“Cormoran Strike here. Who’s this?”
“Clare Spencer, the Athorns’ social worker. You left a message for me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Strike, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down. “Thanks for getting back to me, Mrs.—er—Ms. Spencer.”
“Mrs.,” she said, sounding very slightly amused. “Can I just ask—are you the Cormoran Strike?”
“I doubt there are many others,” said Strike.
He reached for his cigarettes, then pushed them away again. He really did need to cut down.
“I see,” said Clare Spencer. “Well, it was a bit of a shock to get a message from you. How d’you know the Athorns?”
“Their name came up,” said Strike, thinking how very inaccurate a statement that was, “in the course of a case I’m investigating.”
“Was it you who went into their downstairs neighbor’s shop, and threatened him?”
“I didn’t threaten him,” said Strike. “But his attitude seemed aggressive, so I pointed out that they had friends who might take it amiss if he bullied them.”
“Ha,” said Clare, sounding warmer. “He’s a horror, that man. He’s been trying to get them out of that flat for ages. Wants to buy the whole building. He removed a supporting wall, then tried to blame Deborah and Samhain for his ceiling sagging. He’s caused them a lot of stress.”
“The flat was—” Strike almost said “mucked out,” but tried to find a politer way of saying it, “—thoroughly cleaned recently, he said?”
“Yes. I’m not denying it was pretty messy, but we’ve sorted that out now, and as for saying they’ve caused structural damage, we got a surveyor in who went through the whole place and agreed there’s nothing wrong with it. What a chancer the man is. Anyway, you did a good thing, there, warning him off. He thinks because they haven’t got many close relatives, he can get away with browbeating them. So, what’s this case you’re investigating?”
Briefly, Strike told her about Margot Bamborough, her disappearance in 1974, and the information that had led him to the Athorns’ door.
“… and so,” he concluded, “I wanted to talk to someone who could tell me how much reliance I can put on what they’ve told me.”
There was a brief silence.
“I see,” said Clare, who sounded a little more guarded now. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve got a duty of confidentiality as their social worker, so—”
“Could I ask you some questions? And if you can’t answer, obviously I’ll accept that.”
“All right,” she said. He had the impression that his actions with regard to the bullying ironmonger had put her on his side.
“They’re clearly competent to live alone,” said Strike.
“With support, yes,” said Clare. “They’ve done very well, actually. They’ve got a strong mutual bond. It’s probably kept both of them out of institutionalized care.”
“And what exactly—?” Strike wondered how to word the question sensitively. Clare came to his aid.
“Fragile X syndrome,” she said. “Deborah’s relatively high-functioning, although she’s got some social difficulties, but she can read and so forth. Samhain copes better socially, but his cognitive impairment’s greater than his mother’s.”
“And the father, Gwilherm—?”
Clare laughed.
“I’ve only been their social worker for a couple of years. I never knew Gwilherm.”
“You can’t tell me how sane he was?”
There was a longer pause.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose… it seems to be common knowledge that he was very odd. Various family members have spoken to me about him. Apparently he thought he could hex people. With black magic, you know.”
“Deborah told me something I found… slightly concerning. It involved a doctor called Dr. Brenner, who was a partner of Dr. Bamborough’s at the St. John’s practice. She might’ve been referring to a medical examination, but—”
He thought Clare had said something.
“Sorry?”
“No, nothing. What exactly did she tell you?”
“Well,” said Strike, “she mentioned having to take her pants off, and not wanting to, but she said Gwilherm told her she had to. I assumed—”
“This was a doctor?”
“Yes,” said Strike.
There was another, longer pause.
“I don’t really know what to tell you,” said Clare finally. “It’s possible that was a medical examination, but… well, a lot of men used to visit that flat.”
Strike said nothing, wondering whether he was being told what he thought he was being told.
“Gwilherm had to get drink and drugs money somewhere,” said Clare. “From what Deborah’s disclosed to social workers over the years, we think he was—well, not to put too fine a point on it, we think he was pimping her out.”
“Christ,” muttered Strike, in disgust.
“I know,” said Clare. “From bits and piece she’s told caregivers, we think Gwilherm used to take Samhain out whenever she was with a client. It is dreadful. She’s so vulnerable. On balance, I can’t be sorry Gwilherm died young. But please—don’t mention any of this to Deborah’s family, if you speak to them. I’ve no idea how much they know, and she’s happy and settled these days. There’s no need to upset anyone.”
“No, of course not,” said Strike, and he remembered Samhain’s words: old Joe Brenner was a dirty old man.
“How reliable would you say Samhain’s memory is?”
“Why? What’s he told you?”
“A couple of things his Uncle Tudor said.”
“Well, people with Fragile X usually have quite good long-term memories,” said Clare cautiously. “I’d say he’d be more reliable about things his Uncle Tudor told him than on many subjects.”
“Apparently Uncle Tudor had a theory about what happened to Margot Bamborough. It involved some people called ‘Nico and his boys.’”
“Ah,” said Clare, “yes. D’you know who that is?”
“Go on.”
“There was an old gangster who used to live in Clerkenwell,” said Clare, “called Niccolo Ricci. Samhain likes talking about ‘Nico and his boys.’ Like they’re folk heroes, or something.”
