so, embracing first Robin, then Strike. Stepping back, she shook her head, half-laughing, and wiped her eyes.

“I can’t ever express to you how grateful… how grateful I am. What you’ve given me…” She made an ineffable gesture and shook her head. “It’s just so… so strange. I’m incredibly happy and relieved, but at the same time, I’m grieving… Does that make sense?”

“Totally,” said Robin. Strike grunted.

“Everyone’s here,” said Anna, gesturing upstairs. “Kim, Dad, Cyn, and Oonagh, too. I invited her down for a few days. We’re planning the funeral, you see—Dad and Cyn are really leaving it up to me—anyway… come up, everyone wants to thank you…”

As they followed Anna up the steep stairs, Strike using the banister to heave himself along, he remembered the tangle of emotions that had hit him when he’d received the phone call telling him of his own mother’s death. Amid the engulfing wave of grief had been a slight pinprick of relief, which had shocked and shamed him, and which had taken a long time to process. Over time, he’d come to understand that in some dark corner of his mind, he’d been ­dreading and half-expecting the news. The ax had fallen at last, suspense was forever over: Leda’s appalling taste in men had culminated in a sordid death on a dirty mattress, and while he’d missed her ever since, he’d be a liar if he claimed to miss the toxic mixture of anxiety, guilt and dread he’d endured over her last couple of years of life.

He could only imagine the mixture of emotions currently possessing Margot’s husband, or the nanny who’d taken Margot’s place in the family. As he reached the upper landing, he glimpsed Roy Phipps sitting in an armchair in the sitting room. Their eyes met briefly, before Kim came out of the room, blocking Strike’s view of the hematologist. The blonde psychologist was smiling broadly: she, at least, seemed to feel unalloyed pleasure.

“Well,” she said, shaking first Strike’s hand, then Robin’s, “what can we say, really? Come through…”

Strike and Robin followed Anna and Kim into the sitting room, which was as large and airy as their Falmouth holiday home, with long gauze curtains at the windows, stripped floorboards, a large white rug and pale gray walls. The books had been arranged by color. Everything was simple and well designed; very different from the house in which Anna had grown up, with its ugly Victorian bronzes and chintz-covered chairs. The only art on the walls was over the fireplace: a black and white photograph of sea and sky.

Rain was beating on the large bay window behind Roy, who was already on his feet. He wiped his hand nervously on his trousers before holding it out to Strike.

“How are you?” he asked jerkily.

“Very well, thanks,” said Strike.

“Miss Ellacott,” said Roy, holding out his hand to Robin in turn. “I understand you actually…?”

The unspoken words found her seemed to ring around the room.

“Yes,” said Robin, and Roy nodded and pursed his lips, his large eyes leaving her to focus on one of the ragdoll cats, which had just prowled into the room, its aquamarine eyes shrewd.

“Sit down, Dad,” said Anna gently, and Roy did as he was told.

“I’ll just go and see whether Oonagh’s found everything; she’s making tea,” said Kim cheerfully, and left.

“Please, have a seat,” said Anna to Strike and Robin, who sat down side by side on the sofa. The moment Strike was settled, the ragdoll cat leapt up lightly beside him and stepped into his lap. Robin, meanwhile, had noticed the ottoman that stood in place of a coffee table. It was upholstered in gray and white striped canvas, and far smaller than the one in the Athorns’ flat, too small for a woman to curl up in, but even so, it was a piece of furniture Robin doubted she’d ever own, no matter how useful they might be. She’d never forget the dusty mass of hardened concrete, and the skull of Margot Bamborough curving up out of it.

“Where’s Cyn?” Anna asked her father.

“Bathroom,” said Roy, a little hoarsely. He threw a nervous glance at the empty landing beyond the door, before addressing the detective:

“I—I have to tell you how ashamed I am that I never hired anybody myself. Believe me, the thought that we could have known all this ten, twenty years ago…”

“Well, that’s not very good for our egos, Roy,” said Strike, stroking the purring cat. “Implying that anyone could have done what we did.”

Roy and Anna both laughed harder than the comment deserved, but Strike understood the need for the release of jokes, after a profound shock. Mere days after he’d been airlifted out of the bloody crater where he’d lain after his leg had been blown off, fading in and out of consciousness with Gary Topley’s torso beside him, he seemed to remember Richard Anstis, the other survivor, whose face had been mangled in the explosion, making a stupid joke about the savings Gary could have made on trousers, had he lived. Strike could still remember laughing at the idiotic, tasteless joke, and enjoying a few seconds’ relief from shock, grief and agony.

