“Great,” said Strike, as they set off together. “Sorry for earlier, I—”
“No, it’s fine,” said Robin, “I know we really need results soon.”
But Strike thought he detected a slight coolness.
“Al pissed me off,” he explained. “So I might’ve been a bit—”
“Cormoran, it’s fine,” repeated Robin, but with a smile that reassured Strike.
“Great news about the mediation,” he said.
“Yes,” said Robin, though she didn’t look particularly pleased. “So, what d’you think’s the best tack to take with Betty Fuller?”
“Be honest and direct about who we are and what we’re investigating,” said Strike, “and then play it by ear, I think. And hope to Christ she’s not demented…”
Priory House was a modern, multi-level building with a shared garden at the back. As they approached the front doors, a middle-aged couple came out; they had the relieved look of people who’d just done their duty, and, smiling at Strike and Robin, they held open the door to let them walk inside.
“Thanks very much,” said Robin, smiling at them, and as the couple walked on, she heard the woman say,
“At least she remembered who we are, this time…”
Had it not been for the mobility scooters, the place would have resembled a hall of residence, with its hardy dark gray carpet underfoot, its bulletin board bristling with pamphlets and a depressing smell of communal cooking hanging in the air.
“She’s on the ground floor,” said Robin, pointing toward a corridor. “I checked the names on the buzzer.”
They passed a number of identical pine doors until they reached the one with “Elizabeth Fuller” printed on a card in a metal holder. Through the wood came the muffled sounds of voices. Just as it had been when he’d visited Janice Beattie, the TV was turned up very high inside. Strike rapped hard on the door.
After a lengthy wait, the door opened very slowly to reveal a panting old lady wearing a nasal cannula, who’d pulled her oxygen tank to the door with her. Over her shoulder, Strike saw a TV blaring the reality show The Only Way is Essex.
“I’m fine. You just upset me, Arg,” a heavily made-up girl in bright blue was saying onscreen.
Betty Fuller looked as though she’d been subject to heavier gravity than the rest of humankind. Everything about her had sagged and drooped: the corners of her lipless mouth, her papery eyelids, her loose jowls, the tip of her thin nose. It appeared that the flesh had been sucked down out of her upper body into her lower: Betty had almost no bust, but her hips were broad and her poor bare legs were immensely swollen, both ankles thicker than her neck. She wore what looked like a pair of men’s slippers and a dark green knitted dress on which there were several stains. A yellowish scalp was clearly visible through the sparse gray hair slicked back off her face and a hearing aid was prominent in her left ear.
“Who’re you?” she wheezed, looking from Robin to Strike.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Fuller,” said Strike loudly and clearly, “my name’s Cormoran Strike and this is Robin Ellacott.”
He pulled his driver’s license out of his pocket and showed it to her, with his card. She made an impatient gesture, to show she couldn’t read them; her eyes were milky with glaucoma.
“We’re private detectives,” said Strike, voice still raised over the arguing pair on-screen (“At the end of the day, Lucy, she slept, on a one-night stand, wiv a boy—” “Arg—Arg—Arg—this is irrelevant—”).
“We’ve been hired to try and find out what happened to Margot Bamborough. She was a doctor who—”
“’Oo?”
“Dr. Margot Bamborough,” Strike repeated, still more loudly. “She went missing from Clerkenwell in 1974. We heard you—”
“Oh yeah…” said Betty Fuller, who appeared to need to draw breath every few words. “Dr. Bamborough… yeah.”
“Well, we wondered whether we could talk to you about her?”
Betty Fuller stood there for what seemed a very long twenty seconds, thinking this over, while onscreen a young man in a maroon suit said to the over-made-up girl, “I didn’t wanna bring it up but you come over to me—”
Betty Fuller made an impatient gesture, turned and shuffled back inside. Strike and Robin glanced at each other.
“Is it all right to come in, Mrs. Fuller?” asked Strike loudly.
She nodded. Having carefully positioned her oxygen tank, she fell back into her armchair, then tugged the knitted dress in an effort to make it cover her knees. Strike and Robin entered the room and Strike closed the door. Watching the old lady struggle to pull her dress down, Robin had an urge to take a blanket off the unmade bed, and place it decorously over her lap.
