Fuck.
For so long, she’d demanded a kind of falseness from all around her, a rose-tinted view of everything, and now at last she offered simple honesty and plain-speaking and he wished more than anything that he could be simply nodding along to news of some neighborhood scandal. Why hadn’t he visited them more often?
“I will, of course,” he said.
“I want the funeral at St. Mawes church,” she said quietly, “where I was christened. But I don’t want to be buried, because it’d have to be in the cemetery all the way up in Truro. Ted’ll wear himself out, traveling up and down, taking me flowers. I know him.
“We always said we wanted to be together, afterward, but we never made a plan and he won’t talk to me about it now. So, I’ve thought about it, Corm, and I want to be cremated. You’ll make sure this happens, won’t you? Because Ted starts crying every time I try and talk about it and Lucy just won’t listen.”
Strike nodded and tried to smile.
“I don’t want the family at the cremation. I hate cremations, the curtains and the conveyor belt. You say goodbye to me at the church, then take Ted to the pub and let the undertakers deal with the crematorium bit, all right? Then, after, you can pick up my ashes, take me out on Ted’s boat and scatter me in the sea. And when his turn comes, you can do the same for Ted, and we’ll be together. You and Lucy won’t want to be worrying about looking after graves all the way from London. All right?”
The plan had so much of the Joan he knew in it: it was full of practical kindness and forethought, but he hadn’t expected the final touch of the ashes floating away on the tide, no tombstone, no neat dates, instead a melding with the element that had dominated her and Ted’s lives, perched on their seaside town, in thrall to the ocean, except during that strange interlude where Ted, in revolt against his own father, had disappeared for several years into the military police.
“All right,” he said, with difficulty.
She sank back a little in her chair with an air of relief at having got this off her chest, and smiled at him.
“It’s so lovely, having you here.”
Over the past few days he’d become used to her short reveries and her non-sequiturs, so it was less of a surprise than it might have been to hear her say, a minute later,
“I wish I’d met your Robin.”
Strike, whose mind’s eye was still following Joan’s ashes into the sunset, pulled himself together.
“I think you’d like her,” he said. “I’m sure she’d like you.”
“Lucy says she’s pretty.”
“Yeah, she is.”
“Poor girl,” murmured Joan. He wondered why. Of course, the knife attack had been reported in the press, when Robin had given evidence against the Shacklewell Ripper.
“Funny, you talking about horoscopes,” Strike said, trying to ease Joan off Robin, and funerals, and death. “We’re investigating an old disappearance just now. The bloke who was in charge of the case…”
He’d never before shared details of an investigation with Joan, and he wondered why not, now he saw her rapt attention.
“But I remember that doctor!” she said, more animated than he had seen her in days. “Margot Bamborough, yes! She had a baby at home…”
“Well, that baby’s our client,” said Strike. “Her name’s Anna. She and her partner have got a holiday home in Falmouth.”
“That poor family,” said Joan. “Never knowing… and so the officer thought the answer was in the stars?”
“Yep,” said Strike. “Convinced the killer was a Capricorn.”
“Ted’s a Capricorn.”
“Thanks for the tip-off,” said Strike seriously, and she gave a little laugh. “D’you want more tea?”
While the kettle boiled, Strike checked his texts. Barclay had sent an update on Two-Times’ girlfriend, but the most recent message was from an unknown number, and he opened it first.
Hi Cormoran, it’s your half-sister, Prudence Donleavy, here. Al gave me your number. I do hope you’ll take this in the spirit it’s meant. Let me firstly say that I absolutely understand and sympathize with your reasons for not wanting to join us for the Deadbeats anniversary/album party. You may or may not know that my own journey to a relationship with Dad has been in many ways a difficult one, but ultimately I feel that connecting with him—and, yes, forgiving him—has been an enriching experience. We all hope very much that you’ll reconsider—
“What’s the matter?” said Joan.
She’d followed him into the kitchen, shuffling, slightly stooped.
“What are you doing? I can fetch anything you want—”
“I was going to show you where I hide the chocolate biscuits. If Ted knows, he scoffs the lot, and the doctor’s worried about his blood pressure. What were you reading? I know that look. You were angry.”
He didn’t know whether her new appreciation for honesty would stretch as far as his father, but somehow, with the wind and rain whipping around them, an air of the confessional had descended upon the house. He told her about the text.
“Oh,” said Joan. She pointed at a Tupperware box on a top shelf. “The biscuits are in there.”
They returned to the sitting room with the biscuits, which she’d insisted he put on a plate. Some things never changed.
“You’ve never met Prudence, have you?” asked Joan, when she was resettled in her chair.
“Haven’t met Prudence, or the eldest, Maimie, or the youngest, Ed,” said Strike, trying to sound matter of fact.
Joan said nothing for a minute or so, then a great sigh inflated, then collapsed, her thin chest, and she said,
“I think you should go to your father’s party, Corm.”
“Why?” said Strike. The monosyllable rang in his ears with an adolescent, self-righteous fury. To his slight surprise, she smiled at him.
“I know what went on,” she said. “He behaved very badly, but he’s still your father.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Strike. “Ted’s my dad.”
He’d never said it out loud before. Tears filled Joan’s eyes.
“He’d love to hear you say that,” she said
