Both Roy and Cynthia shook their heads.
“What about a patient called Steven Douthwaite?”
“No,” said Roy. “But we heard about him afterward, from the press.”
“Someone at the barbecue mentioned that Margot had been sent chocolates by a patient,” said Cynthia. “That was him, wasn’t it?”
“We think so. She never talked about Douthwaite, then? Never mentioned him showing an inappropriate interest in her, or told you he was gay?”
“No,” said Roy again. “There’s such a thing as patient confidenti-ality, you know.”
“This might seem an odd question,” said Strike, “but did Margot have any scars? Specifically, on her ribcage?”
“No,” said Roy, unsettled. “Why are you asking that?”
“To exclude one possibility,” said Strike, and before they could ask for further details, he said,
“Did Margot ever tell you she’d received threatening notes?”
“Yes,” said Roy. “Well, not notes in the plural. She told me she’d got one.”
“She did?” said Strike, looking up.
“Yes. It accused her of encouraging young women into promiscuity and sin.”
“Did it threaten her?”
“I don’t know,” said Roy. “I never saw it.”
“She didn’t bring it home?”
“No,” said Roy shortly. He hesitated, then said, “We had a row about it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. There can be serious consequences,” said Roy, turning redder, “societal consequences, when you start enabling things that don’t take place in nature—”
“Are you worried she told some girl it was OK to be gay?” asked Anna, and yet again Cynthia whispered, “Anna!”
“I’m talking,” said Roy, his face congested, “about giving reckless advice that might lead to marital breakdown. I’m talking about facilitating promiscuity, behind the backs of parents. Some very angry man had sent her that note, and she never seemed to have considered—considered—”
Roy’s face worked. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to shout, but then, most unexpectedly, he burst into noisy tears.
His wife, daughter and daughter-in-law sat, stunned, in a row on the sofa; nobody, even Cynthia, went to him. Roy was suddenly crying in great heaving gulps, tears streaming down over his sunken cheeks, trying and failing to master himself, and finally speaking through the sobs.
“She—never seemed—to remember—that I couldn’t—protect her—couldn’t—do anything—if somebody tried—to hurt—because I’m a useless—bleeder… useless… bloody… bleeder…”
“Oh Dad,” whispered Anna, horrified, and she slid off the sofa and walked to her father on her knees. She tried to place her hands on his leg, but he batted her consoling hands away, shaking his head, still crying.
“No—no—I don’t deserve it—you don’t know everything—you don’t know—”
“What don’t I know?” she said, looking scared. “Dad, I know more than you think. I know about the abortion—”
“There was never—never —never an abortion!” said Roy, gulping and sobbing. “That was the one—one thing Oonagh Kennedy and I—we both knew—she’d never—never—not after you! She told me—Margot told me—after she had you—changed her views completely. Completely!”
“Then what don’t I know?” whispered Anna.
“I was—I was c-cruel to her!” wailed Roy. “I was! I made things difficult! Showed no interest in her work. I drove her away! She was going to l-leave me… I know what happened. I know. I’ve always known. The day before—before she went—she left a message—in the clock—silly—thing we used to—and the note said —Please t-talk to me…”
Roy’s sobs overtook him. As Cynthia got up and went to kneel on Roy’s other side, Anna reached for her father’s hand, and this time, he let her hold it. Clinging to his daughter, he said,
“I was waiting—for an apology. For going to drink—with Satchwell. And because she hadn’t—written an apology—I didn’t t-talk to her. And the next day—
“I know what happened. She liked to walk. If she was upset—long walks. She forgot about Oonagh—went for a walk—trying to decide what to do—leave me—because I’d made her—so—so sad. She wasn’t—paying attention—and Creed—and Creed—must have…”
Still holding his hand, Anna slid her other arm around her father’s shaking shoulders and drew her to him. He cried inconsolably, clinging to her. Strike and Robin both pretended an interest in the flowered rug.
“Roy,” said Kim gently, at last. “Nobody in this room hasn’t said or done things they don’t bitterly regret. Not one of us.”
