Troubled Blood: A Cormoran Strike Novel

by Galbraith, Robert

The second cat now entered the room, staring at the unusually large group it found inside. She picked her way past the armchairs, the ottoman and the sofa, jumped up onto the windowsill and sat with her back to them, watching the raindrops sliding down the window.

  “Now, listen,” said Kim, from the upright chair she’d brought out of a corner of the room, “we really do want to pay you for the extra month you put in. I know you said no—”

  “It was our choice to keep working on the case,” said Strike. “We’re glad to have helped and we definitely don’t want more money.”

  He and Robin had agreed that, as the Margot Bamborough case looked likely to pay for itself three times over in terms of publicity and extra work, and as Strike felt he really should have solved it sooner, taking more cash from Anna and Kim felt unnecessarily greedy.

  “Then we’d like to make a donation to charity,” said Kim. “Is there one you’d like us to support?”

  “Well,” said Strike, clearing his throat, “if you’re serious, Macmillan nurses…”

  He saw a slight look of surprise on the family’s faces.

  “My aunt died this year,” he explained, “and the Macmillan nurse gave her a lot of support.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Kim, with a slight laugh, and there was a little pause, in which the specter of Janice Beattie seemed to rise up in the middle of them, like the wisp of steam issuing from the teapot spout.

  “A nurse,” said Anna quietly. “Who’d suspect a nurse?”

  “Margot,” said Roy and Oonagh together.

  They caught each other’s eye, and smiled: a rueful smile, doubtless surprised at finding themselves in agreement at long last, and Robin saw Cynthia look away.

  “She didn’t like that nurse. She told me so,” said Oonagh, “but I got the woman confused with that blonde at the Christmas party who made a scene.”

  “No, she never took to the nurse,” said Roy. “She told me, too, when she joined the practice. I didn’t take much notice…”

  He seemed determined to be honest, now, however much it hurt.

  “… I thought it was a case of two women being too similar: both working class, both strong characters. When I met the woman at the barbecue, I actually thought she seemed quite… well… decent. Of course, Margot never told me her suspicions…”

  There was another silence, and everyone in the room, Strike was sure, was remembering that Roy hadn’t spoken to his wife at all in those few weeks before her murder, which was precisely the time period during which Margot’s suspicions of Janice must have crystallized.

  “Janice Beattie’s probably the best liar I’ve ever met,” Strike said, into the tense atmosphere, “and a hell of an actress.”

  “I’ve had the most extraordinary letter,” said Anna, “from her son, Kevin. Did you know he’s coming over from Dubai to testify against her?”

  “We did,” said Strike, who George Layborn was briefing regularly on the progress of the police investigation.

  “He wrote that he thinks Mum examining him saved his life,” said Anna.

  Robin noticed how Anna was now calling Margot “Mum,” when previously she’d only said “my mother.”

  “It’s a remarkable letter,” said Kim, nodding. “Full of apologies, as though it’s somehow his fault.”

  “Poor man,” said Oonagh quietly.

  “He says he blames himself for not going to the police about her, but what child would believe his mother’s a serial killer? I really can’t,” said Anna again, over the purring of Cagney the cat in Strike’s lap, “explain adequately to you both what you’ve done for me… for all of us. The not knowing’s been so terrible, and now I know for sure that Mum didn’t leave willingly and that she went… well, quite peacefully…”

  “As deaths go,” said Strike, “it was almost painless.”

  “And I know for sure she loved me,” said Anna.

  “We always—” began Cynthia, but her stepdaughter said quickly,

  “I know you always told me she did, Cyn, but without knowing what really happened, there was always going to be a doubt, wasn’t there? But when I compare my situation with Kevin Beattie’s, I actually feel lucky… D’you know,” Anna asked Strike and Robin, “what they found when they—you know—got Mum out of the concrete?”

  “No,” said Strike.

  Cynthia’s thin hands were playing with her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger.