Women’s voices now came across the landing: Kim had returned with a tea tray, followed by Oonagh Kennedy, who was bearing a large chocolate cake. She was beaming from beneath her purple-streaked fringe, her amethyst cross bouncing on her chest as before, and when she’d put down the cake, she said,

“Here dey are, then, the heroes of the hour! I’m going to hug the pair of you!”

Robin stood to receive her tribute, but Strike, not wanting to disarrange the cat, received his hug awkwardly while sitting.

“And here I go again!” said Oonagh, laughing as she straightened up, and wiping her eyes. “I swear to God, it’s loike being on a roller­coaster. Up one minute, down the next—”

“I did the same, when I saw them,” said Anna, laughing at Oonagh. Roy’s smile, Robin noticed, was nervous and a little fixed. What did it feel like, she wondered, to be face to face with his dead wife’s best friend, after all these years? Did the physical changes in Oonagh make him wonder what Margot would have looked like, had she lived to the age of seventy? Or was he wondering anew, as he must have done over all the intervening years, whether his marriage would have survived the long stretch of icy silence that had followed her drink with Paul Satchwell, whether the strains and tensions in the relationship could have been overcome, or whether Margot would have taken Oonagh up on her offer of refuge in her flat?

They’d have divorced, Robin thought, with absolute certainty, but then she wondered whether she wasn’t tangling up Margot with herself, as she’d tended to do all through the case.

“Oh, hello,” said a breathless voice, from the doorway, and everyone looked around to see Cynthia, on whose thin, sallow face was a smile that didn’t quite reach her anxious, mottled eyes. She was wearing a black dress, and Robin wondered whether she’d consciously put it on to suggest mourning. “Sorry, I was—how are you both?”

“Fine,” said Robin.

“Great,” said Strike.

Cynthia let out one of her nervous, breathless laughs, and said,

“Yes, no—so wonderful—”

Was it wonderful for Cynthia, Robin wondered, as Anna’s stepmother pulled up a chair, and she declined a piece of the cake which, it transpired, Oonagh had gone out in the rain to purchase. How did it feel to have Margot Bamborough back, even in the form of a skeleton in a box? Did it hurt to see her husband so shaken and emotional, and to have to receive Oonagh, Margot’s best friend, into the heart of the family, like a newly discovered aunt? Robin, who seemed to be on something of a clairvoyant streak, felt sure that if Margot had never been killed, but had simply divorced Roy, Cynthia would never have been the hematologist’s choice of second wife. Margot would probably have begged the young Cynthia to accompany her into her new life, and continue looking after Anna. Would Cynthia have agreed, or would her loyalties have lain with Roy? Where would she have gone, and who would she have married, once there was no place for her at Broom House?

The second cat now entered the room, staring at the unusually large group it found inside. She picked her way past the armchairs, the ottoman and the sofa, jumped up onto the windowsill and sat with her back to them, watching the raindrops sliding down the window.

“Now, listen,” said Kim, from the upright chair she’d brought out of a corner of the room, “we really do want to pay you for the extra month you put in. I know you said no—”

“It was our choice to keep working on the case,” said Strike. “We’re glad to have helped and we definitely don’t want more money.”

He and Robin had agreed that, as the Margot Bamborough case looked likely to pay for itself three times over in terms of publicity and extra work, and as Strike felt he really should have solved it sooner, taking more cash from Anna and Kim felt unnecessarily greedy.

“Then we’d like to make a donation to charity,” said Kim. “Is there one you’d like us to support?”

“Well,” said Strike, clearing his throat, “if you’re serious, Macmillan nurses…”

He saw a slight look of surprise on the family’s faces.

“My aunt died this year,” he explained, “and the Macmillan nurse gave her a lot of support.”

“Oh, I see,” said Kim, with a slight laugh, and there was a little pause, in which the specter of Janice Beattie seemed to rise up in the middle of them, like the wisp of steam issuing from the teapot spout.

“A nurse,” said Anna quietly. “Who’d suspect a nurse?”

“Margot,” said Roy and Oonagh together.

They caught each other’s eye, and smiled: a rueful smile, doubtless surprised at finding themselves in agreement at long last, and Robin saw Cynthia look away.

“She didn’t like that nurse. She told me so,” said Oonagh, “but I got the woman confused with that blonde at the Christmas party who made a scene.”

