“Believe it or not,” she said, “it’s the possibility that she just went away of her own accord and never came back, never wanted to see how I was doing, or let us know where she was, that really haunts me. That’s the thing I can’t bear to contemplate. My grandmother on my father’s side, who I never loved—she was one of the meanest women I’ve ever met—took it upon herself to tell me that it had always been her private belief that my mother had simply run away. That she didn’t like being a wife and a mother. That hurt me more than I can tell you, the thought that my mother would let everyone go through the horror of wondering what had happened to her, and never check that her daughter was all right…
“Even if Dennis Creed killed her,” said Anna, “it would be terrible—awful—but it would be over. I could mourn rather than live with the possibility that she’s out there somewhere, living under a different name, not caring what happened to us all.”
There was a brief silence, in which both Strike and Robin drank coffee, Anna sniffed, and Kim left the sofa area to tear off kitchen roll, which she handed to her wife.
A second ragdoll cat entered the room. She subjected the four humans to a supercilious glare before lying down and stretching in a patch of sunlight.
“That’s Lacey,” said Kim, while Anna mopped her face. “She doesn’t really like anyone, even us.”
Strike and Robin laughed politely again.
“How would this work?” asked Kim abruptly. “How d’you charge?”
“By the hour,” said Strike. “You’d get an itemized monthly bill. I can email you our rates,” he offered, “but I’d imagine you two will want to talk this over properly before coming to a decision.”
“Yes, definitely,” said Kim, but as she gave Strike her email address she looked with concern again at Anna, who was sitting with head bowed, still pressing kitchen roll to her eyes at regular intervals.
Strike’s stump protested at being asked to support his weight again so soon after sitting down, but there seemed little more to discuss, especially as Anna had regressed into a tearful silence. Slightly regretting the untouched plate of biscuits, the detective shook Anna’s cool hand.
“Thanks, anyway,” she said, and he had the feeling that he had disappointed her, that she’d hoped he would make her a promise of the truth, that he would swear upon his honor to do what everyone else had failed to do.
Kim showed them out of the house.
“We’ll call you later,” she said. “This afternoon. Will that be all right?”
“Great, we’ll wait to hear from you,” said Strike.
Robin glanced back as she and Strike headed down the sunlit garden steps toward the street, and caught Kim giving them a strange look, as though she’d found something in the pair of visitors that she hadn’t expected. Catching Robin’s eye, she smiled reflexively, and closed the blue door behind them.
7
Long they thus traueiled in friendly wise,
Through countreyes waste, and eke well edifyde…
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
As they headed out of Falmouth, Strike’s mood turned to cheerfulness, which Robin attributed mainly to the interest of a possible new case. She’d never yet known an intriguing problem to fail to engage his attention, no matter what might be happening in his private life.
She was partially right: Strike’s interest had certainly been piqued by Anna’s story, but he was mainly cheered by the prospect of keeping weight off his prosthesis for a few hours, and by the knowledge that every passing minute put further distance between himself and his sister. Opening the car window, allowing the familiar sea air to rush bracingly inside the old car, he lit a cigarette and, blowing smoke away from Robin, asked,
“Seen much of Morris while I’ve been away?”
“Saw him yesterday,” said Robin. “Paid him for his month’s expenses.”
“Ah, great, cheers,” said Strike, “I meant to remind you that needed doing. What d’you think of him? Barclay says he’s good at the job, except he talks too much in the car.”
“Yeah,” said Robin noncommittally, “he does like to talk.”
“Hutchins thinks he’s a bit smarmy,” said Strike, subtly probing.
He’d noticed the special tone Morris reserved for Robin. Hutchins had also reported that Morris had asked him what Robin’s relationship status was.
“Mm,” said Robin, “well, I haven’t really had enough contact with him to form an opinion.”
Given Strike’s current stress levels and the amount of work the agency was struggling to cover, she’d decided not to criticize his most recent hire. They needed an extra man. At least Morris was good at the job.
“Pat likes him,” she added, partly out of mischief, and was amused to see, out of the corner of her eye, Strike turn to look at her, scowling.
“That’s no bloody recommendation.”
“Unkind,” said Robin.
“You realize in a week’s time it’s going to be harder to sack her? Her probation period’s nearly up.”
“I don’t want to sack her,” said Robin. “I think she’s great.”
“Well, then, on your head be it if she causes trouble down the line.”
“It won’t be on my head,” said Robin. “You’re not pinning Pat on me. Hiring her was a joint decision. You were the one who was sick of temps—”
“And you were the one who said ‘it might not be a bad idea to get a more traditional manager in’ and ‘we shouldn’t discount her because of her age’—”
“—I know what I said, and I stand by the age thing. We do need someone who understands a spreadsheet, who’s organized, but you were the one who—”
“—I didn’t want you accusing me of ageism.”
“—you were the one who offered her the job,” Robin finished firmly.
“Dunno what I was bloody thinking,” muttered Strike, flicking ash out of the window.
Patricia Chauncey was fifty-six and looked sixty-five. A thin woman with a deeply lined, monkeyish face and
