Clearly disgruntled, Janice turned back to Strike.
“Well… all right,” she said, “but the place is in a mess—and can you please wipe your feet properly, because the last bloke who turned up ’ere unannounced brought dog shit in wiv ’im. You can close the door be’ind you.”
Strike stepped over the threshold, while Janice strode out of sight into the sitting room. Strike expected her to turn off the TV but she didn’t. While Strike wiped his feet on the coconut mat inside the door, a male voice said: “This one-of-a-kind runway gown might be impossible to find, so Randy’s on the search…” After hesitating for a moment on the doormat, Strike decided that Janice expected him to follow her, and entered the small sitting room.
Having spent a significant part of his youth in squats with his mother, Strike had a very different idea of “mess” to Janice’s. Although cluttered, with something on almost every surface, the only signs of actual disorder in the room were a copy of the Daily Mirror lying in one armchair, some crumpled packaging lying beside an open packet of dates on the low coffee table and a hairdryer, which was lying incongruously on the floor beside the sofa, and which Janice was currently unplugging.
“… Antonella’s pulling the closest gown to Kelly’s pick, a blinged-out $15,000 dress…”
“The mirror down ’ere’s better for drying my ’air,” Janice explained, straightening up, pink in the face, hairdryer in her hand and looking slightly cross, as though Strike was forcing her to justify herself. “I would’ve appreciated some warning, you know,” she added, looking as stern as such a naturally smiley-looking woman could. “You’ve caught me on the ’op.”
Strike was unexpectedly and poignantly reminded of Joan, who’d always been flustered if guests dropped in while the Hoover or the ironing board were still out.
“Sorry. As I say, I happened to be in the area…”
“Even as Kelly steps into dress number one, she still can’t get her dream dress off her mind,” said the narrator loudly, and both Strike and Janice glanced toward the TV, where a young woman was wriggling into a clinging, semi-transparent white dress covered in silver rhinestones.
“Say Yes to the Dress,” said Janice, who was wearing the same navy jumper and slacks as the last time Strike had seen her. “My guilty pleasure… D’you want a cup of tea?”
“Only if it’s no trouble,” said Strike.
“Well, it’s always some trouble, innit?” Janice said, with her first glimmer of a smile. “But I was going to make myself some at the first advert break, so you might as well ’ave some.”
“In that case, thanks very much,” said Strike.
“If I don’t find this dress,” said the camp male wedding consultant on-screen, rifling urgently through racks of white dresses, his eyebrows so sharply plucked they looked drawn on, “it’s not gonna be—”
The screen went blank. Janice had turned it off with her remote control.
“Wanna date?” she asked Strike, holding out the box.
“No thanks,” said Strike.
“Got boxes of ’em in Dubai,” she said. “I was gonna give ’em as presents, but I just can’t stop eating ’em. ’Ave a seat. I won’t be two ticks.”
Strike thought he caught another downward glance toward his lower legs as she marched out of the room, hairdryer in one hand, dates in the other, leaving Strike to take an armchair, which creaked beneath his weight.
Strike found the small sitting room oppressive. Predominantly red, the carpet was decorated in a scarlet, swirling pattern, on top of which lay a cheap crimson Turkish rug. Dried flower pictures hung on the red walls, between old photographs, some black and white, and the colored ones faded, displayed in wooden frames. A china cabinet was full of cheap spun-glass ornaments. The largest, a Cinderella carriage pulled by six glass horses, stood in pride of place on the mantelpiece over the electric fire. Evidently, beneath Janice’s no-nonsense clothing, there beat a romantic heart.
She returned a few minutes later, holding a wicker-handled tray bearing two mugs of tea with the milk already added, and a plate of chocolate Hobnobs. The act of making tea seemed to have put her into slightly better humor with her guest.
“That’s my Larry,” she said, catching Strike looking toward a double frame on the small side table beside him. On one side was a sleepy-eyed, overweight man with a smoker’s teeth. On the other was a blonde woman, heavy but pretty.
“Ah. And is this—?”
“My little sister, Clare. She died ’97. Pancreatic cancer. They got it late.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Strike.