Robin had discovered during her research that Betty was eighty-four. The old lady’s physical state shocked her. The small room smelled of BO and urine. A door showed a small toilet leading off the single bedroom. Through the open wardrobe door, Robin saw crumpled clothes which had been thrown there, and two empty wine bottles, half hidden in underwear. There was nothing on the walls except a cat calendar: the month of May showed a pair of ginger kittens peeking out from between pink geranium blossoms.
“Would it be all right to turn this down?” Strike shouted over the TV, where the couple onscreen continued to argue, the woman’s eyelashes as thick as wooly bear caterpillars.
“Turn it… off,” said Betty Fuller. “’S a recording.”
The Essex voices were suddenly extinguished. The two detectives looked around. There were only two choices for seats: the unmade bed and a hard, upright chair, so Robin took the former, Strike the latter. Removing his notebook from his pocket, Strike said,
“We’ve been hired by Dr. Bamborough’s daughter, Mrs. Fuller, to try and find out what happened to her.”
Betty Fuller made a noise like “hurhm,” which sounded disparaging, although Strike thought it might also have been an attempt to clear phlegm out of her throat. She rocked slightly to one side in her chair and pulled ineffectually at the back of her dress. Her swollen lower legs were knotted with varicose veins.
“So, you remember Dr. Bamborough disappearing, do you, Mrs. Fuller?”
“…’es,” she grunted, still breathing heavily. In spite of her incapacity and unpromising manner, Strike had the impression of somebody both more alert than they might appear at first glance, and happier to have company and attention than the unprepossessing exterior might suggest.
“You were living in Skinner Street then, weren’t you?”
She coughed, which seemed to clear her lungs, and in a slightly steadier voice, she said,
“Was there till… last year. Michael Cliffe…’Ouse. Top floor. Couldn’t manage, no more.”
Strike glanced at Robin; he’d expected her to lead the interrogation, assumed Betty would respond better to a woman, but Robin seemed oddly passive, sitting on the bed, her gaze wandering over the small room.
“Were you one of Dr. Bamborough’s patients?” Strike asked Betty.
“Yeah,” wheezed Betty. “I was.”
Robin was thinking, is this where single people end up, people without children to look out for them, without double incomes? In small boxes, living vicariously through reality stars?
Next Christmas, no doubt, she’d run into Matthew, Sarah and their new baby in Masham. She could just imagine Sarah’s proud strut through the streets, pushing a top-of-the-range pushchair, Matthew beside her, and a baby with Sarah’s white-blonde hair peeking over the top of the blankets. Now, when Jenny and Stephen ran into them, there’d be common ground, the shared language of parenthood. Robin decided there and then, sitting on Betty Fuller’s bed, to make sure she didn’t go home next Christmas. She’d offer to work through it, if necessary.
“Did you like Dr. Bamborough?” Strike was asking Betty.
“She were… all right,” said Betty.
“Did you ever meet any of the other doctors at the practice?” asked Strike.
B
etty Fuller’s chest rose and fell with her labored breathing. Though it was hard to tell with the nasal cannula in the way, Strike thought he saw a thin smile.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Which ones?”
“Brenner,” she said hoarsely, and coughed again. “Needed an ’ouse call…’mergency… she weren’t available.”
“So Dr. Brenner came out to see you?”
“Hurhm,” said Betty Fuller. “Yeah.”
There were a few small, cheaply framed photographs on the windowsill, Robin noticed. Two of them showed a fat tabby cat, presumably a lamented pet, but there were also a couple showing toddlers, and one of two big-haired teenaged girls, wearing puff-sleeved dresses from the eighties. So you could end up alone, in near squalor, even if you had children? Was it solely money, then, that made the difference? She thought of the ten thousand pounds she’d be receiving into her bank account later that week, which would be reduced immediately by legal bills and council tax. She’d need to be careful not to fritter it away. She really needed to start saving, to start paying into a pension.
“You must have been seriously unwell, were you?” Strike was asking Betty. “To need a house call?”
He had no particular reason for asking, except to establish a friendly conversational atmosphere. In his experience of old ladies, there was little they enjoyed more than discussing their health.
Betty Fuller suddenly grinned at him, showing chipped yellow teeth.
“You ever taken it… up the shitter… with a nine-inch cock?”
