“How’re you spelling Ricci? R—I—C—C—I, right?”

“What’s this about?”

Strike tugged the copy of Whatever Happened to Margot Bamborough? out of his coat pocket, turned to the photographs of the practice Christmas party and held it out to Shanker, who took it suspiciously. He squinted for a moment at the partial picture of the man with the lion ring, then passed the book back to Strike.

“Well?” said Strike.

“Yeah, looks like ’im. Where’s that?”

“Clerkenwell. A doctors’ Christmas party.”

Shanker looked mildly surprised.

“Well, Clerkenwell, that was the old Sabini stamping ground, warn’t it? And I s’pose even gangsters need doctors sometimes.”

“It was a party,” said Strike. “Not a surgery. Why would Mucky Ricci be at a doctors’ party?”

“Dunno,” said Shanker. “Anyone need killing?”

“Funny you should ask that,” said Strike. “I’m investigating the disappearance of a woman who was there that night.”

Shanker looked sideways at him.

“Mucky Ricci’s gaga,” he said quietly. “Old man now, innit.”

“Still alive, though?”

“Yer. ’E’s in an ’ome.”

“How d’you know that?”

“Done a bit o’ business wiv ’is eldest, Luca.”

“Boys in the same line of work as their old man?”

“Well, there ain’t no Little Italy gang any more, is there? But they’re villains, yeah,” said Shanker. Then he leaned across the table and said quietly, “Listen to me, Bunsen. You do not wanna screw wiv Mucky Ricci’s boys.”

It was the first time Shanker had ever given Strike such a warning.

“You go fuckin’ wiv their old man, you try pinnin’ anyfing on ’im, the Ricci boys’ll skin ya. Understand? They don’t fuckin’ care. They’ll torch your fuckin’ office. They’ll cut up your girl.”

“Tell me about Mucky. Anything you know.”

“Did you ’ear what I just said, Bunsen?”

“Just tell me about him, for fuck’s sake.”

Shanker scowled.

“’Ookers. Porn. Drugs, but girls was ’is main thing. Same era as George Cornell, Jimmy Humphries, all those boys. That gold ring ’e wore, ’e used to say Danny the Lion gave it ’im. Danny Leo, the mob boss in New York. Claimed they were related. Dunno if it’s true.”

“Ever run across anyone called Conti?” Strike asked. “Probably a bit younger than Ricci.”

“Nope. But Luca Ricci’s a fuckin’ psycho,” said Shanker. “When did this bint disappear?”

“1974,” said Strike.

He expected Shanker to say “Nineteen seventy fucking four?,” to pour scorn on the likelihood of finding any kind of solution after all this time, but his old friend merely frowned at him, his clicking fingers recalling the relentless progress of the deathwatch beetle, and it occurred to the detective that Shanker knew more about old crimes and the long shadows they cast than many policemen.

“Name of Margot Bamborough,” said Strike. “She vanished on her way to the pub. Nothing ever found, no handbag, door keys, nothing. Never seen again.”

Shanker sipped his beer.

“Professional job,” he said.

“That occurred to me,” said Strike. “Hence—”

“Fuck your fucking ‘hence,’” said Shanker fiercely. “If the bint was taken out by Mucky Ricci or any of his boys, she’s past fuckin’ savin,’ in’t she? I know you like bein’ the boy scout, mate, but the last guy who pissed off Luca Ricci, his wife opened the door few days later and got acid thrown in her face. Blind in one eye, now.

“You wanna drop this, Bunsen. If Mucky Ricci’s the answer, you need to stop askin’ the question.”

28

Greatly thereat was Britomart dismayd,

Ne in that stownd wist, how her selfe to beare…

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

Somehow, Pat had managed to track down a vintage film projector. It had been promised for delivery at four, but Strike and Robin were still waiting for it at a quarter to six, at which time Robin told Strike she really did need to leave. She hadn’t yet packed for her trip home to Yorkshire, she wanted an early night before catching the train and, if she was honest, she was feeling insulted by Strike’s gift of unwrapped salted caramel chocolates, which he’d pulled hastily out of a Liberty bag when he saw her, and which she now suspected was the whole lousy reason he had forced her to come back to the office in the first place. As this had necessitated a long trip back to Denmark Street on a packed Tube, it was hard not to feel resentful about the time and trouble she had taken to find and wrap the DVD of two old Tom Waits concerts he’d mentioned wanting to watch, a few weeks previously. Robin had never heard of the singer: it had taken her some trouble to identify the man Strike had been talking about, and the concerts he’d never seen as those on No Visitors After Midnight. And in return, she got chocolates she was sure had been grabbed at random.

She left Strike’s present behind, untouched, in Max’s kitchen, before boarding the crowded train to Harrogate next morning. As she traveled north in her mercifully pre-booked seat, Robin tried to tell herself that her feeling of emptiness was merely tiredness. Christmas at home would be a wonderful break. She’d be meeting her new niece for the first time; there’d be lie-ins and home-cooked food and hours in front of the telly.

A toddler was shouting at the back of the carriage, his mother trying just as loudly to entertain and subdue him. Robin pulled out her iPod and put on headphones. She’d downloaded Joni Mitchell’s album, Court and Spark, which Oonagh had mentioned as Margot Bamborough’s favorite. Robin hadn’t yet had time to listen to it, or, indeed, to any other music, for weeks.

But Court and Spark didn’t soothe or cheer her. She found it unsettling, unlike anything she had ever listened to before. Expecting melodies and hooks, Robin was disappointed: everything felt unfinished, left open, unresolved. A beautiful soprano voice tumbled and swooped over piano or guitar chords that never led to anything as mundane as a chorus that you could settle into, or tap your foot to. You couldn’t hum along, you couldn’t have joined in unless you, too, could sing like Mitchell, which Robin certainly couldn’t. The words were strange, and evoked responses she didn’t like: she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt the things Mitchell sang about, and this made her feel defensive, confused and sad: Love came to my door, with a sleeping roll and a madman’s soul…

A few seconds into track three, she turned off the iPod and reached instead for the magazine she had brought with her. At the back of the carriage, the toddler was now howling.

Robin’s mood of mild despondency persisted until she got off the train, but when she saw her mother standing on the platform, ready to drive her back to Masham, she was overtaken by a wave of genuine warmth. She hugged Linda, and for almost ten minutes afterward, while they wended their way, chatting, toward the car, passing a café out of which jangling Christmas music was emanating, even the dour gray Yorkshire skies and the car interior, which smelled of Rowntree the Labrador, felt comforting and cheery in their familiarity.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Linda said, when she had closed the driver’s door. Instead of turning the key in the ignition, Linda turned to Robin, looking almost fearful.

A sickening jolt of panic turned Robin’s stomach upside down.

“What’s happened?” she said.

“It’s all right,” Linda said hastily, “everyone’s well. But I want you to know before we get back to Masham, in case you see them.”

“See who?”

“Matthew,” said Linda, “has brought… he’s brought that woman home with him. Sarah Shadlock. They’re staying with Geoffrey for Christmas.”

“Oh,” said Robin. “Christ, Mum, I thought someone had died.”

She hated the way Linda was looking at her. Though her insides had just grown cold, and the fragile happiness that had briefly kindled inside her had been snuffed out, she forced a smile and a tone of unconcern.

“It’s fine. I knew. Her ex-fiancé called me. I should’ve guessed,” she said, wondering why she hadn’t, “they might be here for Christmas. Can we get home, please? I’m dying for a cup of tea.”