“Yeah,” said Janice, with a deep sigh. “Lost ’em both around the same time. To tell you the truth,” she said, as she sat down on the sofa and her knees gave audible clicks, “I walked back in ’ere after Dubai and I fort, I really need to get some new pictures up. It was depressing, coming back in ’ere, the number of dead people…
“I got some gorgeous ones of Kev and the grandkids on ’oliday, but I ’aven’t got ’em printed out yet. The lad next door’s going to do it for me. All my old ones of Kev and the kids are two years out of date. I gave the boy the memory… board, is it?”
“Card?” suggested Strike.
“That’s the one. The kids next door just laugh at me. Mind you, Irene’s worse’n I am. She can ’ardly change a battery. So,” she said, “why d’you want to see me again?”
Strike, who had no intention of risking an immediate rebuff, was planning to ask his questions about Satchwell last. Drawing out his notebook and opening it, he said,
“A couple of things that have come up since I last saw you. I asked Dr. Gupta about this first one, but he couldn’t help, so I hoped you might be able to. Would you happen to know anything about a man called Niccolo Ricci, sometimes nicknamed ‘Mucky’?”
“Old gangster, weren’t ’e?” said Janice. “I knew ’e lived local, in Clerkenwell, but I never met ’im. Why d’you want—oh, ’as Irene been telling you about the foundations thing?”
“The what?” asked Strike.
“Oh, it’s nuffing, really. There was this rumor, back when they were doing a load of redevelopment round Clerkenwell in the early seventies, that some builders ’ad found a body buried in concrete under one of the demolished buildings. The story was that Little Italy gangsters ’ad hidden it there, back in the forties. But Eddie—this is Irene’s Eddie, the builder she ended up marrying—that’s ’ow they met, local pub, when ’is firm was doing a lot of the redevelopment—Eddie told us it was all cobblers. I ’adn’t ever believed it. I fink Irene ’ad, a bit,” Janice added, dunking a biscuit in her tea.
“How does this tie in with Margot?” Strike asked.
“Well, after Margot disappeared, there was a theory ’er body ’ad been put into one o’ the open foundations and covered in concrete. They was still doing a bit of building round there in ’74, see.”
“Were people suggesting Ricci had killed her?” asked Strike.
“Gawd, no!” said Janice, with a shocked little laugh. “What would Mucky Ricci ’ave to do with Margot? It was only because of that old rumor. It put the idea in people’s minds, you know, burying bodies in concrete. People can be bloody silly. My Larry said to me—’e was a builder, you know—it’s not like workmen wouldn’t’ve noticed a load of fresh concrete when they turned up for work.”
“Were you aware that Ricci attended the St. John’s practice Christmas party?”
“’E what?” said Janice, with her mouth full.
“He and another couple of men arrived toward the end of the party, possibly to escort Gloria home.”
“They —what?” Janice said, looking unaffectedly astonished. “Mucky Ricci and Gloria? Come off it. Is this because—no, look, you don’t wanna pay no attention to Irene, not about Gloria. Irene… she gets carried away. She never much liked Gloria. And she gets the wrong end of the stick sometimes. I never ’eard Gloria’s family ’ad any criminal connections. Irene watched way too
many Godfather movies,” said Janice. “We saw the first one togevver, at the cinema, and I went back and saw it again twice more on me own. James Caan, you know,” she sighed. “My dream man.”
“Ricci was definitely at the practice party,” said Strike. “From what I can tell, he turned up right at the end.”
“Well then, I’d already left. I needed to get ’ome to Kev. Is ’e still alive, Ricci?”
“Yes,” said Strike.
“Must be really getting on, is ’e?”
“He is,” said Strike.
“That’s odd, though. What on earth would Ricci be doing at St. John’s?”
“I’m hoping to find out,” said Strike, flipping over a page of his notebook. “The next thing I wanted to ask you was about Joseph Brenner. You remember the family you thought might be called Applethorpe? Well, I found—”
“You never tracked ’em down!” said Janice, looking impressed. “What was their name?”
“Athorn.”
“Athorn!” said Janice, with an air of relief. “I knew it wasn’t Applethorpe. That bugged me for days, after…’Ow are they? It’s Fragile X they’ve got, isn’t it? They’re not in an ’ome, or—?”
