“Money went missing, back at the practice.”
“Really?” said Strike.
“Yeah. It all come to ’an ’ead after Margot disappeared. Little bits of money kept going missing and they fort it was Wilma, the cleaner—ev’ryone except me. I always fort it was Carl. ’E used to drop in after school, and in the school ’olidays. I dropped a word in Dr. Gupta’s ear, but I dunno, probably ’e didn’t want to upset Dorothy, and it was easier to push Wilma out. True, there were ovver issues wiv Wilma… she drank,” said Janice, “and ’er cleaning wasn’t the best. She couldn’t prove she never nicked it, and after there was a staff meeting about it, she resigned. She could see the way it was going.”
“And did the thefts stop?”
“Yeah,” said Janice, “but so what? Carl might’ve thought ’e’d better give it rest, after nearly being found out.”
Strike, who tended to agree, said,
“Just a couple more questions. The first’s about a woman called Joanna Hammond.”
“I should know ’oo that is, should I?”
“She was Steve Douthwaite’s—”
“—girlfriend, ’oo killed ’erself,” said Janice. “Oh yeah.”
“Can you remember whether she was registered with the St. John’s practice?”
“No, she weren’t. I fink they lived over in Hoxton.”
“So Margot wouldn’t have been involved with the coroner, or had any other professional connection with her death?”
“No, she’ll ’ave been same as me: never knew the woman existed till she was already dead and Steve come looking for ’elp. I bet I know why you’re asking, though,” said Janice. “Talbot was dead set on Steve being the Essex Butcher, wasn’t ’e? On and on about Steve, in all those interviews I ’ad with ’im. But honestly, Steve Douthwaite was a gentle soul. I grew up wiv a couple of proper violent men. Me father was one. I know the type, and Steve definitely weren’t it.”
Remembering how endearing some women had found the apparent vulnerability of Dennis Creed, Strike merely nodded.
“Talbot asked wevver I’d ever visited that Joanna, as a nurse. I told ’im she wasn’t a St. John’s patient, but that didn’t put ’im off. Did I think there was anything fishy about ’er death, even so? I kept saying, ‘I never met the woman. ’Ow do I know?’ I was getting worn down wiv it all by then, honestly, being treated like I was Gypsy bloody Rose Lee. I told Talbot, go see what the coroner said!”
“And you don’t know whether there was a death Margot was worried about?” Strike asked. “A death that was maybe categorized as natural, or accidental, but where she thought there might have been foul play?”
“What makes you ask that?” said Janice.
“Just trying to clear up something Talbot left in his notes. He seemed to think Margot might’ve had suspicions about the way somebody died. You were mentioned in connection with the death.”
Janice’s round blue eyes widened behind her glasses.
“Mentioned as having witnessed something, or perhaps been present,” Strike elaborated. “There was no hint of accusation.”
“I should bloody well ’ope not!” said Janice. “No, I never witnessed nothing. I’d’ve said if I ’ad, wouldn’t I?”
There was a short pause, which Strike judged it prudent not to break, and sure enough, Janice piped up again.
“Look, I can’t speak for Margot forty years on. She’s gone, i’n’t she? It isn’t fair on either of us. I don’t wanna be casting suspicion round, all these years later.”
“I’m just trying to eliminate possible lines of inquiry,” said Strike.
There was a longer pause. Janice’s eyes drifted over the tea tray and on to the picture of her late partner, with his stained teeth and his kind, sleepy eyes. Finally, she sighed and said,
“All right, but I want you to write down that this was Margot’s idea, not mine, all right? I’m not accusing no one.”
“Fair enough,” said Strike, pen poised over his notebook.
“All right then, well—it was very sensitive, because of us working wiv ’er—Dorothy, I mean.
“Dorothy and Carl lived wiv Dorothy’s mother. ’Er name was Maud, though I wouldn’t remember that if Carl ’adn’t been ’ere the ovver day. We were talking and I mentioned ’is gran, and ’e called ’er ‘bloody Maud,’ not ‘Grandma’ or nothing.
“Anyway, Maud ’ad an infection on ’er leg, a sore what was taking its time ’ealing. It needed dressing and looking after, so I was visiting the ’ouse a lot. Ev’ry time I was in there, she told me she owned the ’ouse, not Dorothy. She was letting ’er daughter and grandson live wiv ’er. She liked saying it, you know. Feeling the power.
