Page 179 of Troubled Blood

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

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