“No, she never took to the nurse,” said Roy. “She told me, too, when she joined the practice. I didn’t take much notice…”

He seemed determined to be honest, now, however much it hurt.

“… I thought it was a case of two women being too similar: both working class, both strong characters. When I met the woman at the barbecue, I actually thought she seemed quite… well… decent. Of course, Margot never told me her suspicions…”

There was another silence, and everyone in the room, Strike was sure, was remembering that Roy hadn’t spoken to his wife at all in those few weeks before her murder, which was precisely the time period during which Margot’s suspicions of Janice must have crystallized.

“Janice Beattie’s probably the best liar I’ve ever met,” Strike said, into the tense atmosphere, “and a hell of an actress.”

“I’ve had the most extraordinary letter,” said Anna, “from her son, Kevin. Did you know he’s coming over from Dubai to testify against her?”

“We did,” said Strike, who George Layborn was briefing regularly on the progress of the police investigation.

“He wrote that he thinks Mum examining him saved his life,” said Anna.

Robin noticed how Anna was now calling Margot “Mum,” when previously she’d only said “my mother.”

“It’s a remarkable letter,” said Kim, nodding. “Full of apologies, as though it’s somehow his fault.”

“Poor man,” said Oonagh quietly.

“He says he blames himself for not going to the police about her, but what child would believe his mother’s a serial killer? I really can’t,” said Anna again, over the purring of Cagney the cat in Strike’s lap, “explain adequately to you both what you’ve done for me… for all of us. The not knowing’s been so terrible, and now I know for sure that Mum didn’t leave willingly and that she went… well, quite peacefully…”

“As deaths go,” said Strike, “it was almost painless.”

“And I know for sure she loved me,” said Anna.

“We always—” began Cynthia, but her stepdaughter said quickly,

“I know you always told me she did, Cyn, but without knowing what really happened, there was always going to be a doubt, wasn’t there? But when I compare my situation with Kevin Beattie’s, I actually feel lucky… D’you know,” Anna asked Strike and Robin, “what they found when they—you know—got Mum out of the concrete?”

“No,” said Strike.

Cynthia’s thin hands were playing with her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger.

“The locket Dad gave her,” said Anna. “It’s tarnished, but when they opened it up, it had a picture of me in it, which was as good as new,” said Anna, and her eyes suddenly shone with tears again. Oonagh reached out and patted Anna on the knee. “They say I’ll be able to have it back, once they’ve completed all the forensics.”

“How lovely,” said Robin quietly.

“And did you hear what was in her handbag?” asked Kim.

“No,” said Strike.

“Notes from her consultation on Theo,” said Kim. “They’re completely legible—protected by the leather, you know. Her full name was Theodosia Loveridge and she was from a traveler family. Margot suspected an ectopic pregnancy and wanted to ring an ambulance, but Theo said her boyfriend would take her. Margot’s notes suggest Theo was scared of her family knowing she was pregnant. They don’t seem to have approved of the boyfriend.”

“So that’s why she never came forward, afterward?” said Robin.

“I suppose so,” said Kim. “Poor girl. I hope she was OK.”

“May I ask,” said Roy, looking at Strike, “how strong you think the case against Janice Beattie is? Because—I don’t know what your police contacts have told you—but the latest we’ve heard is that forensics haven’t been able to prove Margot was drugged.”

“Not so far,” said Strike, who’d spoken to George Layborn the previous evening, “but I’ve heard they’re going to try some new-fangled way of getting traces of drugs and chemicals out of the concrete surrounding the body. No guarantees, but it was used successfully in a case in the States recently.”

“But if they can’t prove she was drugged,” said Roy, his expression intense, “the case against Janice is entirely circumstantial, isn’t it?”

“Her lawyer’s certainly trying to get her off, judging by his comments to the press,” said Kim.

“He’ll have his work cut out for him,” said Strike. “The defense has got to come up with reasons the police found a phone belonging to a non-existent social worker in her house, and why the Athorns had the number. The Athorns’ cousins in Leeds can identify her as the woman who helped them muck out the flat. Gloria Conti’s willing to come over to testify about the doughnut in the fridge and the vomiting attacks she and Wilma suffered, and Douthwaite’s going to take the stand—”

“He is?” said Oonagh, her expression clearing. “Oh, that’s good, we’ve been worried about him—”

“I think he finally realizes the only way out of this is going through with it,” said Strike. “He’s ready to testify that from the moment he started eating food prepared by Janice, he had symptoms of poisoning, and, most importantly, that during their last consultation, Margot advised him not to eat anything else prepared by Janice.

