Page 160 of Troubled Blood

“Who’re these people?” he asked, but Samhain shrugged and Strike was confirmed in his suspicion that Samhain couldn’t read, no matter how proud he was of The Magus. He took a photo of the list with his phone, then turned to Samhain.

“It would really help me if you could remember what your Uncle Tudor said happened to the lady doctor.”

“Hahaha,” said Samhain, who was unwrapping another Penguin. “I’m not telling.”

“Your Uncle Tudor must have really trusted you, to tell you.”

Samhain chewed in silence for a while, then swallowed and said, with a proud little upward jerk of the chin, “Yer.”

“It’s good to have people you can trust with important information.”

Samhain seemed pleased with this statement. He ate his biscuit and, for the first time, glanced at Strike’s face. The detective had the impression that Samhain was enjoying another man’s presence in the flat.

“I did that,” he said suddenly and, walking to the sink, he picked up a small clay pot, which was holding a washing-up brush and a sponge. “I go to class on Tuesdays and we make stuff. Ranjit teaches us.”

“That’s excellent,” said Strike, taking it from him and examining it. “Where were you, when your uncle told you what happened to Dr. Bamborough?”

“At the football,” said Samhain. “And I made this,” he told Strike, prising a wooden photo frame off the fridge, where it had been attached with a magnet. The framed picture was a recent one of Deborah and Samhain, both of whom had a budgerigar perched on their finger.

“That’s very good,” said Strike, admiring it.

“Yer,” said Samhain, taking it back from him and slapping it on the fridge. “Ranjit said it was the best one. We were at the football and I heard Uncle Tudor telling his friend.”

“Ah,” said Strike.

“And then he said to me, ‘Don’t you tell no one.’”

“Right,” said Strike. “But if you tell me, I can maybe help the doctor’s family. They’re really sad. They miss her.”

Samhain cast another fleeting look at Strike’s face.

“She can’t come back now. People can’t be alive again when they’re dead.”

“No,” said Strike. “But it’s nice when their families know what happened and where they went.”

“My-Dad-Gwilherm died under the bridge.”

“Yes.”

“My Uncle Tudor died in the hospital.”

“You see?” said Strike. “It’s good you know, isn’t it?”

“Yer,” said Samhain. “I know what happened.”

“Exactly.”

“Uncle Tudor told me it was Nico and his boys done it.”

It came out almost indifferently.

“You can tell her family,” said Samhain, “but nobody else.”

“Right,” said Strike, whose mind was working very fast. “Did Tudor know how Nico and the boys did it?”

“No. He just knew they did.”

Samhain picked up another biscuit. He appeared to have no more to say.

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