She scribbled down an address and directions. ‘If you like milk in your tea, you’ll need to stop at the all-night garage.’ And she was off, her short legs whisking her down the corridor far more quickly than seemed possible.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam drifted slowly down one of Notting Hill’s grand crescents, searching in vain for a parking place. ‘Sod this,’ Carol said. ‘We could be here all night. Just double park. Leave a note with your mobile in case anybody needs you to move.’
Sam pulled up outside the number Bindie had given them. A security light came on as they mounted the steps under the white pillared porch, allowing them to read the names attached to the four intercom buttons. ‘Blyth’ was third from the top. Sam pressed it and waited, gently banging the litre of milk against his thigh. Carol stared grimly into the lens of a security camera.
Within seconds, a distorted voice said, ‘First floor,’ and the door buzzed. Their footsteps clattered on the black-and-white terrazzo tiles covering the narrow hallway before the sound was swallowed by the thick carpeting on the stairs. ‘Nice gaff,’ Sam muttered.
Bindie was waiting for them, leaning in the single doorway at the first-floor level, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. At some point in the past quarter of an hour, she’d managed to apply a skim of make-up that seemed to put a little distance between them. She stepped back without a word and gestured for them to enter. The hall was big enough to accommodate a pool table, the balls racked and ready, four cues clipped to the wall behind it. Between the doors that led off in all directions, moody black-and-white photographs of pool halls and their familiars were spotlit by a rig suspended from the high ceiling. ‘Straight ahead,’ she said, shooing them forwards.
They walked into a splendid room that ran the whole width of the house. Squashy leather sofas and beanbags sprawled seemingly at random, with low wooden tables scattered among them, their surfaces cluttered with magazines, newspapers and clean ashtrays. Three walls were lined with shelves of CDs and vinyl, the only gaps filled by an impressive sound system and a plasma screen; the fourth was taken up by the closed wooden shutters that covered the tall windows. Their panels were decorated with posters for gigs and new album releases. Most of the posters were signed. The room smelled of cinnamon and smoke. Carol recognized the sweet smell of marijuana mingling with the more acrid notes of Marlboro Gold. Light came from a handful of paper-shaded pillars placed strategically round the room. It felt curiously intimate.
‘Make yourselves at home,’ Bindie said. ‘I see you brought milk.’ She nodded at Sam. ‘Kitchen’s out there, door to the right of the front door. Tea, coffee in the cupboard above the kettle. Diet Coke, juice and water in the fridge.’
Sam looked momentarily flustered. ‘I’ll have a coffee, Sam. White, no sugar,’ Carol said, sharing a swift glance of complicity with Bindie.
‘Can I get you something, Ms Blyth?’
‘No thanks, sweetie, I’m sorted.’ She pointed to a tall glass that was already sweating condensation. It could have been straight Diet Coke; Carol doubted it, though. Bindie folded herself into a beanbag next to the table with her drink and cigarettes.
‘Nice flat,’ Carol said.
‘Not quite the rock-and-roll lifestyle you were expecting, eh? It’s not the BBC salary that pays the mortgage,’ Bindie said. ‘It’s club work. I’m not a bimbo, DCI Jordan. I’ve got a degree in economics which I also paid for with spinning and scratching. I know I’ve probably got a limited shelf-life up among the high earners, so I’m making the most of it while I can.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘I’ve always been sensible.’ She pulled a face. ‘Some might say boring. One of the things Robbie liked about me, he said. He knew I wasn’t going to tempt him into the things that would wreck his career. So, is it right, what they’re saying in the newsroom? Ricin? He was poisoned with ricin?’
The hospital ran tests while he was ill. We still have to confirm that. But yes, it looks as if he was poisoned with ricin.’
Bindie gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘It’s crazy. It’s like, does not compute. Robbie, ricin. What’s the connection?’
‘Fair enough. So, what do you want to ask me?’ Bindie reached for the Marlboros, flipped the pack open with her thumbnail and pulled one out.
‘What was he like?’
Bindie lit her cigarette and exhaled the first drag, squinting at Carol through the smoke. ‘You have no idea how many times I’ve been asked that. Usually a bit more breathlessly, though.’ Carol opened her mouth to assert herself, but before she could speak, Bindie waved her hands in a calming motion. ‘I’m not being funny with you, I know you’ve got to ask.’ She sighed and smiled, her face softening. ‘What was Robbie like? He was a nice boy. And I use the word “boy” advisedly. He still had a lot of growing up to work his way through. He was talented and he knew it. Not arrogant, but aware, if you know what I mean? He knew his worth and he was proud of what he’d achieved. What else?’ She paused to inhale. ‘He adored music and football. If he hadn’t been a footballer, I think he would have been a DJ. He knew his stuff and he loved it. That was the glue between us.’ She swallowed a mouthful of smoke. ‘That and the sex, I suppose. He was good at that too.’ Now the smile was wistful. ‘At the start, I was so in love with him. But the whole being in love thing, it doesn’t last.’ She looked away, studying the burn of her cigarette.
‘If you’re lucky, it grows into something deeper,’ Carol said.
That only works if you’re both grown-ups. The trouble with Robbie, he had all the emotional maturity of
‘So it was you who ended it?’
The click of balls followed by the soft clunk of one dropping drifted through the partly open door. Bindie smiled,