Page 157 of Troubled Blood

“Why was he a dirty old man?” asked the detective.

“My Uncle Tudor told me,” said Samhain. “Dirty old man. Hahahaha. Is this mine?” he asked, picking up the envelope addressed to Clare Spencer.

“No,” said his mother. “That’s Clare’s.”

“Why is it?”

“I think,” said Strike, “it’s from your downstairs neighbor.”

“He’s a bastard,” said Samhain, putting the letter back down. “He made us throw everything away, didn’t he, Deborah?”

“I like it better now,” said Deborah mildly. “It’s good now.”

Strike allowed a moment or two to pass, in case Samhain had more to add, then asked,

“Why did Uncle Tudor say Joseph Brenner was a dirty old man?”

“Tudor knew everything about everyone,” said Deborah placidly.

“Who was Tudor?” Strike asked her.

“Gwilherm’s brother,” said Deborah. “He always knew about people round here.”

“Does he still visit you?” asked Strike, suspecting the answer.

“Passed-away-to-the-other side,” said Deborah, as though it was one long word. “He used to buy our shopping. He took Sammy to play football and to the swimming.”

“I do all the shopping now,” piped up Samhain. “Sometimes I don’t want to do the shopping but if I don’t, I get hungry, and Deborah says, ‘It’s your fault there’s nothing to eat.’ So then I go shopping.”

“Good move,” said Strike.

The three of them drank their hot chocolate.

“Dirty old man, Joe Brenner,” repeated Samhain, more loudly. “Uncle Tudor used to tell me some stories. Old Betty and the one who wouldn’t pay, hahahaha. Dirty old Joe Brenner.”

“I didn’t like him,” said Deborah quietly. “He wanted me to take my pants off.”

“Really?” said Strike.

While this had surely been a question of a medical examination, he felt uncomfortable.

“Yes, to look at me,” said Deborah. “I didn’t want it. Gwilherm wanted it, but I don’t like men I don’t know looking at me.”

“No, well, I can understand that,” said Strike. “You were ill, were you?”

“Gwilherm said I had to,” was her only response.

If he’d still been in the Special Investigation Branch, there would have been a female officer with him for this interview. Strike wondered what her IQ was.

“Did you ever meet Dr. Bamborough?” he asked. “She was,” he hesitated, “a lady doctor.”

“I’ve never seen a lady doctor,” said Deborah, with what sounded like regret.

“D’you know whether Gwilherm ever met Dr. Bamborough?”

“She died,” said Deborah.

“Yes,” said Strike, surprised. “People think she died, but no one knows for s—”

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