A fleeting memory of his nephew Luke carelessly treading on Strike’s new headphones in St. Mawes crossed the detective’s mind.
“Margot and her husband had a very nice house out in Ham. The husband was a doctor too, a hematologist. Big garden. Jheel and I took our girls, but as Brenner didn’t go, and Dorothy was offended by Margot’s husband telling off her son, Margot’s objective wasn’t achieved, I’m afraid. The divisions remained entrenched.”
“Did everyone else attend?”
“Yes, I think so. No—wait. I don’t think the cleaning lady —Wilma!” said Dr. Gupta, looking delighted. “Her name was Wilma! I had no idea I still knew it… but her surname… I’m not even sure I knew it back then… No, Wilma didn’t come. But everyone else, yes.
“Janice brought her own little boy—he was younger than Dorothy’s and far better behaved, as I remember. My girls spent the afternoon playing badminton with the little Beattie boy.”
“Was Janice married?”
“Divorced. Her husband left her for another woman. She got on with it, raised her son alone. Women like Janice always do get on with it. Admirable. Her life wasn’t easy when I knew her, but I believe she married again, later, and I was glad when I heard about it.”
“Did Janice and Margot get along?”
“Oh yes. They had the gift of being able to disagree without taking personal offense.”
“Did they disagree often?”
“No, no,” said Gupta, “but decisions must be made in a working environment. We were—or tried to be—a democratic business…
“No, Margot and Janice were able to have rational disagreements without taking offense. I think they liked and respected each other. Janice was hit hard by Margot’s disappearance. She told me the day I left the practice that a week hadn’t passed since it happened that she hadn’t dreamed about Margot.
“But none of us were ever quite the same afterward,” said Dr. Gupta quietly. “One does not expect a friend to vanish into thin air without leaving a single trace behind them. There is something—uncanny about it.”
“There is,” agreed Strike. “How did Margot get along with the two receptionists?”
“Well, now, Irene, the older of the two,” sighed Gupta, “could be a handful. I remember her being—not rude, but a little cheeky—to Margot, at times. At the practice Christmas party—Margot organized that, as well, still trying to force us all to get along, you know—Irene had rather a lot to drink. I remember a slight contretemps, but I really couldn’t tell you what it was all about. I doubt it was anything serious. They seemed as amicable as ever the next time I saw them. Irene was quite hysterical after Margot disappeared.”
There was a short pause.
“Some of that may have been theatrics,” Gupta admitted, “but the underlying distress was genuine, I’m sure.
“Gloria—poor little Gloria —she was devastated. Margot was more than an employer to Gloria, you know. She was something of an older sister figure, a mentor. It was Margot who wanted to hire her, even though Gloria had almost no relevant experience. And I must admit,” said Gupta judiciously, “she turned out to be a good appointment. Hard worker. Learned fast. You only had to correct her once. I believe she was from an impoverished background. I know Dorothy looked down on Gloria. She could be quite unkind.”
“And what about Wilma, the cleaner?” asked Strike, reaching the bottom of his list. “How did she get on with Margot?”
“I’d be lying if I said I could remember,” said Gupta. “She was a quiet woman, Wilma. I never heard that they had any kind of problem.”
After a slight pause, he added,
“I hope I’m not inventing things, but I seem to remember that Wilma’s husband was something of a bad lot. I think Margot told me that Wilma ought to divorce him. I don’t know whether she said that directly to Wilma’s face—though she probably did, knowing Margot… as a matter of fact,” he continued, “I heard, after I left the practice, that Wilma had been fired. There was an allegation of drinking at work. She always had a Thermos with her. But I may be misremembering that, so please don’t set too much store by it. As I say, I’d already left.”
The door to the sitting room opened.
“More tea?” inquired Mrs. Gupta, and she removed the tray and the now-cooling teapot, telling Strike, who had risen to help her, to sit back down and not to be silly. When she’d left, Strike said,
“Could I take you back to the day Margot disappeared, Dr. Gupta?”
Appearing to brace himself slightly, the little doctor said,
“Of course. But I must warn you: what I mostly remember about that day now is the account of it I gave the police at the time. Do you see? My actual memories are hazy. Mostly, I remember what I told the investigating officer.”
Strike thought this an unusually self-aware comment for a witness. Experienced in taking statements, he knew how wedded people became to the first account they gave, and that valuable information, discarded during that first edit, was often lost forever beneath the formalized version that now stood in for actual memory.
“That’s all right,” he told Gupta. “Whatever you can remember.”
“Well, it was an entirely ordinary day,” said Gupta. “The only thing that was slightly different was that one of the girls on reception had a dental appointment and left at half past two—Irene, that was.”
“We doctors were working as usual in our respective consulting rooms. Until half past two, both girls were on reception, and after Irene left, Gloria was there alone. Dorothy was at her desk until five, which was her regular departure time. Janice was at the practice until lunchtime, but off making house calls in the afternoon, which was quite routine.