They talked for a couple more minutes, but Clare had nothing more of interest to tell.
“Well, thanks very much for getting back to me,” said Strike. “Social workers work Saturdays as well as detectives, I see.”
“People don’t stop needing help at weekends,” she said drily. “Good luck. I hope you find out what happened to that poor doctor.”
But he could tell by her tone, however friendly, that she thought it highly unlikely.
Strike’s headache had now settled into a dull throb that increased if he bent over or stood up too suddenly. He returned to his methodical arrangements for next day’s departure to Cornwall, emptying his fridge of perishables, making sandwiches for the trip; listening to the news, which told him that three people had died that day as a result of the adverse weather conditions; packing his kit bag; ensuring his emails were up to date, setting up an out-of-office message redirecting potential clients to Pat, and checking the rota, to make sure it had been altered to accommodate his absence. Through all these tasks he kept an ear out for his mobile, in case a text from Robin arrived, but nothing came.
Finally, at eight o’clock, while he was finishing cooking the fry-up he felt he was owed given his hangover and how hard he’d worked all day, his mobile buzzed at last. From across the table, he saw that three long consecutive texts had arrived. Knowing that he was leaving the following morning without any clear idea of when he’d be back, Robin appeared to have begun the reconciliation process as women were wont to do, with an essay on her various grievances. He opened the first message, magnanimously prepared to accept almost any terms for a negotiated peace, and only then realized that it was from an unknown number.
I thought today was Valentine’s day but I’ve
just realized it’s the 15th. They’ve got me on so many drugs in here I can hardly remember my name. I’m in a place again. This isn’t my phone. There’s another woman here who’s allowed one & she lent it to me. Yours is the only mobile number I know by heart. Why didn’t you ever change it? Was it because of me or is that my vanity. I’m so full of drugs I cant feel anything but I know I love you. I wonder how much they’d have to give me before that went too. Engouh to kill me I suppose.
The next message, from the same number, read:
How did you spent valentines day. Did you have sex. I’m here partly because I don’t want sex. I cant stand him touching me and I know he wants more kids. Id rather die than have more. Actually I’d rather die than most things. But you know that about me. Will I ever see you again? You could come and see me here. Today I imagined you walking in, like I did when your leg. I imagined you telling them to let me go because you loved me and you’d look after me. I cried and
The third message continued:
the psychiatrist was pleased to see me crying because they like emotion. I don’t know what the whole address is but it’s called Symonds House. I love you don’t forget me whatever hpapens to me. I love you.
A fourth and final message read:
It’s Charlotte in case that isn’t obvious.
Strike read the entire thread through twice. Then he closed his eyes, and like millions of his fellow humans, wondered why troubles could never come singly, but in avalanches, so that you became increasingly destabilized with every blow that hit you.
43
And you faire Ladie knight, my dearest Dame,
Relent the rigor of your wrathfull will,
Whose fire were better turn’d to other flame;
And wiping out remembrance of all ill,
Graunt him your grace…
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
To Robin’s relief, her three guests got up early the next morning, because they wanted to spend a full day in London. All were subdued after what Robin thought of as the Nightmare Dinner. She dreaded a tearful plea for forgiveness from Courtney, who seemed especially low, so Robin faked a cheery briskness she certainly didn’t feel, making recommendations for cheap places to eat and good things to see before waving the students off. As Robin was due to run surveillance on Elinor Dean overnight, she’d given Jonathan a spare key, and wasn’t sorry that she’d probably still be in Stoke Newington when the students returned to Manchester, because they intended to catch a mid-morning Sunday train.
Not wanting to be alone with Max, in case he wanted a post-mortem on the previous evening, Robin made herself a voluntary prisoner in her own bedroom all day, where she continued to work on her laptop, attempting to block out waves of anger toward Strike, and a tearfulness that kept threatening to overcome her. Hard as she tried to concentrate on finding out who’d been living in Jerusalem Passage when Margot had disappeared, however, her thoughts kept returning to her partner.
Robin wasn’t in the least surprised not to have heard from him, but was damned if she’d initiate contact. She couldn’t in good conscience retract a word of what she’d said after watching him vomit in the gutter, because she was tired of being taken for granted in ways Strike didn’t recognize.
But as the afternoon wore on, and the rain continued to fall outside her window, and while she hadn’t been nearly as drunk as Strike, she developed a dull headache. Equal parts of misery and rage dragged at her every time she remembered last night’s dinner, and all the things she’d shouted at Strike in the street. She wished she could cry, but the tightness in her chest prevented her doing so. Her anger boiled anew every time she remembered the drunk Strike attacking her guests, but then she found herself re-running Courtney and Kyle’s arguments in her head. She was sure none of the students had ever brushed up against the ugliness Robin had encountered, not merely under that dark stair in her hall of residence, but during her work with Strike: battered women, raped girls, death. They didn’t want to hear Strike’s stories, because it was so much more comforting to believe that language alone could remake the world. But none of that made her feel more kindly to her partner: on the contrary, she resented agreeing with him. He’d been looking for someone or something to attack, and it was she who’d paid the price.