“I wouldn’t say she’d be much fun to live with. Sour old lady. Nothing ever right for ’er. She moaned a lot about ’er grandson being spoiled—but like I said, ’e was an ’oly terror when ’e was younger, so I can’t blame ’er there.
“Anyway,” said Janice, “before the sore on ’er leg was ’ealed, she died, after falling downstairs. Now, ’er walking wasn’t great, because she’d been laid up for a bit with this sore leg, and she needed a stick. People do fall downstairs, and if you’re elderly, obviously that can ’ave serious consequences, but…
“Well, a week afterward, Margot asked me into ’er consulting room for a word, and… well, yeah, I got the impression Margot was maybe a bit uneasy about it. She never said anyfing outright, just asked me what I fort. I knew what she was saying… but what could we do? We weren’t there when she fell and the family said they was downstairs and just ’eard ’er take the tumble, and there she was at the bottom of the stairs, knocked out cold, and she died two nights later in ’ospital.
“Dorothy never showed no emotion about it, but Dorothy never did show much emotion about anything. What could we do?” Janice repeated, her palms turned upward. “Obviously I could see the way Margot’s mind was working, because she knew Maud owned the ’ouse, and now Dorothy and Carl were sitting pretty, and… well, it’s the kind of thing doctors consider, of course they do. It’ll come back on them, if they’ve missed anything. But in the end, Margot never done nothing about it and as far as I know there was never any bother.
“There,” Janice concluded, with a slight air of relief at having got this off her chest. “Now you know.”
“Thank you,” said Strike, making a note. “That’s very helpful. Tell me: did you ever mention this to Talbot?”
“No,” said Janice, “but someone else mighta done. Ev’ryone knew Maud ’ad died, and ’ow she died, because Dorothy took a day off for the funeral. I’ll be honest, by the end of all my interviews wiv Talbot, I just wanted to get out of there. Mostly ’e wanted me to talk about me dreams. It was creepy, honestly. Weird, the ’ole thing.”
“I’m sure it was,” said Strike. “Well, there’s just one more thing I wanted to ask, and then I’m done. My partner managed to track down Paul Satchwell.”
“Oh,” said Janice, with no sign of embarrassment or discomfort. “Right. That was Margot’s old boyfriend, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Well, we were surprised to find out you know each other.”
Janice looked at him blankly.
“What?”
“That you know each other,” Strike repeated.
“Me and Paul Satchwell?” said Janice with a little laugh. “I’ve never even met the man!”
“Really?” said Strike, watching her closely. “When he heard you’d told us about the sighting of Margot in Leamington Spa, he got quite angry. He said words to the effect,” Strike read off his notebook, “that you were trying to cause trouble for him.”
There was a long silence. A frown line appeared between Janice’s round blue eyes. At last she said,
“Did ’e mention me by name?”
“No,” said Strike. “As a matter of fact, he seemed to have forgotten it. He just remembered you as ‘the nurse.’ He also told Robin that you and Margot didn’t like each other.”
“’E said
Margot didn’t like me?” said Janice, with the emphasis on the last word.
“I’m afraid so,” said Strike, watching her.
“But… no, sorry, that’s not right,” said Janice. “We used to get on great! Ovver than that one time wiv Kev and ’is tummy… all right, I did get shirty wiv ’er then, but I knew she meant it kindly. She fort she was doing me a favor, examining ’im… I took offense because… well, you do get a bit defensive, as a mother, if you fink another woman’s judging you for not taking care of your kids properly. I was on me own with Kev and… you just feel it more, when you’re on your own.”
“So why,” Strike asked, “would Satchwell say he knew you, and that you wanted to get him into trouble?”
The silence that followed was broken by the sound of a train passing beyond the hedge: a great rushing rumble built and subsided, and the quiet of the sitting room closed like a bubble in its wake, holding the detective and the nurse in suspension as they looked at each other.
“I fink you already know,” said Janice at last.
“Know what?”
“Don’t give me that. All them fings you’ve solved—you’re not a stupid man. I fink you already know, and all this is to try and scare me into telling you.”
