Page 198 of Troubled Blood

“No,” said Satchwell, and Robin thought she detected a slight sense of relief. “That all sounds right.”

“Was it one of those friends who’d met Roy Phipps?” Robin asked casually.

“No,” said Satchwell, unsmiling, and then, changing the subject, he said, “Margot’s daughter must be knocking on forty now, is she?”

“Forty last year,” said Robin.

“Éla,” said Satchwell, shaking his head. “Time just—”

One of the mahogany brown hands, wrinkled and embellished with heavy silver and turquoise rings, made a smooth motion, as of a paper airplane in flight.

“—and then one day you’re old and you never saw it sneaking up on you.”

“When did you move abroad?”

“I didn’t mean to move, not at first. Went traveling, late ’75,” said Satchwell. He’d nearly finished his steak, now.

“What made you—?”

“I’d been thinking of traveling for a bit,” said Satchwell. “But after Creed killed Margot—it was such a bloody ’orrible thing—such a shock—I dunno, I wanted a change of scene.”

“That’s what you think happened to her, do you? Creed killed her?”

He put the last bit of steak into his mouth, chewed it and swallowed before answering.

“Well, yeah. Obviously at first I ’oped she’d just walked out on ’er husband and was ’oled up somewhere. But then it went on and on and… yeah, everyone thought it was the Essex Butcher, including the police. Not just the nutty one, the second one, the one who took over.”

“Lawson,” said Robin.

Satchwell shrugged, as much to say as the officer’s name didn’t matter, and asked,

“Are you going to interview Creed?”

“Hopefully.”

“Why would he tell the truth, now?”

“He likes publicity,” said Robin. “He might like the idea of making a splash in the newspapers. So Margot disappearing was a shock to you?”

“Well, obviously it was,” said Satchwell, now probing his teeth with his tongue. “I’d just seen her again and… I’m not going to pretend I was still in love with her, or anything like that, but… have you ever been caught up in a police investigation?” he asked her, with a trace of aggression.

“Yes,” said Robin. “Several. It was stressful and intimidating, every time.”

“Well, there you are,” said Satchwell, mollified.

“What made you choose Greece?”

“I didn’t, really. I ’ad an inheritance off my grandmother and I thought, I’ll take some time off, do Europe, paint… went through France and Italy, and in ’76 I arrived in Kos. Worked in a bar. Painted in my free hours. Sold quite a few pictures to tourists. Met my first wife… never left,” said Satchwell, with a shrug.

“Something else I wanted to ask you,” said Robin, moving the police statements to the bottom of her small stack. “We’ve found out about a possible sighting of Margot, a week after she disappeared. A sighting that wasn’t ever reported to the police.”

“Yeah?” said Satchwell, looking interested. “Where?”

“In Leamington Spa,” said Robin, “in the graveyard of All Saints church.”

Satchwell’s thick white eyebrows rose, putting strain on the clear tape that was holding the dressing to his eye.

“In All Saints?” he repeated, apparently astonished.

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