Was it wonderful for Cynthia, Robin wondered, as Anna’s stepmother pulled up a chair, and she declined a piece of the cake which, it transpired, Oonagh had gone out in the rain to purchase. How did it feel to have Margot Bamborough back, even in the form of a skeleton in a box? Did it hurt to see her husband so shaken and emotional, and to have to receive Oonagh, Margot’s best friend, into the heart of the family, like a newly discovered aunt? Robin, who seemed to be on something of a clairvoyant streak, felt sure that if Margot had never been killed, but had simply divorced Roy, Cynthia would never have been the hematologist’s choice of second wife. Margot would probably have begged the young Cynthia to accompany her into her new life, and continue looking after Anna. Would Cynthia have agreed, or would her loyalties have lain with Roy? Where would she have gone, and who would she have married, once there was no place for her at Broom House?
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 results 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.”