“She collects ’em,” said Janice, smiling as she saw where Robin was looking. “Lovely, aren’t they?”
“Oh yes,” lied Robin.
Janice didn’t seem to feel she had the right to invite them to sit down without Irene present, so the three of them remained standing beside the figurines.
“Have you come far?” she asked them politely, but before they could answer, a voice that commanded attention said,
“Hello! Welcome!”
Like her sitting room, Irene Hickson presented a first impression of over-embellished, over-padded opulence. Just as blonde as she’d been at twenty-five, she was now much heavier, with an enormous bosom. She’d outlined her hooded eyes in black, penciled her sparse brows into a high, Pierrot-ish arch and painted her thin lips in scarlet. In a mustard-colored twinset, black trousers, patent heels and a large quantity of gold jewelry, which included clip-on earrings so heavy that they were stretching her already long lobes, she advanced on them in a potent cloud of amber perfume and hairspray.
“How d’you do?” she said, beaming at Strike as she offered her hand, bracelets jangling. “Has Jan told you? What happened this morning? So strange, with you coming today; so strange, but I’ve lost count of the number of times things like that happen to me.” She paused, then said dramatically, “My Margot shattered. My Margot Fonteyn, on the top shelf,” she said, pointing to a gap in the china figurines. “Fell apart into a million pieces when I ran the feather duster over her!”
She paused, waiting for astonishment.
“That is odd,” said Robin, because it was clear Strike wasn’t going to say anything.
“Isn’t it?” said Irene. “Tea? Coffee? Whatever you want.”
“I’ll do it, dear,” said Janice.
“Thank you, my love. Maybe make both?” said Irene. She waved Strike and Robin graciously toward armchairs. “Please, sit down.”
The armchairs placed Strike and Robin within view of a window framed in tasseled curtains, through which they could see a garden with intricate paving and raised beds. It had an Elizabethan air, with low box hedges and a wrought iron sundial.
“Oh, the garden was all my Eddie,” said Irene, following their gaze. “He loved his garden, bless his heart. Loved this house. It’s why I’m still here, although it’s too big for me now, really… Excuse me. I haven’t been well,” she added in a loud whisper, making quite a business of lowering herself onto the sofa and placing cushions carefully around herself. “Jan’s been a saint.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Strike. “That you’ve been unwell, I mean, not that your friend’s a saint.”
Irene gave a delighted peal of laughter and Robin suspected that if Strike had been sitting slightly nearer, Irene might have playfully cuffed him. With an air of giving Strike privileged information, she half-mouthed:
“Irritable bowel syndrome. It flares up. The pain is sometimes —well. The funny thing is, I was fine all the time I was away—I’ve been staying with my eldest daughter, they’re in Hampshire, that’s why I didn’t get your letter straight away—but the moment I got home, I called Jan, I said, you’ll have to come, I’m in that much pain—and my GP’s no use,” she added, with a little moue of disgust. “Woman. All my own fault, according to her! I should be cutting out everything that makes life worth living—I was telling them, Jan,” she said, as her friend backed into the room with a laden tea tray, “that you’re a saint.”
“Oh, carry on. Everyone likes a good review,” said Janice cheerfully. Strike was halfway out of his chair to help her with the tray, on which stood both teapot and cafetière, but like Mrs. Gupta she refused help, depositing it on a padded ottoman. An assortment of chocolate biscuits, some foil-wrapped, lay on a doily; the sugar bowl had tongs and the flowered fine bone china suggested “for best.” Janice joined her friend on the sofa and poured out the hot drinks, serving Irene first.
“Help yourself to biscuits,” Irene told her visitors, and then, eyeing Strike hungrily, “So—the famous Cameron Strike! I nearly had a heart attack when I saw your name at the bottom of the letter. And you’re going to try and crack Creed, are you? Will he talk to you, do you think? Will they let you go and see him?”
“We’re not that far along yet,” said Strike with a smile, as he took out his notebook and uncapped his pen. “We’ve got a few questions, mainly background, that you two might be able—”
“Oh, anything we can do to help,” said Irene eagerly. “Anything.”
“We’ve read both your police statements,” said Strike, “so unless—”
“Oh dear,” interrupted Irene, pulling a mock-fearful expression. “You know all about me being a naughty girl, then? About the dentist and that, do you? There’ll be young girls out there doing it, right now, fibbing to get a few hours off, but just my luck I picked the day Margot—sorry, I don’t mean that,” Irene said, catching herself. “I don’t. This is how I get myself in trouble,” she said, with a little laugh. “Steady, girl, Eddie would’ve said, wouldn’t he Jan?” she said, tapping her friend on the arm. “Wouldn’t he have said, steady, girl?”
“He would,” said Janice, smiling and nodding.
“I was going to say,” Strike continued, “that unless either of you have got anything to add—”
“Oh, don’t think we haven’t thought about it,” interrupted Irene again. “If we’d remembered anything else we’d have been straight down the police station, wouldn’t we, Jan?”
“—I’d like to clarify a few points.
“Mrs.
