Robin could tell that Anna wanted to suggest an alternative explanation, but it was very difficult to find a flaw in Roy’s reasoning.
“Did you tell the police what you suspected?” Strike asked.
“Yes,” said Phipps, “and I believe Satchwell claimed that there’d been no second meeting, that he’d given the figurine to Margot years before, when they were first involved. They couldn’t prove it either way, of course. But I’d never seen it before.”
Robin wondered which would be more hurtful: finding out that a spouse had hidden a love token from a former partner, and taken to displaying it many years later, or that they’d been given it recently.
“Tell me,” Strike was saying, “did Margot ever tell you anything about a ‘pillow dream’?”
“A what?” said Roy.
“Something Satchwell had told her, concerning a pillow?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Roy, suspiciously.
“Did Inspector Talbot ever happen to mention that he believed Satchwell lied about his whereabouts on the eleventh of October?”
“No,” said Roy, now looking very surprised. “I understood the police were entirely satisfied with his alibi.”
“We’ve found out,” Strike said, addressing Anna, “that Talbot kept his own separate case notes—separate from the official police record, I mean. After appearing to rule out Aries, he went back to him and started digging for more information on him.”
“‘Aries’?” repeated Anna, confused.
“Sorry,” said Strike, irritated by his own lapse into astrological speak. “Talbot’s breakdown manifested itself as a belief he could solve the case by occult means. He started using tarot cards and looking at horoscopes. He referred to everyone connected with the case by their star signs. Satchwell was born under the sign of Aries, so that’s what he’s called in Talbot’s private notes.”
There was a brief silence, and then Kim said,
“Jesus wept.”
“Astrology?” said Roy, apparently confounded.
“You see, Dad?” said Anna, thumping her knee with her fist. “If Lawson had taken over earlier—”
“Lawson was a fool,” said Roy, who nevertheless looked shaken. “An idiot! He was more interested in proving that Talbot had been inept than in finding out what happened to Margot. He insisted on going back over everything. He wanted to personally interview the doctors who’d treated me for the bleed on my knee, even though they’d given signed statements. He went back to my bank to check my accounts, in case I’d paid someone to kill your mother. He put pressure…”
He stopped and coughed, thumping his chest. Cynthia began to rise off the sofa, but Roy indicated with an angry gesture that she should stay put.
“… put pressure on Cynthia, trying to get her to admit she’d lied about me being in bed all that day, but he never found out a shred of new information about what had happened to your mother. He was a jobsworth, a bullying, unimaginative jobsworth whose priority wasn’t finding her, it was proving that Talbot messed up. Bill Talbot may have been… he clearly was,” Roy added, with a furious glance at Strike, “unwell, but the simple fact remains: nobody’s ever found a better explanation than Creed, have they?”
And with the mention of Creed, faces of the three women on the sofa fell. His very name seemed to conjure a kind of black hole in the room, into which living women had disappeared, never to be seen again; a manifestation of almost supernatural evil. There was a finality in the very mention of him: the monster, now locked away for life, untouchable, unreachable, like the women locked up and tortured in his basement. And Robin’s thoughts darted guiltily to the email she had now written, and sent, without telling Strike what she’d done, because she was afraid he might not approve.
“Do any of you know,” Roy asked abruptly, “who Kara Wolfson and Louise Tucker were?”
“Yes,” said Robin, before Strike could answer. “Louise was a teenage runaway and Kara was a nightclub hostess. Creed was suspected of killing both of them, but there was no proof.”
“Exactly,” said Roy, throwing her the kind of look he might once have given a medical student who had made a correct diagnosis. “Well, in 1978 I met up with Kara’s brother and Louise’s father.”
“I never knew you did that!” said Anna, looking shocked.
“Of course not. You were five years old,” snapped Roy. He turned back to Strike and Robin. “Louise’s father had made his own study of Creed’s life. He’d gone to every place Creed had ever lived or worked and interviewed as many people who’d admit to knowing him. He was petitioning Merlyn-Rees, the then Home Secretary, to let him go and dig in as many of these places as possible.