Only by exercising the utmost restraint did Robin prevent herself letting out a shocked laugh. She had to hand it to Strike: he didn’t so much as grin as he said,
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well,” wheezed Betty Fuller, “you can… take it from me… fuckin’… agony… geezer went at me… like a fucking power drill… split my arsehole open.”
She gasped for air, half-laughing.
“My Cindy ’ears me moanin’… blood… says ‘Mum, you gotta… get that seen to…’ called… doctor.”
“Cindy’s your—”
“Daughter,” said Betty Fuller. “Yeah… got two. Cindy and Cathy…”
“And Dr. Brenner came out to see you, did he?” asked Strike, trying not to dwell on the mental image Betty had conjured.
“Yeah… takes a look… sends me to A&E, yeah… nineteen stitches,” said Betty Fuller. “And I sat on… an ice pack… for a week… and no fuckin’ money… comin’ in… After that,” she panted, “no anal… unless they was… payin’ double and nuthin’ over… six inches… neither.”
She let out a cackle of laughter, which ended in coughs. Strike and Robin were carefully avoiding looking at each other.
“Was that the only time you met Dr. Brenner?” asked Strike, when the coughing had subsided.
“No,” croaked Betty Fuller, thumping her chest. “I seen ’im regular… ev’ry Friday night… for monfs… after.”
She didn’t seem to feel any qualms about telling Strike this. On the contrary, Strike thought she seemed to be enjoying herself.
“When did that arrangement start?” asked Strike.
“Couple o’ weeks… after ’e seen me… for me arse,” said Betty Fuller. “Knocked on me door… wiv ’is doctor’s bag… pretendin’ ’e’d… come to check… then ’e says… wants a regular ’pointment. Friday night…’alf past six… tell the neighbors… medical… if they ask…”
Betty paused to cough noisily. When she’d quelled her rattling chest, she went on,
“… and if I told anyone…’e’d go to the cops… say I was… extorting ’im…”
“Threatened you, did he?”
“Yeah,” panted Betty Fuller, though without rancor, “but ’e wasn’t… try’na get it… free… so I kep’… me mouf shut.”
“You never told Dr. Bamborough what was going on?” asked Robin.
Betty looked sideways at Robin who, in Strike’s view, had rarely looked as out of place as she did sitting on Betty’s bed: young, clean and healthy, and perhaps Betty’s drooping, occluded eyes saw his partner the same way, because she seemed to resent both question and questioner.
“’Course I fuckin’… didn’t. She tried ta get me to… stop working… Brenner… easiest job of the week.”
“Why was that?” asked Strike.
Betty laughed wheezily again.
“’E liked me… lyin’ still, like I was… coma… playin’ dead. ’E fucked me… sayin’ ’is dirty words… I pretended… couldn’t ’ear… except once,” said Betty, with a half-chuckle, half-cough, “the bleedin’ fire alarm… went off ’alfway… I said… in ’is ear… ‘I’m not stayin’ dead… if we’re on fuckin’ fire… I’ve got kids… next room…’ ’E was livid… turned out it was… false alarm…”
She cackled, then coughed again.
“D’you think Dr. Bamborough suspected Dr. Brenner of visiting you?” asked Robin.
“No,” said Betty, testily, with another sideways glance. “’Course she fuckin’ didn’t… was eivver of us gonna tell ’er?”
“Was Brenner with you,” asked Strike, “the night she went missing?”
“Yeah,” said Betty Fuller indifferently.
“He arrived and left at the usual times?”
“Yeah,” said Betty again.
“Did he keep visiting you, after Dr. Bamborough disappeared?”
“No,” said Betty. “Police… all over the surgery… no, ’e stopped comin’… I ’eard…’e retired, not long after… Dead now, I s’pose?”
“Yes,” said Strike, “he is.”
The ruined face bore witness to past violence. Strike, whose own nose had been broken, was sure Betty’s hadn’t originally been the shape it was now, with its crooked tip.
“Was Brenner ever violent to you?”
“Never.”
“While your—arrangement was going on,” said Strike, “did you ever mention it to anyone?”
“Nope,” said Betty.
“What about after Brenner retired?” asked Strike. “Did you happen to tell a man called Tudor Athorn?”