Strike, who’d got far more out of Roy Phipps than he’d expected, thought it was time to draw the interview to a close. Phipps was in such a state of distress that it felt inhumane to press him further. When Roy’s sobs had subsided a little, Strike said formally,
“I want to thank you very much for talking to us, and for the tea. We’ll get out of your hair.”
He and Robin got to their feet. Roy remained entangled with his wife and daughter. Kim stood up to show them out.
“Well,” Kim said quietly, as they approached the front door, “I have to tell you, that was… well, close to a miracle. He’s never talked about Margot like that, ever. Even if you don’t find out anything else… thank you. That was… healing.”
The rain had ceased and the sun had come out. A double rainbow lay over the woods opposite the house. Strike and Robin stepped outside, into clean fresh air.
“Could I ask you one last thing?” said Strike, turning back to Kim who stood in the doorway.
“Yes, of course.”
“It’s about that summer house thing in the garden, beside the koi pond. I wondered why it’s got a cross of St. John on the floor,” said Strike.
“Oh,” said Kim. “Margot chose the design. Yes, Cynthia told me, ages ago. Margot had just got the job at St. John’s—and funnily enough, this area’s got a connection to the Knights Hospitaller, too—”
“Yes,” said Robin. “I read about that, at Hampton Court.”
“So, she thought it would be a nice allusion to the two things… You know, now you mention it, I’m surprised nobody ever changed it. Every other trace of Margot’s gone from the house.”
“Expensive, though,” said Strike, “to remove slabs of granite.”
“Yes,” said Kim, her smile fading a little. “I suppose it would be.”
37
Spring-headed Hydres, and sea-shouldring Whales,
Great whirlpooles, which all fishes make to flee,
Bright Scolopendraes, arm’d with siluer scales
Mighty Monoceros, with immeasured tayles…
The dreadfull Fish, that hath deseru’d the name
Of Death…
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
Rain fell almost ceaselessly into February. On the fifth, the most savage storm yet hit the south. Thousands of homes lost power, part of the sea wall supporting the London-South West railway line collapsed, swathes of farmland disappeared under flood water, roads became rivers and the nightly news featured fields turned to seas of gray water and houses waist-deep in mud. The Prime Minister promised financial assistance, the emergency services scrambled to help the stranded, and high on her hill above the flooded St. Mawes, Joan was deprived of a promised visit from Strike and Lucy, because they were unable to reach her either by road or train.
Strike sublimated the guilt he felt for not heading to Cornwall before the weather rendered the journey impossible by working long hours and skimping on sleep. Masochistically, he chose to work back-to-back shifts, so that Barclay and Hutchins could take some of the leave due to them because of his previous trips to see Joan. In consequence, it was Strike, not Hutchins, who was sitting in his BMW in the everlasting rain outside Elinor Dean’s house in Stoke Newington on Wednesday evening the following week, and Strike who saw a man in a tracksuit knock on her door and be admitted.
Strike waited all night for the man to reappear. Finally, at six in the morning, he emerged onto the still dark street with his hand clamped over his lower face. Strike, who was watching him through night vision glasses, caught a glimpse of Elinor Dean in a cozy quilted dressing gown, waving him off. The tracksuited man hurried back to his Citro?n with his right hand still concealing his mouth and set off in a southerly direction.
Strike tailed the Citro?n until they reached Risinghill Street in Pentonville, where Strike’s target parked and entered a modern, red-brick block of flats, both hands now in his pockets and nothing unusual about his mouth as far as the detective could see. Strike waited until the man was safely inside, took a note of which window showed a light five minutes later, then drove away, parking shortly afterward in White Lion Street.
Early as it was, people were already heading off to work, umbrellas angled against the continuing downpour. Strike wound down the car window, because even he, inveterate smoker though he was, wasn’t enjoying the smell of his car after a night’s surveillance. Then, though his tongue ached from too much smoking, he lit up again and phoned Saul Morris.