“I’m certainly not trying to scare—”
“I know you didn’t like ’er,” said Janice abruptly. “Irene. Don’t bovver pretending, I know she annoyed you. If I couldn’t read people I wouldn’t ’ave been any good at my job, going in and out of strangers’ ’ouses all the time, would I? And I was very good at my job,” said Janice, and somehow the remark didn’t seem arrogant. “Listen: you saw Irene in one of ’er show-off moods. She was so excited to meet you, she put on a big act.
“It’s not easy for women, living alone when they’re used to company, you know. Even me, coming back from Dubai, it’s been a readjustment. You get used to ’aving family around you and then you’re back in the empty ’ouse again, alone… Me, I don’t mind me own company, but Irene ’ates it.
“She’s been a very good friend to me, Irene,” said Janice, with a kind of quiet ferocity. “Very kind. She ’elped me out financially, after Larry died, back when I ’ad nothing. I’ve always been welcome in ’er ’ouse. We’re company for each other, we go back a long way. So she might ’ave a few airs and graces, so what? So ’ave plenty of people…”
There was another brief pause.
“Wait there,” said Janice firmly. “I need to make a phone call.”
She got up and left the room. Strike waited. Beyond the net curtains, the sun suddenly slid out from behind a bullet-colored cloud, and turned the glass Cinderella coach on the mantelpiece neon bright.
Janice reappeared with a mobile in her hand.
“She’s not picking up,” she said, looking perturbed.
She sat back down on the sofa. There was another pause.
“Fine,” said Janice at last, as though Strike had harangued her into speech, “it wasn’t me ’oo knew Satchwell—it was Irene. But don’t you go thinking she’s done anyfing she shouldn’t’ve! I mean, not in a criminal sense. It worried ’er like ’ell, after. I was worried for ’er… Oh Gawd,” said Janice.
She took a deep breath then said,
“All right, well… she was engaged to Eddie at the time. Eddie was a lot older’n Irene. ’E worshipped the ground she walked on, an’ she loved ’im, too. She did,” said Janice, though Strike hadn’t contradicted her. “And she was really jealous if Eddie so much as looked at anyone else…
“But she always liked a drink and a flirt, Irene. It was ’armless. Mostly ’armless… that bloke Satchwell ’ad a band, didn’t ’e?”
“That’s right,” said Strike.
“Yeah, well, Irene saw ’em play at some pub. I wasn’t wiv ’er the night she met Satchwell. I never knew a fing about it till after Margot ’ad gone missing.
“So she watched Satchwell and—well, she fancied ’im. And after the band ’ad finished, she sees Satchwell come into the bar, and ’e goes right to the back of the room to Margot, ’oo’s standing there in a corner, in ’er raincoat. Irene fort Satchwell must’ve seen ’er from the stage. Irene ’adn’t spotted Margot before, because she was up the front, wiv ’er friends. Anyway, she watched ’em, and Satchwell and Margot ’ad a short chat—really short, Irene said—and it looked like it turned into an argument. And then Irene reckoned Margot spotted ’er, and that’s when Margot walked out.
“So then, Irene goes up to that Satchwell and tells ’im she loved the band and everything and, well, one thing led to another, and… yeah.”
“Why would Satchwell think she was a nurse?” asked Strike.
Janice grimaced.
“Well, to tell you the truth, that’s what the silly girl used to tell blokes she was, when they were chatting ’er up. She used to pretend to be a nurse because the fellas liked it. As long as they knew naff all about medical stuff she managed to fool ’em, because she’d ’eard the names of drugs and all that at work, though she got most of ’em wrong, God love ’er,” said Janice, with a small eye roll.
“So was this a one-night stand, or…”
“No. It was a two-, three-week thing. But it didn’t last. Margot disappearing… well, that put the kibosh on it. You can imagine.
“But for a couple of weeks there, Irene was… infatuated, I s’pose you’d say. She did love Eddie, you know… it was a bit of a feather in ’er cap to ’ave this older man, Eddie, successful business and everything, wanting to marry ’er, but… it’s funny, isn’t it?” said Janice quietly. “We’re all animals, when you take everything else away. She totally lost ’er ’ead over Paul Satchwell. Just for a few weeks. Tryin’ to see ’im as much as she could, sneaking around… I bet she scared the life out of ’im, actually,” said Janice soberly, “because from what she told me later, I fink ’e only took ’er to bed to spite Margot. Margot was ’oo ’e really wanted… and Irene realized that too late. She’d been used.”