  “The locket Dad gave her,” said Anna. “It’s tarnished, but when they opened it up, it had a picture of me in it, which was as good as new,” said Anna, and her eyes suddenly shone with tears again. Oonagh reached out and patted Anna on the knee. “They say I’ll be able to have it back, once they’ve completed all the forensics.”

  “How lovely,” said Robin quietly.

  “And did you hear what was in her handbag?” asked Kim.

  “No,” said Strike.

  “Notes from her consultation on Theo,” said Kim. “They’re completely legible—protected by the leather, you know. Her full name was Theodosia Loveridge and she was from a traveler family. Margot suspected an ectopic pregnancy and wanted to ring an ambulance, but Theo said her boyfriend would take her. Margot’s notes suggest Theo was scared of her family knowing she was pregnant. They don’t seem to have approved of the boyfriend.”

  “So that’s why she never came forward, afterward?” said Robin.

  “I suppose so,” said Kim. “Poor girl. I hope she was OK.”

  “May I ask,” said Roy, looking at Strike, “how strong you think the case against Janice Beattie is? Because—I don’t know what your police contacts have told you—but the latest we’ve heard is that forensics haven’t been able to prove Margot was drugged.”

  “Not so far,” said Strike, who’d spoken to George Layborn the previous evening, “but I’ve heard they’re going to try some new-fangled way of getting traces of drugs and chemicals out of the concrete surrounding the body. No guarantees, but it was used successfully in a case in the States recently.”

  “But if they can’t prove she was drugged,” said Roy, his expression intense, “the case against Janice is entirely circumstantial, isn’t it?”

  “Her lawyer’s certainly trying to get her off, judging by his comments to the press,” said Kim.

  “He’ll have his work cut out for him,” said Strike. “The defense has got to come up with reasons the police found a phone belonging to a non-existent social worker in her house, and why the Athorns had the number. The Athorns’ cousins in Leeds can identify her as the woman who helped them muck out the flat. Gloria Conti’s willing to come over to testify about the doughnut in the fridge and the vomiting attacks she and Wilma suffered, and Douthwaite’s going to take the stand—”

  “He is?” said Oonagh, her expression clearing. “Oh, that’s good, we’ve been worried about him—”

  “I think he finally realizes the only way out of this is going through with it,” said Strike. “He’s ready to testify that from the moment he started eating food prepared by Janice, he had symptoms of poisoning, and, most importantly, that during their last consultation, Margot advised him not to eat anything else prepared by Janice.

  “Then we’ve got Kevin Beattie testifying that his daughter drank bleach while Janice was supposedly looking after her, and that his mother used to feed him ‘special drinks’ that made him feel ill… What else?” said Strike, inviting Robin to continue, mainly so he could eat some cake.

  “Well, there are all the lethal substances they’ve taken out of Janice’s kitchen,” said Robin, “not to mention the fact that she tried to poison Cormoran’s tea when he went round there to confront her. There’s also the drugged food the police have found at Irene’s, and the framed photographs on her wall, including Joanna Hammond, who she claimed never to have met, and Julie Wilkes, who drowned at the Clacton-on-Sea Butlin’s. And the police are confident they’re going to be able to get forensic evidence out of other victims’ graves, even if Margot’s r
esults are inconclusive. Janice had her ex-partner, Larry, cremated, but his lover Clare was buried and she’s being exhumed.”

  “Personally,” said Strike, who’d managed to eat half his slice of chocolate cake while Robin was talking, “I think she’s going to die in jail.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” said Roy, looking relieved, and Cynthia said breathlessly,

  “Yes, no, definitely.”

  The cat at the window looked around and then, slowly, turned to face the rain again, while its twin pawed idly at Strike’s sweater.

  “You two will come to the funeral, won’t you?” asked Anna.

  “We’d be honored,” said Robin, because Strike had just taken another big mouthful of cake.

  “We’re, ah, leaving the arrangements up to Anna,” said Roy. “She’s taking the lead.”

  “I’d like Mum to have a proper grave,” said Anna. “Somewhere to visit, you know… all these years, without knowing where she is. I want her where I can find her.”

  “I can understand that,” said Strike.