“The man was half-insane,” said Roy. “I saw then what living with something like this could do to you. The obsession had taken over his entire life. He wanted buildings dismantled, walls taken down, foundations exposed. Fields where Creed might once have walked, dug up. Streams dragged, which some schoolboy friend said Creed might have once gone fishing in. Tucker was shaking as he talked, trying to get me and Wolfson, who was a lorry driver, to join him in a TV campaign. We were to chain ourselves to the railings outside Downing Street, get ourselves on the news… Tucker’s marriage had split up. He seemed on bad terms with his living children. Creed had become his whole life.”
“And you didn’t want to help?” asked Anna.
“If,” said Roy quietly, “he’d had actual evidence—any solid clue that linked Margot and Creed—”
“I’ve read you thought one of the necklaces in the basement might’ve been—”
“If you will get your information from sensationalist books, Anna—”
“Because you’ve always made it so easy for me to talk to you about my mother,” said Anna. “Haven’t you?”
“Anna,” whispered Cynthia again.
“The locket they found in Creed’s basement wasn’t Margot’s, and I should know, because I gave it to her,” said Roy. His lips trembled, and he pressed them together.
“Just a couple more questions, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Strike, before Anna could say anything else. He was determined to avert further conflict if he could. “Could we talk for a moment about Wilma, the cleaner who worked at the practice and did housework for you here, as well?”
“It was all Margot’s idea, hiring her, but she wasn’t very good,” said Roy. “The woman was having some personal difficulties and Margot thought the solution was more money. After Margot disappeared, she walked out. Never turned up again. No loss. I heard afterward she’d been sacked from the practice. Pilfering, I heard.”
“Wilma told police—”
“That there was blood on the carpet upstairs, the day Margot went missing,” interrupted Roy. From Anna and Kim’s startled expressions, Robin deduced that this was entirely new information to them.
“Yes,” said Strike.
“It was menstrual,” said Roy coldly. “Margot’s period had started overnight. There were sanitary wrappers in the bathroom, my mother told me. Wilma sponged the carpet clean. This was in the spare room, at the opposite end of the house to the marital bedroom. Margot and I were sleeping apart at that time, because of,” there was a slight hesitation, “my injury.”
“Wilma also said that she thought she’d seen you—”
“Walking across the garden,” said Roy. “It was a lie. If she saw anyone, it would have been one of the stonemasons. We were finishing the gazebo at that time,” he said, pointing toward the stone folly at the end of the fishpond.
Strike made a note and turned over a page in his notebook.
“Can either of you remember Margot talking about a man called Niccolo Ricci? He was a patient at the St. John’s practice.”
Both Roy and Cynthia shook their heads.
“What about a patient called Steven Douthwaite?”
“No,” said Roy. “But we heard about him afterward, from the press.”
“Someone at the barbe
cue mentioned that Margot had been sent chocolates by a patient,” said Cynthia. “That was him, wasn’t it?”
“We think so. She never talked about Douthwaite, then? Never mentioned him showing an inappropriate interest in her, or told you he was gay?”
“No,” said Roy again. “There’s such a thing as patient confidentiality, you know.”
“This might seem an odd question,” said Strike, “but did Margot have any scars? Specifically, on her ribcage?”
“No,” said Roy, unsettled. “Why are you asking that?”
“To exclude one possibility,” said Strike, and before they could ask for further details, he said,
“Did Margot ever tell you she’d received threatening notes?”
“Yes,” said Roy. “Well, not notes in the plural. She told me she’d got one.”
“She did?” said Strike, looking up.
“Yes. It accused her of encouraging young women into promiscuity and sin.”
“Did it threaten her?”
“I don’t know,” said Roy. “I never saw it.”
“She didn’t bring it home?”
