“Wanna date?” she asked Strike, holding out the box.
“No thanks,” said Strike.
“Got boxes of ’em in Dubai,” she said. “I was gonna give ’em as presents, but I just can’t stop eating ’em. ’Ave a seat. I won’t be two ticks.”
Strike thought he caught another downward glance toward his lower legs as she marched out of the room, hairdryer in one hand, dates in the other, leaving Strike to take an armchair, which creaked beneath his weight.
Strike found the small sitting room oppressive. Predominantly red, the carpet was decorated in a scarlet, swirling pattern, on top of which lay a cheap crimson Turkish rug. Dried flower pictures hung on the red walls, between old photographs, some black and white, and the colored ones faded, displayed in wooden frames. A china cabinet was full of cheap spun-glass ornaments. The largest, a Cinderella carriage pulled by six glass horses, stood in pride of place on the mantelpiece over the electric fire. Evidently, beneath Janice’s no-nonsense clothing, there beat a romantic heart.
She returned a few minutes later, holding a wicker-handled tray bearing two mugs of tea with the milk already added, and a plate of chocolate Hobnobs. The act of making tea seemed to have put her into slightly better humor with her guest.
“That’s my Larry,” she said, catching Strike looking toward a double frame on the small side table beside him. On one side was a sleepy-eyed, overweight man with a smoker’s teeth. On the other was a blonde woman, heavy but pretty.
“Ah. And is this—?”
“My little sister, Clare. She died ’97. Pancreatic cancer. They got it late.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Strike.
“Yeah,” said Janice, with a deep sigh. “Lost ’em both around the same time. To tell you the truth,” she said, as she sat down on the sofa and her knees gave audible clicks, “I walked back in ’ere after Dubai and I fort, I really need to get some new pictures up. It was depressing, coming back in ’ere, the number of dead people…
“I got some gorgeous ones of Kev and the grandkids on ’oliday, but I ’aven’t got ’em printed out yet. The lad next door’s going to do it for me. All my old ones of Kev and the kids are two years out of date. I gave the boy the memory… board, is it?”
“Card?” suggested Strike.
“That’s the one. The kids next door just laugh at me. Mind you, Irene’s worse’n I am. She can ’ardly change a battery. So,” she said, “why d’you want to see me again?”
Strike, who had no intention of risking an immediate rebuff, was planning to ask his questions about Satchwell last. Drawing out his notebook and opening it, he said,
“A couple of things that have come up since I last saw you. I asked Dr. Gupta about this first one, but he couldn’t help, so I hoped you might be able to. Would you happen to know anything about a man called Niccolo Ricci, sometimes nicknamed ‘Mucky’?”
“Old gangster, weren’t ’e?” said Janice. “I knew ’e lived local, in Clerkenwell, but I never met ’im. Why d’you want—oh, ’as Irene been telling you about the foundations thing?”
“The what?” asked Strike.
“Oh, it’s nuffing, really. There was this rumor, back when they were doing a load of redevelopment round Clerkenwell in the early seventies, that some builders ’ad found a body buried in concrete under one of the demolished buildings. The story was that Little Italy gangsters ’ad hidden it there, back in the forties. But Eddie—this is Irene’s Eddie, the builder she ended up marrying—that’s ’ow they met, local pub, when ’is firm was doing a lot of the redevelopment—Eddie told us it was all cobblers. I ’adn’t ever believed it. I fink Irene ’ad, a bit,” Janice added, dunking a biscuit in her tea.
“How does this tie in with Margot?” Strike asked.
“Well, after Margot disappeared, there was a theory ’er body ’ad been put into one o’ the open foundations and covered in concrete. They was still doing a bit of building round there in ’74, see.”
“Were people suggesting Ricci had killed her?” asked Strike.
“Gawd, no!” said Janice, with a shocked little laugh. “What would Mucky Ricci ’ave to do with Margot? It was only because of that old rumor. It put the idea in people’s minds, you know, burying bodies in concrete. People can be bloody silly. My Larry said to me—’e was a builder, you know—it’s not like workmen wouldn’t’ve noticed a load of fresh concrete when they turned up for work.”
“Were you aware that Ricci attended the St. John’s practice Christmas party?”
“’E what?” said Janice, with her mouth full.
“He and another couple of men arrived toward the end of the party, possibly to escort Gloria home.”
“They —what?” Janice said, looking unaffectedly astonished. “Mucky Ricci and Gloria? Come off it. Is this because—no, look, you don’t wanna pay no attention to Irene, not about Gloria. Irene… she gets carried away. She never much liked Gloria. And she gets the wrong end of the stick sometimes. I never ’eard Gloria’s family ’ad any criminal connections. Irene watched way too many Godfather movies,” said Janice. “We saw the first one togevver, at the cinema, and I went back and saw it again twice more on me own. James Caan, you know,” she sighed. “My dream man.”
“Ricci was definitely at the practice party,” said Strike. “From what I can tell, he turned up right at the end.”
“Well then, I’d already left. I needed to get ’ome to Kev. Is ’e still alive, Ricci?”
“Yes,” said Strike.
“Must be really getting on, is ’e?”
“He is,” said Strike.
“That’s odd, though. What on earth would Ricci be doing at St. John’s?”
“I’m hoping to find out,” said Strike, flipping over a page of his notebook. “The next thing I wanted to ask you was about Joseph Brenner. You remember the family you thought might be called Applethorpe? Well, I found—”
“You never tracked ’em down!” said Janice, looking impressed.