“Then we’ve got Kevin Beattie testifying that his daughter drank bleach while Janice was supposedly looking after her, and that his mother used to feed him ‘special drinks’ that made him feel ill… What else?” said Strike, inviting Robin to continue, mainly so he could eat some cake.

“Well, there are all the lethal substances they’ve taken out of Janice’s kitchen,” said Robin, “not to mention the fact that she tried to poison Cormoran’s tea when he went round there to confront her. There’s also the drugged food the police have found at Irene’s, and the framed photographs on her wall, including Joanna Hammond, who she claimed never to have met, and Julie Wilkes, who drowned at the Clacton-on-Sea Butlin’s. And the police are confident they’re going to be able to get forensic evidence out of other victims’ graves, even if Margot’s results are inconclusive. Janice had her ex-partner, Larry, cremated, but his lover Clare was buried and she’s being exhumed.”

“Personally,” said Strike, who’d managed to eat half his slice of chocolate cake while Robin was talking, “I think she’s going to die in jail.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Roy, looking relieved, and Cynthia said breathlessly,

“Yes, no, definitely.”

The cat at the window looked around and then, slowly, turned to face the rain again, while its twin pawed idly at Strike’s sweater.

“You two will come to the funeral, won’t you?” asked Anna.

“We’d be honored,” said Robin, because Strike had just taken another big mouthful of cake.

“We’re, ah, leaving the arrangements up to Anna,” said Roy. “She’s taking the lead.”

“I’d like Mum to have a proper grave,” said Anna. “Somewhere to visit, you know… all these years, without knowing where she is. I want her where I can find her.”

“I can understand that,” said Strike.

“You really don’t know what you’ve given me,” said Anna, for the third time. She’d reached out a hand to Oonagh, but she was looking at Cynthia. “I’ve got Oonagh, now, as well as Cyn, who’s been the most wonderful mother… Mum certainly chose the right person to raise me…”

As Cynthia’s face crumpled, Strike and Robin both looked tactfully away, Robin at the cat at the window and Strike at the seascape over the mantelpiece. The rain drummed against the window, the cat in his lap purred, and he remembered the lily urn bobbing away. With a twist in his chest, and in spite of his satisfaction at having done what he’d set out to do, he wished he could have called Joan, and told her the end of Margot Bamborough’s story, and heard her say she was proud of him, one last time.

73

Robin woke a few days later to autumn sunshine streaming through the gap in her curtains. Glancing at her mobile, she saw to her amazement that it was ten in the morning, which meant she’d just enjoyed the longest sleep she’d had all year. Then she remembered why she was having a lie-in: today was the ninth of October, and it was her birthday.

Ilsa had arranged a dinner in her honor the following evening, which was a Friday. Ilsa had chosen and booked the smart restaurant, to which she and Nick, Vanessa and her fiancé Oliver, Barclay, Hutchins and their wives, Max, his new boyfriend (the lighting director on his TV show) and Strike were all invited. Robin had no plans for today, her actual birthday, which Strike had insisted she take off. She now sat up in bed, yawning, and looked at the packages lying on her chest of drawers opposite, which were all from her family. The small package from her mother had the appearance of a piece of jewelry, doubtless in tribute to this milestone birthday. Just as she was about to get out of bed, her phone beeped and she saw a text from Strike.

I know you’re supposed to be having a day off but something’s come up. Please can you meet me at the Shakespeare’s Head, Marlborough St, 5p.m. Dress smart, might need to go on somewhere upmarket.

Robin read this twice, as though she might have missed a “happy birthday.” Surely—surely— he hadn’t forgotten again? Or did he think that, by planning to turn up at the dinner Ilsa had planned, he was doing all that was required, and the actual day of her birth required no acknowledgment? True, she felt at a slightly loose end without work and with none of her friends available, but Strike wasn’t to know that, so it was with very mixed feelings that she texted back: OK.

However, when she arrived upstairs in her dressing gown to fetch a cup of tea, Robin found a large box sitting on the kitchen table, with a card on top of it, her name on the envelope in Strike’s unmistakeable cramped, hard-to-read writing. Max, she knew, had left the flat early to film outdoor scenes in Kent, taking Wolfgang with him, who’d sleep in the car and enjoy a lunchtime walk. As she hadn’t heard the doorbell, she had to conclude that Strike had somehow transferred both box and card to Max ahead of time, to surprise her with this morning. This argued degrees of planning and effort that seemed highly uncharacteristic. Moreover, she’d never received a proper card from Strike, not even when he’d bought her the green dress after solving their first case.

