Page 211 of Troubled Blood

“Er—’ave I missed a message, or—?”

“Sorry for the lack of warning,” said Strike insincerely, “but as I was in the area, I wondered whether you could give me a couple of minutes?”

Janice glanced back over her shoulder. A camp male voice was now saying, “The dress that Kelly is in love with is a one-of-a-kind runway sample…”

Clearly disgruntled, Janice turned back to Strike.

“Well… all right,” she said, “but the place is in a mess—and can you please wipe your feet properly, because the last bloke who turned up ’ere unannounced brought dog shit in wiv ’im. You can close the door be’ind you.”

Strike stepped over the threshold, while Janice strode out of sight into the sitting room. Strike expected her to turn off the TV but she didn’t. While Strike wiped his feet on the coconut mat inside the door, a male voice said: “This one-of-a-kind runway gown might be impossible to find, so Randy’s on the search…” After hesitating for a moment on the doormat, Strike decided that Janice expected him to follow her, and entered the small sitting room.

Having spent a significant part of his youth in squats with his mother, Strike had a very different idea of “mess” to Janice’s. Although cluttered, with something on almost every surface, the only signs of actual disorder in the room were a copy of the Daily Mirror lying in one armchair, some crumpled packaging lying beside an open packet of dates on the low coffee table and a hairdryer, which was lying incongruously on the floor beside the sofa, and which Janice was currently unplugging.

“… Antonella’s pulling the closest gown to Kelly’s pick, a blinged-out $15,000 dress…”

“The mirror down ’ere’s better for drying my ’air,” Janice explained, straightening up, pink in the face, hairdryer in her hand and looking slightly cross, as though Strike was forcing her to justify herself. “I would’ve appreciated some warning, you know,” she added, looking as stern as such a naturally smiley-looking woman could. “You’ve caught me on the ’op.”

Strike was unexpectedly and poignantly reminded of Joan, who’d always been flustered if guests dropped in while the Hoover or the ironing board were still out.

“Sorry. As I say, I happened to be in the area…”

“Even as Kelly steps into dress number one, she still can’t get her dream dress off her mind,” said the narrator loudly, and both Strike and Janice glanced toward the TV, where a young woman was wriggling into a clinging, semi-transparent white dress covered in silver rhinestones.

“Say Yes to the Dress,” said Janice, who was wearing the same navy jumper and slacks as the last time Strike had seen her. “My guilty pleasure… D’you want a cup of tea?”

“Only if it’s no trouble,” said Strike.

“Well, it’s always some trouble, innit?” Janice said, with her first glimmer of a smile. “But I was going to make myself some at the first advert break, so you might as well ’ave some.”

“In that case, thanks very much,” said Strike.

“If I don’t find this dress,” said the camp male wedding consultant on-screen, rifling urgently through racks of white dresses, his eyebrows so sharply plucked they looked drawn on, “it’s not gonna be—”

The screen went blank. Janice had turned it off with her remote control.

“Wanna date?” she asked Strike, holding out the box.

“No thanks,” said Strike.

“Got boxes of ’em in Dubai,” she said. “I was gonna give ’em as presents, but I just can’t stop eating ’em. ’Ave a seat. I won’t be two ticks.”

Strike thought he caught another downward glance toward his lower legs as she marched out of the room, hairdryer in one hand, dates in the other, leaving Strike to take an armchair, which creaked beneath his weight.

Strike found the small sitting room oppressive. Predominantly red, the carpet was decorated in a scarlet, swirling pattern, on top of which lay a cheap crimson Turkish rug. Dried flower pictures hung on the red walls, between old photographs, some black and white, and the colored ones faded, displayed in wooden frames. A china cabinet was full of cheap spun-glass ornaments. The largest, a Cinderella carriage pulled by six glass horses, stood in pride of place on the mantelpiece over the electric fire. Evidently, beneath Janice’s no-nonsense clothing, there beat a romantic heart.

She returned a few minutes later, holding a wicker-handled tray bearing two mugs of tea with the milk already added, and a plate of chocolate Hobnobs. The act of making tea seemed to have put her into slightly better humor with her guest.

“That’s my Larry,” she said, catching Strike looking toward a double frame on the small side table beside him. On one side was a sleepy-eyed, overweight man with a smoker’s teeth. On the other was a blonde woman, heavy but pretty.

“Ah. And is this—?”

“My little sister, Clare. She died ’97. Pancreatic cancer. They got it late.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Strike.

“Yeah,” said Janice, with a deep sigh. “Lost ’em both around the same time. To tell you the truth,” she said, as she sat down on the sofa and her knees gave audible clicks, “I walked back in ’ere after Dubai and I fort, I really need to get some new pictures up. It was depressing, coming back in ’ere, the number of dead people…

“I got some gorgeous ones of Kev and the grandkids on ’oliday, but I ’aven’t got ’em printed out yet. The lad next door’s going to do it for me. All my old ones of Kev and the kids are two years out of date. I gave the boy the memory… board, is it?”

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