“He probably thought a man had given it her. Of course, the police were looking into her love life by then. Awful thing, not to be able to trust your wife.”
Strike glanced up yet again at the house, saw no change, and flicked to the end of the book, which concluded in a final burst of speculation, supposition and half-baked theory. On the one hand, Oakden implied that Margot had brought tragedy on herself, that fate had punished her for being too sexual and too bold, for cramming herself into a corset and bunny ears, for hoisting herself hubristically out of the class into which she had been born. On the other hand, she seemed to have lived her life surrounded by would-be killers. No man associated with Margot escaped Oakden’s suspicion, whether it was “charming but feckless Stevie Douthwaite-turned-Jacks,” “domineering blood specialist Roy Phipps,” “resentful rapist Jules Bayliss,” “hot-tempered womanizer Paul Satchwell” or “notorious sex monster Dennis Creed.”
Strike was on the point of closing the book when he noticed a line of darker page edges in the middle, suggesting photographs, and opened it again.
Other than the familiar press headshot and the picture of Margot and Oonagh in their Bunny Girl costumes—Oonagh curvaceous and grinning broadly, Margot statuesque, with a cloud of fair hair—there were only three photos. All were of poor quality and featured Margot only incidentally.
The first was captioned: “The author, his mother and Margot.” Square-jawed, iron-gray-haired, and wearing winged glasses, Dorothy Oakden stood facing the camera with her arm around a skinny freckle-faced boy with a pageboy haircut, who had screwed up his face into a grimace that distorted his features. Strike was reminded of Luke, his eldest nephew. Behind the Oakdens was a long expanse of striped lawn and, in the distance, a sprawling house with many pointed gables. Objects appeared to be protruding out of the lawn close to the house: upon closer examination, Strike concluded that they were the beginnings of walls or columns: it looked as though a summerhouse was under construction.
Walking across the lawn behind Dorothy and Carl, unaware that she was being photographed, was Margot Bamborough, barefooted, wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt, carrying a plate and smiling at somebody out of shot. Strike deduced that this picture had been taken at the staff barbecue Margot had organized. The Phipps house was certainly grander than he’d imagined.
After looking up once more to check that SB’s car remained parked where he’d left it, Strike turned to the last two pictures, both of which featured the St. John’s practice Christmas party.
Tinsel had been draped over the reception desk and the waiting room cleared of chairs, which had been stacked in corners. Strike searched for Margot in both pictures and found her, baby Anna in her arms, talking to a tall black woman he assumed was Wilma Bayliss. In the corner of the picture was a slim, round-eyed woman with feathered brown hair, who Strike thought might be a young Janice.
In the second picture, all heads were turned away from the camera or partially obscured, except one. A gaunt, unsmiling older man in a suit, with his hair slicked back, was the only person who seemed to have been given notice that the picture was about to be taken. The flash had turned his eyes red. The picture was captioned “Margot and Dr. Joseph Brenner,” though only the back of Margot’s head was visible.
In the corner of this picture were three men who, judging from their coats and jackets, had just arrived at the party. The darkness of their clothing made a solid block of black on the right-hand side of the photo. All had their backs to the camera, but the largest, whose face was slightly turned to the left, displayed one long black sideburn, a large ear, the tip of a fleshy nose and a drooping eye. His left hand was raised in the act of scratching his face. He was wearing a large gold ring featuring a lion’s head.
Strike examined this picture until noises out on the street made him look up. SB had just emerged from the house. A plump blonde in carpet slippers was standing on her doormat. She raised a hand and patted SB gently on the top of the head, as you would pet a child or a dog. Smiling, SB bade her farewell, then turned and walked back toward his Mercedes.
Strike threw the copy of Whatever Happened to Margot Bamborough? into the passenger seat. Waiting for SB to pull out into the road, he set off in pursuit.
After five minutes or so, it became clear that his quarry was driving back to his home in West Brompton. One hand on the steering wheel, Strike groped for his mobile, then pressed the number of an old friend. The call went straight to voicemail.
“Shanker, it’s Bunsen. Need to talk to you about something. Let me know when I can buy you a pint.”
26
All were faire knights, and goodly well beseene,
But to faire Britomart they all but shadowes beene.
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
With five active cases on the agency’s books, and only four days to go until Christmas, two of the agency’s subcontractors succumbed to seasonal flu. Morris fell first: he blamed his daughter’s nursery, where the virus had swept like wildfire through toddlers and parents alike. He continued to work until a high temperature and joint pain forced him to telephone in his apologies, by which time he’d managed to pass the bug to a furious Barclay, who in turn had transmitted it to his own wife and young daughter.
“Stupid arsehole shoulda stayed at home instead o’ breathin’ all over me in the car,” Barclay ranted hoarsely over the phone to Strike early