  “You really don’t know what you’ve given me,” said Anna, for the third time. She’d reached out a hand to Oonagh, but she was looking at Cynthia. “I’ve got Oonagh, now, as well as Cyn, who’s been the most wonderful mother… Mum certainly chose the right person to raise me…”

  As Cynthia’s face crumpled, Strike and Robin both looked tactfully away, Robin at the cat at the window and Strike at the seascape over the mantelpiece. The rain drummed against the window, the cat in his lap purred, and he remembered the lily urn bobbing away. With a twist in his chest, and in spite of his satisfaction at having done what he’d set out to do, he wished he could have called Joan, and told her the end of Margot Bamborough’s story, and heard her say she was proud of him, one last time.

  73

  For naturall affection soone doth cesse,

  And quenched is with Cupids greater flame:

  But faithfull friendship doth them both suppresse,

  And them with maystring discipline doth tame,

  Through thoughts aspyring to eternall fame.

  For as the soule doth rule the earthly masse,

  And all the seruice of the bodie frame,

  So loue of soule doth loue of bodie passe,

  No lesse then perfect gold surmounts the meanest brasse.

  Edmund Spenser

  The Faerie Queene

  Robin woke a few days later to autumn sunshine streaming through the gap in her curtains. Glancing at her mobile, she saw to her amazement that it was ten in the morning, which meant she’d just enjoyed the longest sleep she’d had all year. Then she remembered why she was having a lie-in: today was the ninth of October, and it was her birthday.

  Ilsa had arranged a dinner in her honor the following evening, which was a Friday. Ilsa had chosen and booked the smart restaurant, to which she and Nick, Vanessa and her fiancé Oliver, Barclay, Hutchins and their wives, Max, his new boyfriend (the lighting director on his TV show) and Strike were all invited. Robin had no plans for today, her actual birthday, which Strike had insisted she take off. She now sat up in bed, yawning, and looked at the packages lying on her chest of drawers opposite, which were all from her family. The small package from her mother had the appearance of a piece of jewelry, doubtless in tribute to this milestone birthday. Just as she was about to get out of bed, her phone beeped and she saw a text from Strike.

  I know you’re supposed to be having a day off but something’s come up. Please can you meet me at the Shakespeare’s Head, Marlborough St, 5p.m. Dress smart, might need to go on somewhere upmarket.

  Robin read this twice, as though she might have missed a “happy birthday.” Surely—surely— he hadn’t forgotten again? Or did he think that, by planning to turn up at the dinner Ilsa had planned, he was doing all that was required, and the actual day of her birth required no acknowledgment? True, she felt at a slightly loose end without work and with none of her friends available, but Strike wasn’t to know that, so it was with very mixed feelings that she texted back: OK.

  However, when she arrived upstairs in her dressing gown to fetch a cup of tea, Robin found a large box sitting on the kitchen table, with a card on top of it, her name on the envelope in Strike’s unmistakeable cramped, hard-to-read writing. Max, she knew, had left the flat early to film outdoor scenes in Kent, taking Wolfgang with him, who’d sleep in the car and enjoy a lunchtime walk. As she hadn’t heard the doorbell, she had to conclude that Strike had somehow transferred both box and card to Max ahead of time, to surprise her with this morning. This argued degrees of planning and effort that seemed highly uncharacteristic. Moreover, she’d never received a proper card from Strike, not even when he’d bought her the green dress after solving their first case.

  The front of the birthday card was somewhat generic and featured a large glittery pink number thirty. Inside, Strike had written:

  Happy birthday. This isn’t your real present,

  you’ll get that later. (Not flowers)

  Love Strike x

  Robin looked at this message for far longer than it warranted. Many things about it pleased her, including the kiss and the fact that he’d called himself “Strike.” She set the card on the table and picked up the large box which, to her surprise, was so light it felt empty. Then she saw the product name on the side: Balloon in a Box.

  Opening the lid, she pulled out a balloon in the shape of a donkey’s head, tied by a thick ribbon to a weighted base. Grinning, she set it down on the table, made herself tea and breakfast, then texted Strike.