“Still living together in the old flat,” said Strike, “and getting on reasonably well, I think.”
“I ’ope they’re being well supported, are they?”
“There’s a social worker involved, who seems very much on their side, which brings me to what I was going to ask you.
“The social worker says that since Gwilherm’s death, Deborah’s disclosed…” Strike hesitated, “… well, the way the social worker put it, was that Gwilherm was, er, pimping Deborah out.”
“’E was what?” said Janice, the smile sliding off her face.
“It’s an unpleasant idea, I know,” said Strike unemotionally. “When I was talking to her, Deborah told me about Dr. Brenner visiting her at home. She said he’d—er—asked her to take off her pants—”
“No!” said Janice, in what seemed instinctive revulsion. “No, I’m sure—no, that’s not right. That’s not ’ow it would’ve ’appened, if she’d needed an intimate examination. It would have ’appened at the surgery.”
“You said she was agoraphobic?”
“Well—yeah, but…”
“Samhain, the son, said something about Dr. Brenner being a ‘dirty old man.’”
“’E… but… no, it… it must’ve been an examination… maybe after the baby was born? But that should’ve been me, the nurse… that’s upset me, now,” said Janice, looking distressed. “You think you’ve ’eard everything, but… no, that’s really upset me. I mean, I was in the ’ouse that one time to see the kid and she never said a word to me… but of course, ’e was there, the father, telling me all about ’is bloody magic powers. She was probably too scared to… no, that’s really upset me, that ’as.”
“I’m sorry,” said Strike, “but I have to ask: did you ever hear that Brenner used prostitutes? Ever hear any rumors about him, locally?”
“Not a word,” said Janice. “I’d’ve told someone, if I’d ’eard that. It wouldn’t be ethical, not in our catchment area. All the women there were registered to our practice. She’d’ve been a patient.”
“According to Talbot’s notes,” said Strike, “somebody claimed they saw Brenner in Michael Cliffe House on the evening Margot disappeared. The story Brenner gave the police was that he went straight home.”
“Michael Cliffe ’Ouse… that’s the tower block on Skinner Street, innit?” said Janice. “We ’ad patients in there, but otherwise…” Janice appeared sickened. “You’ve upset me,” she said again. “’Im and that poor Athorn woman… and there’s me defending ’im to all and sundry, because of ’is experiences in the war. Not two weeks back, I ’ad Dorothy’s son sitting exactly where you are now—”
“Carl Oakden was here?” said Strike sharply.
“Yeah,” said Janice, “and ’e didn’t wipe ’is feet, neither. Dog shit all up my ’all carpet.”
“What did he want?” asked Strike.
“Well, ’e pretended it was a nice catch-up,” said Janice. “You’d think I might not recognize ’im after all this time, but actually, ’e don’t look that much diff’rent, not really. Anyway, ’e sat in that chair where you are, spouting all sorts of rubbish about old times and ’is mum remembering me fondly—ha! Dorothy Oakden, remember me fondly? Dorothy thought Irene and me were a pair of hussies, skirts above our knees, going out to the pub togevver…
“’E mentioned you,” said Janice, with a beady look. “Wanted to know if I’d met you, yet. ’E wrote a book about Margot, you know, but it never made it into the shops, which ’e’s angry about. ’E told me all about it when ’e was ’ere. ’E’s finking of writing another one and it’s you what’s got ’im interested in it. The famous detective solving the case—or the famous detective not solving the case. Either one’ll do for Carl.”
“What was he saying about Brenner?” asked Strike. There would be time enough later to consider the implications of an amateur biographer tramping all over the case.
“Said Dr. Brenner was a sadistic old man, and there I was, sort of sticking up for Dr. Brenner… but now you’re telling me this about Deborah Athorn…”
“Oakden said Brenner was sadistic, did he? That’s a strong word.”
“I fort so, too. Carl said ’e’d never liked ’im, said Dr. Brenner used to go round Dorothy’s ’ouse a lot, which I never realized, for Sunday lunch and that. I always fort they were just workmates. You know, Dr. Brenner probably told Carl off, that’s all. ’E was an ’oly terror when ’e was a kid, Carl, and ’e comes across as the kind of man ’oo ’olds a grudge.”
