Page 149 of Troubled Blood

“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 Citroën with his right hand still concealing his mouth and set off in a southerly direction.

Strike tailed the Citroën 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.

“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.

---