  Thanks for the balloon donkey. Perfect timing. My old one’s nearly deflated.

  She received an answer sixty seconds later.

  Great. I was worried it was so obvious, everybody would’ve got you one. See you at 5.

  Light-hearted now, Robin drank tea, ate her toast and returned downstairs to open her family’s presents. Everybody had bought her slightly more expensive versions of last year’s gifts, except for her parents, who’d sent a beautiful pendant: a single round opal, which was her birthstone, shimmering green and blue, surrounded by tiny diamonds. The accompanying card read: “Happy thirtieth, Robin. We love you, Mum and Dad x.”

  Robin felt her luck, these days, at having two loving parents. Her work had taught her how many people weren’t that fortunate, how many people had families that were broken beyond repair, how many adults walked around carrying invisible scars from their earliest childhood, their perceptions and associations forever altered by lack of love, by violence, by cruelty. So she called Linda to thank her, and ended up talking to her mother for over an hour: inconsequential chatter, most of it, but cheering, nevertheless. It was easier to ring home now that her divorce was over. Robin hadn’t told her mother that Matthew and Sarah were expecting a baby: she’d let Linda find that out in her own time, and work off her initial outrage out of Robin’s earshot.

  Toward the end of the call, Linda, who’d disapproved of Robin’s dramatic change of career ever since her first injury incurred on the job, mentioned the continuing press coverage concerning Margot Bamborough.

  “You really did an incredible thing, there,” said Linda. “You and, er… Cormoran.”

  “Thanks, Mum,” said Robin, as surprised as she was touched.

  “How’s Morris?” her mother asked, in a would-be casual tone.

  “Oh, we sacked him,” said Robin cheerfully, forgetting that she hadn’t told her mother that, either. “His replacement’s starting next week. Woman called Michelle Greenstreet. She’s great.”

  After showering, Robin returned to her bedroom to blow dry her hair properly, ate lunch watching TV, then returned downstairs to change into the figure-hugging blue dress that she’d last worn when persuading Shifty’s PA to give up her secrets. She added the opal necklace, which, since she’d left her engagement ring behind when leaving Matthew, was now the most valuable piece of jewelry she owned. The beautiful stone, with its iridescent flecks, lifted the appeara
nce of the old dress, and for once pleased with her appearance, Robin picked up the second of her handbags, which was slightly smarter than the one she usually took to the office, and went to pick up her mobile phone from her bedside table.

  The drawer of the bedside table was slightly open and, looking down, Robin glimpsed the Thoth tarot pack, sitting inside. For a moment, she hesitated; then, under the smiling eyes of the balloon donkey she’d installed in the corner of her bedroom, she checked the time on her phone. It was still early to leave the house, if she wanted to meet Strike in Marlborough Street at five. Setting down her bag, she took out the tarot pack, sat down on her bed and began shuffling the cards before turning the first card over and laying it down in front of her.

  Two swords intersected a blue rose against a green background. She consulted the Book of Thoth.

  Peace… The Two of Swords. It represents a general shaking-up, resulting from the conflict of Fire and Water in their marriage… This comparative calm is emphasized by the celestial attribution: the Moon in Libra…

  Robin now remembered that this first card was supposed to represent “the nature of the problem.”

  “Peace isn’t a problem,” she muttered, to the empty room. “Peace is good.”

  But of course, she hadn’t actually asked the cards a question; she’d simply wanted them to tell her something today, on the day of her birth. She turned over the second card, the supposed cause of the problem.

  A strange green masked female figure stood beneath a pair of scales, holding a green sword.

  Adjustment… This card represents the sign of Libra… she represents The Woman Satisfied. Equilibrium stands apart from any individual prejudices… She is therefore to be understood as assessing the virtue of every act and demanding exact and precise satisfaction…

  Robin raised her eyebrows and turned over the third and last card: the solution. Here again were the two entwined fish, which poured out water into two golden chalices floating on a green lake: it was the same card she’d turned over in Leamington Spa, when she still didn’t know who’d killed Margot Bamborough.