Strike shook his head.
“‘You’ll never have children.’ Just like that. Straight out.”
“Well, she got that wrong, didn’t she?” said Strike.
Tears started again in Joan’s bleached eyes. Why had he never said these things before, Strike asked himself. It would have been so easy to give her pleasure, and instead he’d held tightly to his divided loyalties, angry that he had to choose, to label, and in doing so, to betray. He reached for her hand and she squeezed it surprisingly tightly.
“You should go to that party, Corm. I think your father’s at the heart of… of a lot of things. I wish,” she added, after a short pause, “you had someone to look after you.”
“Doesn’t work that way these days, Joan. Men are supposed to be able to look after themselves—in more ways than one,” he added, smiling.
“Pretending you don’t need things… it’s just silly,” she said quietly. “What does your horoscope say?”
He picked up the paper again and cleared his throat.
“‘Sagittarius: with your ruler retrograde, you may find you aren’t your usual happy-go-lucky self…’”
32
Where euer yet I be, my secrete aide
Shall follow you.
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
It was three o’clock in the afternoon and Robin, who was sitting in her Land Rover close to the nondescript house in Stoke Newington that Strike had watched before Christmas, had seen nothing of interest since arriving in the street at nine o’clock that morning. As rain drizzled down her windscreen she half-wished she smoked, just for something to do.
She’d identified the blonde owner-occupier of the house online. Her name was Elinor Dean, and she was a divorcée who lived alone. Elinor was definitely home, because Robin had seen her pass in front of a window two hours previously, but the squally weather seemed to be keeping her inside. Nobody had visited the house all day, least of all Shifty’s Boss. Perhaps they were relatives, after all, and his pre-Christmas visit was simply one of those things you did in the festive season: pay social debts, give presents, check in. The patting on the head might have been a private joke. It certainly didn’t seem to suggest anything sexual, criminal or deviant, which was what they were looking for.
Robin’s mobile rang.
“Hi.”
“Can you talk?” asked Strike.
He was walking down the steeply sloping street where Ted and Joan’s house lay, leaning on the collapsible walking stick he’d brought with him, knowing that the roads would be wet and possibly slippery. Ted was back in the house; they’d just helped Joan upstairs for a nap, and Strike, who wanted to smoke and didn’t much fancy the shed again, had decided to go for a short walk in the relentless rain.
“Yes,” said Robin. “How’s Joan?”
“Same,” said Strike. He didn’t feel like talking about it. “You said you wanted a Bamborough chat.”
“Yeah,” said Robin. “I’ve got good news, no news and bad news.”
“Bad first,” said Strike.
The sea was still turbulent, spray exploding into the air above the wall of the dock. Turning right, he headed into the town.
“The Ministry of Justice isn’t going to let you interview Creed. The letter arrived this morning.”
“Ah,” said Strike. The teeming rain ripped through the bluish haze of his cigarette smoke, destroying it. “Well, can’t say I’m surprised. What’s it say?”
“I’ve left it back at the office,” said Robin, “but the gist is that his psychiatrists agree non-cooperation isn’t going to change at this stage.”
“Right,” said Strike. “Well, it was always a long shot.”
But Robin could hear his disappointment, and empathized. They were five months into the case, they had no new leads worth the name, and now that the possibility of interviewing Creed had vanished, she somehow felt that she and Strike were pointlessly searching rockpools, while yards away the great white slid away, untouchable, into dark water.
“And I went back to Amanda White, who’s now Amanda Laws, who thought she saw Margot at the printers’ window. She wanted money to talk, remember? I offered her expenses if she wants to come to the office—she’s in London, it wouldn’t be much—and she’s thinking it over.”
“Big of her,” grunted Strike. “What’s the good news?” he asked.
“Anna’s persuaded her stepmother to speak to us. Cynthia.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but alone. Roy still doesn’t know anything about us,” said Robin. “Cynthia’s meeting us behind his back.”
“Well, Cynthia’s something,” said Strike. “A lot, actually,” he added, after a moment’s reflection.
His feet were taking him automatically toward the pub, his wet trouser leg chilly on his remaining ankle.
“Where are we going to meet her?”
“It can’t be at their house, because Roy doesn’t know. She’s suggesting Hampton Court, because she works part time as a guide there.”
“A guide, eh? Reminds me: any news of Postcard?”
“Barclay’s at the gallery today,” said Robin. “He’s going to try and get pictures of her.”
“And what’re Morris and Hutchins up to?” Strike asked, now walking carefully up the wide, slippery steps that led to the pub.
“Morris is on Two-Times’ girl, who hasn’t put a foot wrong—Two-Times really is out of luck this time—and Hutchins is on Twinkletoes. Speaking of which, you’re scheduled to submit a final report on Twinkletoes next Friday. I’ll see the client for you, shall I?”
“That’d be great, thanks,” said Strike, stepping inside the Victory with a sense of relief. The rain dripped off him as he removed his coat. “I’m not sure when I’m going to be able to get back. You probably saw, the trains have been suspended.”
“Don’t worry about the agency. We’ve got everything covered. Anyway, I haven’t finished giving you the Bamborough—oh, hang on,” said Robin.
“D’you need to go?”
“No, it’s fine,” said Robin.
She’d just seen Elinor Dean’s front door open. The plump blonde emerged wearing a hooded coat which, conveniently, circumscribed her