The front of the birthday card was somewhat generic and featured a large glittery pink number thirty. Inside, Strike had written:

Robin looked at this message for far longer than it warranted. Many things about it pleased her, including the kiss and the fact that he’d called himself “Strike.” She set the card on the table and picked up the large box which, to her surprise, was so light it felt empty. Then she saw the product name on the side: Balloon in a Box.

Opening the lid, she pulled out a balloon in the shape of a donkey’s head, tied by a thick ribbon to a weighted base. Grinning, she set it down on the table, made herself tea and breakfast, then texted Strike.

Thanks for the balloon donkey. Perfect timing. My old one’s nearly deflated.

She received an answer sixty seconds later.

Great. I was worried it was so obvious, everybody would’ve got you one. See you at 5.

Light-hearted now, Robin drank tea, ate her toast and returned downstairs to open her family’s presents. Everybody had bought her slightly more expensive versions of last year’s gifts, except for her parents, who’d sent a beautiful pendant: a single round opal, which was her birthstone, shimmering green and blue, surrounded by tiny diamonds. The accompanying card read: “Happy thirtieth, Robin. We love you, Mum and Dad x.”

Robin felt her luck, these days, at having two loving parents. Her work had taught her how many people weren’t that fortunate, how many people had families that were broken beyond repair, how many adults walked around carrying invisible scars from their earliest childhood, their perceptions and associations forever altered by lack of love, by violence, by cruelty. So she called Linda to thank her, and ended up talking to her mother for over an hour: inconsequential chatter, most of it, but cheering, nevertheless. It was easier to ring home now that her divorce was over. Robin hadn’t told her mother that Matthew and Sarah were expecting a baby: she’d let Linda find that out in her own time, and work off her initial outrage out of Robin’s earshot.

Toward the end of the call, Linda, who’d disapproved of Robin’s dramatic change of career ever since her first injury incurred on the job, mentioned the continuing press coverage concerning Margot Bamborough.

“You really did an incredible thing, there,” said Linda. “You and, er… Cormoran.”

“Thanks, Mum,” said Robin, as surprised as she was touched.

“How’s Morris?” her mother asked, in a would-be casual tone.

“Oh, we sacked him,” said Robin cheerfully, forgetting that she hadn’t told her mother that, either. “His replacement’s starting next week. Woman called Michelle Greenstreet. She’s great.”

After showering, Robin returned to her bedroom to blow dry her hair properly, ate lunch watching TV, then returned downstairs to change into the figure-hugging blue dress that she’d last worn when persuading Shifty’s PA to give up her secrets. She added the opal necklace, which, since she’d left her engagement ring behind when leaving Matthew, was now the most valuable piece of jewelry she owned. The beautiful stone, with its iridescent flecks, lifted the appearance of the old dress, and for once pleased with her appearance, Robin picked up the second of her handbags, which was slightly smarter than the one she usually took to the office, and went to pick up her mobile phone from her bedside table.

The drawer of the bedside table was slightly open and, looking down, Robin glimpsed the Thoth tarot pack, sitting inside. For a moment, she hesitated; then, under the smiling eyes of the balloon donkey she’d installed in the corner of her bedroom, she checked the time on her phone. It was still early to leave the house, if she wanted to meet Strike in Marlborough Street at five. Setting down her bag, she took out the tarot pack, sat down on her bed and began shuffling the cards before turning the first card over and laying it down in front of her.

Two swords intersected a blue rose against a green background. She consulted the Book of Thoth.

Robin now remembered that this first card was supposed to represent “the nature of the problem.”

“Peace isn’t a problem,” she muttered, to the empty room. “Peace is good.”

But of course, she hadn’t actually asked the cards a question; she’d simply wanted them to tell her something today, on the day of her birth. She turned over the second card, the supposed cause of the problem.

A strange green masked female figure stood beneath a pair of scales, holding a green sword.

Robin raised her eyebrows and turned over the third and last card: the solution. Here again were the two entwined fish, which poured out water into two golden chalices floating on a green lake: it was the same card she’d turned over in Leamington Spa, when she still didn’t know who’d killed Margot Bamborough.

