Troubled Blood
“All right, boss?”
Strike, who didn’t particularly like Morris calling him “boss,” but couldn’t think of any way to ask him to stop without sounding like a dickhead, said,
“I want you to switch targets. Forget Shifty today; I’ve just followed a new guy who spent the night at Elinor Dean’s.” He gave Morris the address. “He’s second floor, flat on the far left as you’re looking at the building. Fortyish, graying hair, bit of a paunch. See what you can find out about him—chat up the neighbors, find out where he works and have a dig around online, see if you can find out what his interests are. I’ve got a hunch he and SB are visiting that woman for the same reason.”
“See, this is why you’re the head honcho. You take over for one night and crack the case.”
Strike wished Morris would stop brown-nosing him, too. When he’d hung up, he sat smoking for a while, while the wind nipped at his exposed flesh, and rain hit his face in what felt like icy needle pricks. Then, after checking the time to make sure his early-rising uncle would be awake, he phoned Ted.
“All right, boy?” said his uncle, over the crackling phone line.
“Fine. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” said Ted. “Just having some breakfast. Joanie’s still asleep.”
“How is she?”
“No change. Bearing up.”
“What about food, have you got enough?”
“We’re fine for food, don’t you worry about that,” said Ted. “Little Dave Polworth come over yesterday with enough to feed us for a week.”
“How the hell did he get to you?” asked Strike, who knew that a large chunk of the land between his aunt and uncle and Polworth’s house was under several feet of water.
“Rowed part of the way,” said Ted, sounding amused. “He made it sound like one of his Ironman competitions. All covered in oilskins he was when he got here. Big backpack full of shopping. He’s all right, that Polworth.”
“Yeah, he is,” said Strike, momentarily closing his eyes. It oughtn’t to be Polworth looking after his aunt and uncle. It should be him. He ought to have left earlier, knowing the weather was looking bad, but for months now he’d been juggling guilt about his aunt and uncle with the guilt he felt about the load he was putting on his subcontractors, and Robin especially. “Ted, I’ll be there as soon as they put the trains back on.”
“Aye, I know you will, lad,” said Ted. “Don’t worry about us. I won’t take you to her, because she needs her rest, but I’ll tell her you called. She’ll be chuffed.”
Tired, hungry and wondering where he might get some breakfast, Strike typed out a text to Dave Polworth, his cigarette jammed between his teeth, using the nickname he’d had for Polworth ever since the latter had got himself bitten by a shark at the age of eighteen.
Ted’s just told me what you did yesterday. I’ll never be able to repay all this, Chum. Thank you.
He flicked his cigarette end out of the car, wound up the window and had just turned on the engine when his mobile buzzed. Expecting to see a response from Polworth, doubtless asking him when he’d turned into such a poof or a big girl (Polworth’s language being always as far from politically correct as you could get), he looked down at the screen, already smiling in anticipation, and read:
Dad wants to call you. When would be a good time?
Strike read the text twice before understanding that it was from Al. At first, he felt only blank surprise. Then anger and profound resentment rose like vomit.
“Fuck off,” he told his phone loudly.
He turned out of the side street and drove away, jaw clenched, wondering why he should be hounded by Rokeby now, of all times in his life, when he was so worried about relatives who’d cared about him when there’d been no kudos to be gained from the association. The time for amends had passed; the damage was irreparable; blood wasn’t thicker than fucking water. Consumed by thoughts of frail Joan, with whom he shared no shred of DNA, marooned in her house on the hill amid floods, anger and guilt writhed inside him.
A matter of minutes later, he realized he was driving through Clerkenwell. Spotting an open café on St. John Street he parked, then headed through the rain into warmth and light, where he ordered himself an egg and tomato sandwich. Choosing a table by the window, he sat down facing the street, eye to eye with his own unshaven and stony-faced reflection in the rain-studded window.
Hangovers apart, Strike rarely got headaches, but something resembling one was starting to build on the left side of his skull. He ate his sandwich, telling himself firmly that food was making him feel better. Then, after ordering a second mug of tea, he pulled out his mobile again and typed out a response to Al, with the dual objective of shutting down Rokeby once and for all, and of concealing from both his half-brother and his father how much their persistence was disturbing his peace.
I’m not interested. It’s too late. I don’t want to fall out with you, but take this “no” as final.
He sent the text and then cast around immediately for something else to occupy his tired mind. The shops opposite were ablaze with red and pink: February the fourteenth was almost here. It now occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from Charlotte since he’d ignored her text at Christmas. Would she send him a message on Valentine’s Day? Her desire for contact seemed to be triggered by special occasions and anniversaries.
Automatically, without considering what he was doing, but with the same desire for comfort that had pushed him into this café, Strike pulled his phone out of his pocket again and called Robin, but the number was engaged. Shoving the mobile back in his pocket, stressed, anxious and craving action, he told himself he should make use of being in Clerkenwell, now he was here.
This café was only a short walk from the old St. John’s surgery. How many of these passers-by, he wondered, had lived in the area forty years previously? The hunched old woman in her raincoat with her tartan shopping trolley? The gray-whiskered man trying to flag down a cab? Perhaps the aging Sikh man in his turban, texting as he walked? Had any of them consulted Margot Bamborough? Could any of them remember a dirty, bearded man called something like Applethorpe, who’d roamed these very streets, insisting to strangers that he’d killed the doctor?
Strike’s absent gaze fell on a man walking with a strange, rolling gait on the opposite side of the road. His fine, mousy hair was rain-soaked and plastered to his head. He had neither coat nor umbrella, but wore a sweatshirt with a picture of Sonic the Hedgehog on the front. The lack of coat, the slightly lumbering walk, the wide, childlike stare, the slightly gaping mouth, the stoic acceptance of becoming slowly drenched to the skin: all suggested some kind of cognitive impairment. The man passed out of Strike’s line of vision as the detective’s mobile rang.
“Hi. Did you just call me?” said Robin, and Strike felt a certain release of tension, and decided the tea was definitely soothing his head.
“I did, yeah. Just for an update.”
He told her the story of the tracksuited man who’d visited Elinor Dean overnight.
“And he was covering up his mouth when he left? That’s weird.”
“I know. There’s definitely something odd going on in that house. I’ve asked Morris to dig a bit on the new bloke.”
“Pentonville’s right beside Clerkenwell,” said Robin.
“Which is where I am right now. Café on St. John Street. I th—think,” a yawn overtook Strike, “sorry—I think, seeing as I’m in the area, I might have another dig around on the late Applethorpe. Try and find someone who remembers the family, or knows what might’ve happened to them.”
“How’re you going to do that?”
“Walk the area,” said Strike, and he became conscious of his aching knee even as he said it, “have an ask around in any businesses that look long-established. I kn—know,” he yawned again, “it’s a long shot, but we haven’t got anyone else claiming to have killed Margot.”
“Aren’t you knackered?”
“Been worse. Where are you right now?”
“Office,” said Robin, “and I’ve got a bit of Bamborough news, if you’ve got time.”
“Go on,” said Strike, happy to postpone the moment when he had to go back out into the rain.
“Well, firstly, I’ve had an email from Gloria Conti’s husband. You know, the receptionist who was the last to see Margot? It’s short. ‘Dear Mr. Ellacott—’”
“Mister?”
“‘Robin’ often confuses people. ‘I write for my wife, who is been very afflicted by your communications. She has not proofs or information that concern Margot Bamborough and it is not convenient that you contact her at my offices. Our family is private and desires to remain like that. I would like your assurances that you will not contact my wife another time. Yours sincerely, Hugo Jaubert.’”