“Clever, aincha?” said Betty, with a cackle of mild surprise. “Yeah, I told Tudor…’e’s long gawn, ’s well… used to drink… wiv Tudor. ’Is nephew’s… still round ’ere… grown up… I seen ’im… about. Retarded,” said Betty Fuller.
“In your opinion,” said Strike, “given what you know about Brenner, d’you think he’d have taken advantage of a patient?”
There was a pause. Betty’s milky eyes surveyed Strike.
“On’y… if she was out cold.”
“Not otherwise?” said Strike.
Taking a deep breath of oxygen through her crooked nose, Betty said,
“Man like that… when there’s one fing… what really… gets ’im off… that’s all ’e wants…”
“Did he ever want to drug you?” asked Strike.
“No,” said Betty, “didn’t need to…”
“D’you remember,” asked Strike, turning a page in his notebook, “a social worker called Wilma Bayliss?”
“Colored girl?” said Betty. “Yeah… you smoke, dontcha?” she added. “Can smell it… give us one,” she said, and out of the wrecked old body came a whiff of flirtatiousness.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Strike, smiling. “Seeing as you’re on oxygen.”
“Oh fuck off, then,” said Betty.
“Did you like Wilma?”
“’Oo?”
“Wilma Bayliss, your social worker.”
“She were… like they all are,” said Betty, with a shrug.
“We spoke to Mrs. Bayliss’s daughters recently,” said Strike. “They were telling us about the threatening notes that were sent to Dr. Bamborough, before she disappeared.”
Betty breathed in and out, her collapsed chest doing its valiant best for her, and a small squeak issued from her ruined lungs.
“Do you know anything abou
t those notes?”
“No,” said Betty. “I ’eard… they’d bin sent. Everyone ’eard, round ’ere.”
“Who did they hear it from?”
“Probably that Irene Bull…”
“You remember Irene, do you?”
With many more pauses to catch her breath, Betty Fuller explained that her youngest sister had been in the same year as Irene at school. Irene’s family had lived in a road off Skinner Street: Corporation Row.
“Thought…’er shit… smelled of roses… that one,” said Betty. She laughed, but then broke yet again into a volley of hoarse coughs. When she’d recovered, she said, “The police… asked ’em all… not to talk… but the mouth on… that girl… everyone knew… there’d been threats made.”
“According to Wilma’s daughters,” said Strike, watching for Betty’s reaction, “you knew who sent those notes.”
“No, I never,” said Betty Fuller, no longer smiling.
“You were sure Marcus Bayliss hadn’t sent them, though?”
“Marcus never…’e was a lovely… y’know, I always liked… a darkie, me,” said Betty Fuller, and Robin, hoping Betty hadn’t seen her wince, looked down at her hands. “Very ’andsome… I’d’ve given it…’im for free… hahaha… big, tall man,” said Betty wistfully, “… kind man… no, ’e never freatened no doctor.”
“So who d’you think—”
“My second girl… my Cathy…” continued Betty, “determinedly deaf, ’er dad was a darkie… dunno ’oo ’e was… condom split… I kept ’er ’cause… I like kids, but… she don’t give a shit… about me. Smackhead!” said Betty fiercely. “I never touched it… seen too many… go that way… stole from me… I told ’er… keep the fuck… my ’ouse…”
“Cindy’s good,” gasped Betty. She was fighting her breathlessness now, though still relishing Strike’s captive attention. “Cindy… drops by. Earning… decent money…”
“Really?” said Strike, playing along, waiting for his opportunity. “What does Cindy do?”
“Escort,” wheezed Betty. “Lovely figure… up West… makin’ more’n I ever… Arabs an’ whatnot… but she says…‘Ma, you wouldn’t… like it these days… all they want… is anal.’” Betty cackled, coughed and then, without warning, turned her head to look at Robin perched on the bed and said with vitriol: “She don’t find it… funny, this one… do you?” she demanded of Robin, who was taken aback. “’S’pect… you give it away… for meals an’ jewelry… an’ fink it’s… fink it’s free… look at ’er face,” wheezed Betty, eyeing Robin with dislike, “you’re the same as…? the sniffy fuckin’… social worker… we ’ad round… when I… minding Cathy’s kids… gorn now,” said Betty, angrily. “Took into care…
Troubled Blood: A Cormoran Strike Novel Page 72