“No,” said Roy shortly. He hesitated, then said, “We had a row about it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. There can be serious consequences,” said Roy, turning redder, “societal consequences, when you start enabling things that don’t take place in nature—”
“Are you worried she told some girl it was OK to be gay?” asked Anna, and yet again Cynthia whispered, “Anna!”
“I’m talking,” said Roy, his face congested, “about giving reckless advice that might lead to marital breakdown. I’m talking about facilitating promiscuity, behind the backs of parents. Some very angry man had sent her that note, and she never seemed to have considered—considered—”
Roy’s face worked. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to shout, but then, most unexpectedly, he burst into noisy tears.
His wife, daughter and daughter-in-law sat, stunned, in a row on the sofa; nobody, even Cynthia, went to him. Roy was suddenly crying in great heaving gulps, tears streaming down over his sunken cheeks, trying and failing to master himself, and finally speaking through the sobs.
“She—never seemed—to remember—that I couldn’t—protect her—couldn’t—do anything—if somebody tried—to hurt—because I’m a useless—bleeder… useless… bloody… bleeder…”
“Oh Dad,” whispered Anna, horrified, and she slid off the sofa and walked to her father on her knees. She tried to place her hands on his leg, but he batted her consoling hands away, shaking his head, still crying.
“No—no—I don’t deserve it—you don’t know everything—you don’t know—”
“What don’t I know?” she said, looking scared. “Dad, I know more than you think. I know about the abortion—”
“There was never—never —never an abortion!” said Roy, gulping and sobbing. “That was the one—one thing Oonagh Kennedy and I—we both knew—she’d never—never—not after you! She told me—Margot told me—after she had you—changed her views completely. Completely!”
“Then what don’t I know?” whispered Anna.
“I was—I was c- cruel to her!” wailed Roy. “I was! I made things difficult! Showed no interest in her work. I drove her away! She was going to l- leave me… I know what happened. I know. I’ve always known. The day before—before she went—she left a message—in the clock—silly—thing we used to—and the note said —Please t- talk to me…”
Roy’s sobs overtook him. As Cynthia got up and went to kneel on Roy’s other side, Anna reached for her father’s hand, and this time, he let her hold it. Clinging to his daughter, he said,
“I was waiting—for an apology. For going to drink—with Satchwell. And because she hadn’t—written an apology—I didn’t t- talk to her. And the next day—
“I know what happened. She liked to walk. If she was upset—long walks. She forgot about Oonagh—went for a walk—trying to decide what to do—leave me—because I’d made her—so—so sad. She wasn’t—paying attention—and Creed—and Creed—must have…”
Still holding his hand, Anna slid her other arm around her father’s shaking shoulders and drew her to him. He cried inconsolably, clinging to her. Strike and Robin both pretended an interest in the flowered rug.
“Roy,” said Kim gently, at last. “Nobody in this room hasn’t said or done things they don’t bitterly regret. Not one of us.”
Strike, who’d got far more out of Roy Phipps than he’d expected, thought it was time to draw the interview to a close. Phipps was in such a state of distress that it felt inhumane to press him further. When Roy’s sobs had subsided a little, Strike said formally,
“I want to thank you very much for talking to us, and for the tea. We’ll get out of your hair.”
He and Robin got to their feet. Roy remained entangled with his wife and daughter. Kim stood up to show them out.
“Well,” Kim said quietly, as they approached the front door, “I have to tell you, that was… well, close to a miracle. He’s never talked about Margot like that, ever. Even if you don’t find out anything else… thank you. That was… healing.”
The rain had ceased and the sun had come out. A double rainbow lay over the woods opposite the house. Strike and Robin stepped outside, into clean fresh air.
“Could I ask you one last thing?” said Strike, turning back to Kim who stood in the doorway.
“Yes, of course.”
“It’s about that summer house thing in the garden, beside the koi pond. I wondered why it’s got a cross of St. John on the floor,” said Strike.
