“Well, see, motorbikes were Charlie’s ’obby. ’E ’ad loads of ’em, and ’e used to go on these long rides all over the country. ’E ’ad a bad smash and ’e was at ’ome wiv two broken legs, so I was droppin’ in sev’ral times a week… this would’ve been a good two years after Margot disappeared. Well, Charlie was a man ’oo liked to talk, and one day, out of a clear blue sky, ’e swears blind ’e met Margot, about a week after she went missing, in Leamington Spa. But, you know,” Janice said, shaking her head. “I didn’t take it very serious. Lovely man, but like I say, ’e liked to talk.”
“What exactly did he tell you?” asked Robin.
“Said ’e’d been on one of ’is bike trips up north, and ’e stopped outside this big church in Leamington Spa, and ’e was leaning against the wall ’avin’ a cup of tea an’ a sandwich, an’ there was this woman walking in the graveyard on the other side of the railings, lookin’ at the graves. Not like she was in mourning or anyfing, just interested. Black ’air, accordin’ to Charlie. An’ ’e called out to ’er, ‘Nice place, innit?’ and she turned to look at ’im and—well, ’e swore blind it was Margot Bamborough, wiv ’er ’air dyed. ’E said ’e told ’er she looked familiar and she looked upset and hurried off.”
“And he claimed this happened a week after she disappeared?” asked Robin.
“Yeah, ’e said ’e recognized ’er because ’er picture was still all over the papers at the time. So I says, ‘Did you go to the police about this, Charlie?’ And ’e says, ‘Yeah, I did,’ an’ ’e told me ’e was friends with a policeman, quite an ’igh up bloke, an’ ’e told ’is friend. But I never saw or ’eard anyfing about it after, so, you know…”
“Ramage told you this story in 1976?” Strike asked, making a note.
“Yeah, musta been,” said Janice, frowning in an effort to remember, as Irene walked back into the room. “Because they’d got Creed by then. That’s ’ow it came up. ’E’d been reading about the trial in the papers and then ’e says, cool as you like, ‘Well, I don’t fink ’e done anyfing to Margot Bamborough, because I reckon I seen ’er after she disappeared.’”
“Did Margot have any connection with Leamington Spa, as far as you know?” asked Robin.
“What’s this?” said Irene sharply.
“Nuffing,” said Janice. “Just a stupid story some patient told me. Margot in a graveyard wiv dyed hair. You know.”
“In Leamington Spa?” said Irene, looking displeased. Robin had the impression that she greatly resented having left Janice in the spotlight while she was forced back to the bathroom. “You never told me that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh… well, it was in ’76,” said Janice, looking slightly cowed. “You must’ve just ’ad Sharon. You ’ad better fings to fink about than Charlie Ramage telling porkies.”
Irene helped herself to another biscuit, frowning slightly.
“I’d like to move on to the practice itself,” said Strike. “How did you find Margot to—”
“To work with?” said Irene, loudly, who seemed to feel it was her turn, having missed out on several minutes of Strike’s attention. “Well, speaking personally—”
Her pause was that of an epicure, savoring the prospect of coming pleasure.
“—to be totally honest, she was one of those people who think they know best about everything. She’d tell you how to live your life, how to do the filing, how to make a cup of tea, blah blah blah—”
“Oh, Irene, she weren’t that bad,” muttered Janice. “I liked—”
“Jan, come on,” said Irene loftily. “She’d never got over being the clever clogs in her family and thought all the rest of us were thick as mince! Well, maybe she didn’t think you were,” said Irene, with an eye roll, as her friend shook her head, “but she did me. Treated me like a moron. Patronizing isn’t it. Now, I didn’t dislike her!” Irene added quickly. “Not dislike. But she was picky. Veee-ry pleased with herself. We’d completely forgotten we came from a two-up, two-down in Stepney, put it that way.”
“How did you find her?” Robin asked Janice.
“Well—” began Janice, but Irene talked over her.
“Snobby. Jan, come on. She marries herself a rich consultant —that was no two-up, two-down, that place out in Ham! Proper eye-opener it was, seeing what she’d married into, and then she has the gall to come into work preaching the liberated life to the rest of us: marriage isn’t the be all and end all, don’t stop your career, blah blah blah. And always finding fault.”
“What did she—?”
“How you answered the phone, how you spoke to patients, how you dressed, even—‘Irene, I don’t think that top’s appropriate for work.’ She was a bloody Bunny Girl! The hypocrisy of her! I didn’t dislike her,” Irene insisted. “I didn’t, truly, I’m just trying to give you the full—oh, and she wouldn’t let us make her hot drinks, would she, Jan? Neither of the other two doctors ever complained we didn’t know what to do with a teabag.”
“That’s not why—” began Janice.
“Jan, come on, you remember how fussy—”
“Why would you say she didn’t like people making her drinks?” Strike asked Janice. Robin could tell that his patience was wearing thin with Irene.
“Oh, that was ’cause of when I was washing up mugs one day,” said Janice. “I tipped the dregs out of Dr. Brenner’s and I found an—”
“Atomal pill, wasn’t it?” asked Irene.
“—Amytal capsule, stuck to the bottom. I knew what it was from the col—”
“Blue,” interjected Irene, nodding, “weren’t they?”
“Blue ’Eavens, they used to call them on the street, yeah,” said Janice. “Downers. I always made sure everyone knew I didn’t ’ave nuffing like that in me nurse’s bag, when I was out makin’ ’ouse calls. You ’ad to be careful, in case you got mugged.”
“How did you know it was Dr. Brenner’s cup?” asked Strike.
“’E always used the same one, wiv his old university’s