Robin forced herself to keep working, because work was her one constant, her salvation. By eight in the evening, Robin was as sure as a thorough perusal of online records could make her that nobody living in Jerusalem Passage had been there for forty years. By this time, she was so hungry that she really did need to eat something, which she feared meant facing Max, and discussing Strike.
Sure enough, when she reached the living area, she found Max sitting watching TV with Wolfgang on his lap. He muted the news the moment he saw her, and Robin’s heart sank.
“Evening.”
“Hi,” said Robin. “I’m going to make myself something to eat. D’you want anything?”
“There’s still a bit of casserole, if you want it.”
“Strike didn’t finish it all, then?”
She mentioned him first in the spirit of getting it over with. She could tell that Max had things to say.
“No,” said Max. He lifted the sleepy Wolfgang onto the sofa beside him, stood up and moved to the kitchen. “I’ll heat it up for you.”
“There’s no need, I can—”
But Max did so, and when Robin was settled at the table with her food and a drink, he sat down at the table with her with a beer. This was highly unusual and Robin felt suddenly nervous. Was she being softened up for some kind of unwelcome announcement? Had Max decided, after all, to sell up?
“Never told you how I ended up in such a nice flat, did I?” he said.
“No,” said Robin cautiously.
“I had a big payout, five years ago. Medical negligence.”
“Oh,” said Robin.
There was a pause. Max smiled.
“People usually say, ‘Shit, what went wrong?’ But you never probe, do you? I’ve noticed that. You don’t ask a lot of questions.”
“Well, I have to do a lot of that at work,” said Robin.
But that wasn’t why she hadn’t asked Max about his finances, and it wasn’t why she didn’t ask now what had gone wrong with his body or his treatment, either. Robin had too many things in her own past that she didn’t want endlessly probed to want to cause other people discomfort.
“I was having palpitations seven years ago,” Max said, examining the label on his beer. “Arrhythmia. I got referred to a heart specialist and he operated: opened me up and ablated my sinus node. You probably don’t know what that is,” he said, glancing up at Robin, and she shook her head. “I didn’t either, until they ballsed mine up. Basically, they knackered my heart’s ability to beat for itself. I ended up having to be fitted with a pacemaker.”
“Oh no,” said Robin, a bit of beef suspended in mid-air on her fork.
“And the best bit was,” said Max, “none of it was necessary. There wasn’t anything wrong with my sinus node in the first place. Turned out I hadn’t been suffering from atrial tachycardia at all. It was stage fright.”
“I—Max, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t good,” said Max, taking a sip of his beer. “Two unnecessary open-heart surgeries, endless complications. I lost jobs, I was unemployed for four years and I’m still on anti-depressants. Matthew said I had to pursue a claim against the doctors. I probably wouldn’t have done, if he hadn’t nagged me. Lawyers’ fees. Ton of stress. But I won in the end, got a big payout, and he persuaded me to sink it all into a decent property. He’s a barrister, he earns great money. Anyway, we bought this place.”
Max pushed his thick blond hair out of his face and glanced down at Wolfgang, who’d trotted to the table to savor the smell of casserole once more.
“A week after we moved in, he sat me down and told me he was leaving. The ink was barely dry on the mortgage. He said he’d str
uggled against it, because he felt a loyalty to me, because of what I’d been through, but he couldn’t fight his feelings any longer. He told me,” said Max, with a hollow smile, “he’d realized pity wasn’t love. He wanted me to keep the flat, didn’t want me to buy him out—as if I could have done—so he signed over his half. That was to make him feel less guilty, obviously. And off he went with Tiago. He’s Brazilian, the new guy. Owns a restaurant.”
“That,” said Robin quietly, “sounds like hell.”
“Yeah, it was… I really need to stop looking at their bloody Instagram accounts.” Max heaved a deep sigh and absentmindedly rubbed the shirt over the scars on his chest. “Obviously I thought of just selling up, but we barely lived here together, so it’s not as though it’s got a ton of memories. I didn’t have the energy to go through more house-hunting and moving, so here I’ve stayed, struggling to make the mortgage every month.”
Robin thought she knew why Max was telling her all this, and her hunch was confirmed when he looked directly at her and said,
“Anyway, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about what happened to you. I had no idea. Ilsa only told me you were held at gunpoint—”
“Oh, I didn’t get raped then,” said Robin, and to Max’s evident surprise, she started to laugh. Doubtless it was her tiredness, but it was a relief to find dark comedy in this litany of terrible things humans did to each other, though none of it was really funny at all: his mutilated heart, the gorilla mask in her nightmares. “No, the rape happened ten years ago. That’s why I dropped out of university.”
“Shit,” said Max.
“Yeah,” said Robin, and echoing Max, she said, “it wasn’t good.”
“So when did the knife thing happen?” asked Max, eyes on Robin’s forearm, and she laughed again. Really, what else was there to do?
“That was a couple of years ago.”
“Working for Strike?”
“Yes,” said Robin, and she stopped laughing now. “Listen, about last night—”
“I enjoyed last night,” said Max.
Troubled Blood: A Cormoran Strike Novel Page 53
