“Anyway, after Margot went missing and the police got called in, Satchwell rings Irene up and says not to mention anyfing ’e’d said about being angry at Margot, and she begged ’im never to tell anyone about the both of ’em, and that’s ’ow they left it. And I was the only one ’oo knew, and I kept me mouth shut, too, because… well, that’s what you do when it’s a friend, isn’t it?”
“So when Charlie Ramage said he’d seen Margot in Leamington Spa,” said Strike, “were you aware—?”
“—that that’s where Satchwell come from? Not then, I wasn’t, not when Charlie first told me. But not long after, there was a news story about some old geezer in Leamington Spa what ’ad put up a sign in ’is front garden. ‘Whites united against colored invasion’ or some such ’orrible thing. Me and Larry was out for dinner with Eddie and Irene, and Eddie’s talking about this old racist in the news, and then, when Irene and I went to the loo, she says to me, ‘Leamington Spa, that’s where Paul Satchwell was from.’ She ’adn’t mentioned ’im to me in ages.
“I won’t lie, it give me a proper uncomfortable feeling, ’er telling me that, because I thought, oh my Gawd, what if Charlie really did see Margot? What if Margot ran off to be with ’er ex? But then I fort, ’ang on, though: if Margot only went as far as Leamington Spa, ’ow come she ’asn’t never been seen since? I mean, it’s ’ardly Timbuktu, is it?”
“No,” said Strike. “It isn’t. And is that all Irene’s ever told you about Margot and Satchwell?”
“It’s enough, innit?” said Janice. Her pink and white complexion seemed more faded than when Strike had arrived, the veins beneath her eyes darker. “Look, don’t give Irene an ’ard time. Please. She don’t seem it, but she’s soft under all that silly stuff. She worries, you know.”
“I can’t see why I’d have to give her a hard time,” said Strike. “Well, you’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Beattie. Thank you. That clears up quite a few points for me.”
Janice slumped backward on the sofa, frowning at Strike.
“You smoke, don’t you?” she said abruptly. “I can smell it off you. Didn’t they stop you smoking after you ’ad that amputation?”
“They tried,” said Strike.
“Very bad for you,” she said. “Won’t ’elp wiv your mobility, either, as you get older. Bad for your circulation and your skin. You should quit.”
“I know I should,” said Strike, smiling at her as he returned his notebook to his pocket.
“Hmm,” said Janice, her eyes narrowed. “‘ ’Appened to be in the area,’ my Aunt Fanny.”
51
… neuer thinke that so
That Monster can be maistred or destroyd:
He is not, ah, he is not such a foe,
As steele can wound, or strength can ouerthroe.
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
The domed turrets of the Tower of London rose behind the wall of dirty yellow brick, but Robin had no attention to spare for ancient landmarks. Not only was the meeting she’d set up without Strike’s knowledge supposed to start in thirty minutes’ time, she was miles from where she’d expected to be at one o’clock, and completely unfamiliar with this part of London. She ran with her mobile in her hand, glancing intermittently at the map on its screen.
Within a few paces, the phone rang. Seeing that it was Strike, she answered the call.
“Hi. Just seen Janice.”
“Oh good,” said Robin, trying not to pant as she scanned her surroundings for either a Tube sign or a taxi. “Anything interesting?”
“Plenty,” said Strike, who was strolling back along Nightingale Grove. Notwithstanding his recent exchange with the nurse, he’d just lit a Benson & Hedges. As he walked into the cool breeze, the smoke was snatched from his lips every time he exhaled. “Where are you at the moment?”
“Tower Bridge Road,” said Robin, still running, still looking around in vain for a Tube sign.
“Thought you were on Shifty’s Boss this morning?”
“I was,” said Robin. It was probably best that Strike knew immediately what had just happened. “I’ve just left him on Tower Bridge with Barclay.”
“When you say ‘with’ Barclay—”
“They might be talking by now, I don’t know,” said Robin. Unable to talk normally while jogging, she slowed to a fast walk. “Cormoran, SB looked as though he was thinking of jumping.”
“Off Tower Bridge?” asked Strike, surprised.
“Why not Tower Bridge?” said Robin, as she rounded a corner onto a busy junction. “It was the nearest accessible high structure…”
“But his office isn’t anywhere near—”
“He got off at Monument as usual but he didn’t go into work. He looked up at the office for a bit, then walked away. I thought he was just stretching his legs, but then he headed out onto Tower Bridge and stood there, staring down at the water.”
Robin had spent forty anxious minutes watching SB stare down at the cement-colored river below, his briefcase hanging limply by his side, while traffic rumbled along the bridge behind him. She doubted that Strike could imagine how nerve-racking she’d found the wait for Barclay to come and relieve her.
There was still no sign of a Tube station. Robin broke into a jog again.
“I thought of approaching him,” she said, “but I was worried I’d startle him into jumping. You know how big he is, I couldn’t have held him back.”
“You really think he was—”
“Yes,” said Robin, trying not to sound triumphant: she’d just caught sight of a circular red Tube sign through a break in the traffic and started running. “He looked utterly hopeless.”
“Are you running?” asked Strike, who could now hear her feet hitting the ground even over the growl of traffic.
“Yes,” said Robin, and then, “I’m late for a dental appointment.”
She’d regretted not coming up with a solid reason earlier for not being able to interview Janice Beattie, and had decided on this story,