Robin took a deep breath, then returned all the cards to their pack and the pack to her bedside drawer. As she stood and picked up her raincoat, the balloon donkey swayed slightly on its ribbon.

Robin could feel the new opal resting in the hollow of the base of her throat as she walked toward the Tube station along the road, and having slept properly for once, and having clean hair, and carrying a feeling of lightness with her that had persisted ever since she took the balloon donkey out of his box, she attracted many pairs of male eyes in the street and on the train. But Robin ignored all of them, heading up the stairs at Oxford Circus, and then proceeded down Regent Street and, finally, to the Shakespeare’s Head where she saw Strike standing outside, wearing a suit.

“Happy birthday,” he said, and after a brief hesitation he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. He smelled, Robin noticed, not only of cigarettes, but of a subtle lavender aftershave, which was unusual.

“Thanks… aren’t we going into the pub?”

“Er—no,” said Strike. “I want to buy you some new perfume.” He pointed toward the rear entrance of Liberty, which lay a mere ten yards away. “It’s your real birthday present—unless you’ve already bought some?” he added. He really hoped not. He couldn’t think of anything else to offer her that didn’t take them back into the realm of awkwardness and possible misunderstanding.

“I… no,” said Robin. “How did you know I’ve…”

“Because I phoned Ilsa, last Christmas…”

As he held open the glass door for her, which led to a chocolate department now full of Hallowe’en treats, Strike explained about his failed attempt to buy Robin perfume, the previous December.

“… so I asked the assistant, but he kept showing me things with names like… I dunno…‘Shaggable You’…”

The laugh Robin failed to repress was so loud that people turned to look at her. They moved past tables stacked with expensive truffles.

“… and I panicked,” Strike admitted, “which is why you ended up with chocolates. Anyway,” he said, as they came to the threshold of the perfume room, with its cupola painted with moon and stars, “you choose whatever you want and I’ll pay.”

“Strike,” said Robin, “this is… this is thoughtful.”

“Yeah, well,” said her partner, with a shrug. “People can change. Or so a psychiatrist in Broadmoor told me. I’m going to stand here,” he said, pointing at a corner where he hoped his bulk wouldn’t impede anyone. “Take your time.”

So Robin spent a pleasurable quarter of an hour browsing among bottles, spraying testers onto strips, enjoying a brief consultation with the helpful assistant, and finally narrowing her choice down to two perfumes. Now she hesitated, wondering whether she dare do what she wanted… but surely, if they were best friends, it was all right?

“OK, there are two I really like,” Robin said, reappearing at Strike’s side. “Give me your opinion. You’ve got to live with it, in the Land Rover.”

“If they’re strong enough to cover up the smell of that car, they aren’t fit for human inhalation,” he said, but nevertheless, he took the two smelling strips.

The first smelled of vanilla, which reminded him of cake, and he liked it. The second put him in mind of warm, musky skin, with a suggestion of bruised flowers.

“That one. The second one.”

“Huh. I thought you’d prefer the first.”

“Because it smells like food?”

She grinned as she sniffed the smelling strips.

“Yes… I think I prefer two, as well. It isn’t cheap.”

“I’ll cope.”

So he carried a heavy cube of white glass which bore the unexceptional name “Narciso” to the desk.

“Yeah, it’s a gift,” Strike said when asked, and he waited patiently as the price sticker was peeled off and a ribbon and wrapping added. He couldn’t personally see the point, but he felt that Robin was owed a little ceremony, and her smile as she took the bag from him told him he’d answered correctly. Now they walked together back through the store and out of the main entrance, where buckets of flowers surrounded them.

“So where—?” asked Robin.

“I’m taking you to the Ritz for champagne,” said Strike.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. It’s why I’m wearing a suit.”

For a moment Robin simply looked at him, then she reached up and hugged him tightly. Surrounded by banked flowers, both remembered the hug they’d shared at the top of the stairs on her wedding day, but this time, Robin turned her face and kissed Strike deliberately on the cheek, lips to stubble.

“Thanks, Strike. This really means a lot.”

And that, thought her partner, as the two of them headed away toward the Ritz in the golden glow of the early evening, really was well worth sixty quid and a bit of an effort…

Out of his subconscious rose the names Mazankov and Krupov, and it was a second or two before he remembered where he’d heard them, why they sounded Cornish, and why he thought of them now. The corners of his mouth twitched, but as Robin didn’t see him smiling, he felt no compulsion to explain.