Page 100 of Troubled Blood

“Are you in pain?”

“No. I’m wondering whether it’d be worth trying to see Irene and Janice separately. I’d hoped never to have to talk to Irene Hickson again. At the very least, we should keep looking for a connection between Margot and Leamington Spa. Did you say you had another lead?”

“Not much of one. Amanda Laws—or Amanda White, as she was when she supposedly saw Margot at that window on Clerkenwell Road—answered my email. I’ll forward her reply if you want to read it, but basically she’s angling for money.”

“Is she, now?”

“She dresses it up a bit. Says she told the police and nobody believed her, told Oakden and he didn’t give her a penny, and she’s tired of not being taken seriously and if we want her story she’d like to be paid for it this time. She claims she’s endured a lot of negative attention, being called a liar and a fantasist, and she’s not prepared to go through all of that again unless she gets compensated.”

Strike made a second note.

“Tell her it isn’t the agency’s practice to pay witnesses for their cooperation,” said Strike. “Appeal to her better nature. If that doesn’t work, she can have a hundred quid.”

“I think she’s hoping for thousands.”

“And I’m hoping for Christmas in the Bahamas,” said Strike, as rain dotted the window behind him. “That all you’ve got?”

“Yes,” said Robin, closing her notebook.

“Well, I’ve drawn a blank on the Bennie-abusing patient who claimed to have killed Margot, Applethorpe. I think Irene must’ve got the name wrong. I’ve tried all the variants that’ve occurred to me, but nothing’s coming up. I might have to call her back. I’ll try Janice first, though.”

“You haven’t told me what you thought of the Oakden book.”

“Bog-standard opportunist,” said Strike, “who did well to squeeze ten chapters out of virtually nothing. But I’d like to track him down if we can.”

“I’m trying,” sighed Robin, “but he’s another one who seems to have vanished off the face of the planet. His mother seemed to be his primary source, didn’t she? I don’t think he persuaded anyone who really knew Margot to talk to him.”

“No,” said Strike. “You’d highlighted nearly all the interesting bits.”

“Nearly?” said Robin sharply.

“All,” Strike corrected himself.

“You spotted something else?”

“No,” said Strike, but seeing that she was unconvinced, he added, “I’ve just been wondering whether someone might’ve put a hit on her.”

“Her husband?” said Robin, startled.

“Maybe,” said Strike.

“Or are you thinking about the cleaner’s husband? Jules Bayliss, and his alleged criminal connections?”

“Not really.”

“Then why—”

“I just keep coming back to the fact that if she was killed, it was done very efficiently. Which might suggest—”

“—a contract killer,” said Robin. “You know, I read a biography of Lord Lucan recently. They think he hired someone to kill his wife—”

“—and the killer got the nanny by mistake,” said Strike, who was familiar with the theory. “Yeah. Well, if that’s what happened to Margot, we’re looking at an assassin a damn sight more efficient than Lucan’s. Not a trace of her left behind, not so much as a drop of blood.”

There was a momentary silence, while Strike glanced behind him to see the rain and wind still buffeting the Christmas lights outside, and Robin’s thoughts flew to Roy Phipps, the man whom Oonagh had called bloodless, conveniently bedridden on the day of Margot’s disappearance.

“Well, I need to get going,” said Strike, pushing himself up out of his chair.

“I should, too,” sighed Robin, collecting her things.

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