“Oh,” said Kim. “Margot chose the design. Yes, Cynthia told me, ages ago. Margot had just got the job at St. John’s—and funnily enough, this area’s got a connection to the Knights Hospitaller, too—”
“Yes,” said Robin. “I read about that, at Hampton Court.”
“So, she thought it would be a nice allusion to the two things… You know, now you mention it, I’m surprised nobody ever changed it. Every other trace of Margot’s gone from the house.”
“Expensive, though,” said Strike, “to remove slabs of granite.”
“Yes,” said Kim, her smile fading a little. “I suppose it would be.”
37
Spring-headed Hydres, and sea-shouldring Whales,
Great whirlpooles, which all fishes make to flee,
Bright Scolopendraes, arm’d with siluer scales
Mighty Monoceros, with immeasured tayles…
The dreadfull Fish, that hath deseru’d the name
Of Death…
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
Rain fell almost ceaselessly into February. On the fifth, the most savage storm yet hit the south. Thousands of homes lost power, part of the sea wall supporting the London-South West railway line collapsed, swathes of farmland disappeared under flood water, roads became rivers and the nightly news featured fields turned to seas of gray water and houses waist-deep in mud. The Prime Minister promised financial assistance, the emergency services scrambled to help the stranded, and high on her hill above the flooded St. Mawes, Joan was deprived of a promised visit from Strike and Lucy, because they were unable to reach her either by road or train.
Strike sublimated the guilt he felt for not heading to Cornwall before the weather rendered the journey impossible by working long hours and skimping on sleep. Masochistically, he chose to work back-to-back shifts, so that Barclay and Hutchins could take some of the leave due to them because of his previous trips to see Joan. In consequence, it was Strike, not Hutchins, who was sitting in his BMW in the everlasting rain outside Elinor Dean’s house in Stoke Newington on Wednesday evening the following week, and Strike who saw a man in a tracksuit knock on her door and be admitted.
Strike waited all night for the man to reappear. Finally, at six in the morning, he emerged onto the still dark street with his hand clamped over his lower face. Strike, w
ho was watching him through night vision glasses, caught a glimpse of Elinor Dean in a cozy quilted dressing gown, waving him off. The tracksuited man hurried back to his Citroën with his right hand still concealing his mouth and set off in a southerly direction.
Strike tailed the Citroën until they reached Risinghill Street in Pentonville, where Strike’s target parked and entered a modern, red-brick block of flats, both hands now in his pockets and nothing unusual about his mouth as far as the detective could see. Strike waited until the man was safely inside, took a note of which window showed a light five minutes later, then drove away, parking shortly afterward in White Lion Street.
Early as it was, people were already heading off to work, umbrellas angled against the continuing downpour. Strike wound down the car window, because even he, inveterate smoker though he was, wasn’t enjoying the smell of his car after a night’s surveillance. Then, though his tongue ached from too much smoking, he lit up again and phoned Saul Morris.
“All right, boss?”
Strike, who didn’t particularly like Morris calling him “boss,” but couldn’t think of any way to ask him to stop without sounding like a dickhead, said,
“I want you to switch targets. Forget Shifty today; I’ve just followed a new guy who spent the night at Elinor Dean’s.” He gave Morris the address. “He’s second floor, flat on the far left as you’re looking at the building. Fortyish, graying hair, bit of a paunch. See what you can find out about him—chat up the neighbors, find out where he works and have a dig around online, see if you can find out what his interests are. I’ve got a hunch he and SB are visiting that woman for the same reason.”
“See, this is why you’re the head honcho. You take over for one night and crack the case.”
Strike wished Morris would stop brown-nosing him, too. When he’d hung up, he sat smoking for a while, while the wind nipped at his exposed flesh, and rain hit his face in what felt like icy needle pricks. Then, after checking the time to make sure his early-rising uncle would be awake, he phoned Ted.
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