“If Oakden comes round here again,” said Strike, “I’d advise you not to let him in. He’s done time, you know. For conning…” He just stopped himself saying “old” “… single women out of their money.”
“Oh,” said Janice, taken aback. “Blimey. I’d better warn Irene. ’E said ’e was going to try ’er next.”
“And he seemed primarily interested in Brenner, did he, when he came round here?”
“Well, no,” said Janice. “’E seemed mostly interested in you, but yeah, we talked about Brenner more’n anyone else at the practice.”
“Mrs. Beattie, you wouldn’t happen to still have that newspaper obituary of Brenner you mentioned? I think you said you kept it?”
“Oh,” said Janice, glancing toward the drawer at the base of her china cabinet, “yeah… Carl wanted to see that, too, when ’e ’eard I ’ad it…”
She pushed herself out of the sofa and crossed to the china cabinet. Gripping the mantelpiece to steady herself, she knelt down, opened the drawer and began rummaging.
“They’re all in a bit of a state, my clippings. Irene finks I’m bonkers, me and my newspapers,” she added, wrist-deep in the contents of the drawer. “She’s never been much for the news or politics or any of that, but I’ve always saved interesting bits and pieces, you know: medical fings, and I won’t lie, I do like a story on the royals and…”
She began tugging on what looked like the corner of a cardboard folder.
“… and Irene can fink it’s strange all she likes, but I don’t see what’s wrong—with saving—the story of…”
The folder came free.
“… a life,” said Janice, walking on her knees to the coffee table. “Why’s that morbid? No worse’n keeping a photo.”
She flipped open the folder and began looking through the clippings, some of them yellow with age.
“See? I saved that for ’er, for Irene,” said Janice, holding up an article about holy basil. “Supposed to ’elp with digestive problems, I fort Eddie could plant some in the garden for ’er. She takes too many pills for ’er bowels, they do as much ’arm as good, but Irene’s one of those ’oo, if it doesn’t come in a tablet, she don’t wanna know…
“Princess Diana,” said Janice with a sigh, flashing a commemorative
front page at Strike. “I was a fan…”
“May I?” asked Strike, reaching for a couple of pieces of newsprint.
“’Elp yourself,” said Janice, looking over her spectacles at the pieces of paper in Strike’s hand. “That article on diabetes is very interesting. Care’s changed so much since I retired. My godson’s Type One. I like to keep up with it all… and that’ll be the fing about the kid ’oo died of peritonitis, in your other ’and, is it?”
“Yes,” said Strike, looking at the clipping, which was brown with age.
“Yeah,” said Janice darkly, still turning over bits of newspaper, “’e’s the reason I’m a nurse. That’s what put the idea in me ’ead. ’E lived two doors down from me when I was a kid. I cut that out an’ kept it, only photo I was ever gonna ’ave… bawled my bloody eyes out. The doctor,” said Janice, with a hint of steel, “was called out and ’e never bloody turned up. ’E would’ve come out for a middle-class kid, we all knew that, but little Johnny Marks from Bethnal Green, ’oo cared… and the doctor was criticized, but never struck off… If there’s one thing I ’ate, it’s treating people diff’rent because of where they were born.”
With no apparent sense of irony, she shifted more pictures of the royals out of the way, looking puzzled.
“Where’s Dr. Brenner’s thing?” she muttered.
Still clutching several clippings, she walked on her knees back toward the open drawer and rummaged in there again.
“No, it really isn’t ’ere,” said Janice, returning to the coffee table. “That’s very odd…”
“You don’t think Oakden took it, do you?” Strike suggested.
Janice looked up.
“That cheeky sod,” she said slowly. “’E could of bloody asked.”
She swept her clippings back into their folder, returned it to her drawer, used the mantelpiece to pull herself back up, knees clicking loudly again, then sat back down on the sofa with a sigh of relief and said,
“You know, ’e was always light-fingered, that boy.”
“What makes you say that?”
Troubled Blood: A Cormoran Strike Novel Page 62