“So the story of Irene’s sore tooth,” said Strike, “which then became the story of a shopping trip…”
“Yeah,” said Janice quietly. “She was with Satchwell that afternoon. She took that receipt off ’er sister to use with the police. I never knew till afterward. I ’ad her in floods of tears in my flat, pouring ’er ’eart out. Well, ’oo else could she tell? Not Eddie or ’er parents! She was terrified of it coming out, and losing Eddie. She’d woken up by then. All she wanted was Eddie, and she was scared ’e’d drop ’er if ’e found out about Satchwell.
“See, Satchwell as good as told Irene, the last time they met, ’e was using ’er to get back at Margot. ’E’d been angry at Margot for saying she’d only come to watch the band outta curiosity, and for getting shirty when ’e tried to persuade ’er to go back to ’is flat. ’E gave ’er that little wooden Viking thing, you know. ’E’d ’ad it on ’im, ’oping she’d turn up, and I fink ’e thought she’d just melt or somefing when ’e did that, and that’d be the end of Roy… like that’s all it takes, to walk out on a kid and a marriage, a little wooden doll… ’E said some nasty stuff about Margot to Irene… prick tease was the least of it…
“Anyway, after Margot went missing and the police got called in, Satchwell rings Irene up and says not to mention anyfing ’e’d said about being angry at Margot, and she begged ’im never to tell anyone about the both of ’em, and that’s ’ow they left it. And I was the only one ’oo knew, and I kept me mouth shut, too, because… well, that’s what you do when it’s a friend, isn’t it?”
“So when Charlie Ramage said he’d seen Margot in Leamington Spa,” said Strike, “were you aware—?”
“—that that’s where Satchwell come from? Not then, I wasn’t, not when Charlie first told me. But not long after, there was a news story about some old geezer in Leamington Spa what ’ad put up a sign in ’is front garden. ‘Whites united against colored invasion’ or some such ’orrible thing. Me and Larry was out for dinner with Eddie and Irene, and
Eddie’s talking about this old racist in the news, and then, when Irene and I went to the loo, she says to me, ‘Leamington Spa, that’s where Paul Satchwell was from.’ She ’adn’t mentioned ’im to me in ages.
“I won’t lie, it give me a proper uncomfortable feeling, ’er telling me that, because I thought, oh my Gawd, what if Charlie really did see Margot? What if Margot ran off to be with ’er ex? But then I fort, ’ang on, though: if Margot only went as far as Leamington Spa, ’ow come she ’asn’t never been seen since? I mean, it’s ’ardly Timbuktu, is it?”
“No,” said Strike. “It isn’t. And is that all Irene’s ever told you about Margot and Satchwell?”
“It’s enough, innit?” said Janice. Her pink and white complexion seemed more faded than when Strike had arrived, the veins beneath her eyes darker. “Look, don’t give Irene an ’ard time. Please. She don’t seem it, but she’s soft under all that silly stuff. She worries, you know.”
“I can’t see why I’d have to give her a hard time,” said Strike. “Well, you’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Beattie. Thank you. That clears up quite a few points for me.”
Janice slumped backward on the sofa, frowning at Strike.
“You smoke, don’t you?” she said abruptly. “I can smell it off you. Didn’t they stop you smoking after you ’ad that amputation?”
“They tried,” said Strike.
“Very bad for you,” she said. “Won’t ’elp wiv your mobility, either, as you get older. Bad for your circulation and your skin. You should quit.”
“I know I should,” said Strike, smiling at her as he returned his notebook to his pocket.
“Hmm,” said Janice, her eyes narrowed. “‘ ’Appened to be in the area,’ my Aunt Fanny.”
51
… neuer thinke that so
That Monster can be maistred or destroyd:
He is not, ah, he is not such a foe,
As steele can wound, or strength can ouerthroe.
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
The domed turrets of the Tower of London rose behind the wall of dirty yellow brick, but Robin had no attention to spare for ancient landmarks. Not only was the meeting she’d set up without Strike’s knowledge supposed to start in thirty minutes’ time, she was miles from where she’d expected to be at one o’clock, and completely unfamiliar with this part of London. She ran with her mobile in her hand, glancing intermittently at the map on its screen.
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