Page 214 of Troubled Blood

“… a life,” said Janice, walking on her knees to the coffee table. “Why’s that morbid? No worse’n keeping a photo.”

She flipped open the folder and began looking through the clippings, some of them yellow with age.

“See? I saved that for ’er, for Irene,” said Janice, holding up an art­icle about holy basil. “Supposed to ’elp with digestive problems, I fort Eddie could plant some in the garden for ’er. She takes too many pills for ’er bowels, they do as much ’arm as good, but Irene’s one of those ’oo, if it doesn’t come in a tablet, she don’t wanna know…

“Princess Diana,” said Janice with a sigh, flashing a commemorative front page at Strike. “I was a fan…”

“May I?” asked Strike, reaching for a couple of pieces of newsprint.

“’Elp yourself,” said Janice, looking over her spectacles at the pieces of paper in Strike’s hand. “That article on diabetes is very interesting. Care’s changed so much since I retired. My godson’s Type One. I like to keep up with it all… and that’ll be the fing about the kid ’oo died of peritonitis, in your other ’and, is it?”

“Yes,” said Strike, looking at the clipping, which was brown with age.

“Yeah,” said Janice darkly, still turning over bits of newspaper, “’e’s the reason I’m a nurse. That’s what put the idea in me ’ead. ’E lived two doors down from me when I was a kid. I cut that out an’ kept it, only photo I was ever gonna ’ave… bawled my bloody eyes out. The doctor,” said Janice, with a hint of steel, “was called out and ’e never bloody turned up. ’E would’ve come out for a middle-class kid, we all knew that, but little Johnny Marks from Bethnal Green, ’oo cared… and the doctor was criticized, but never struck off… If there’s one thing I ’ate, it’s treating people diff’rent because of where they were born.”

With no apparent sense of irony, she shifted more pictures of the royals out of the way, looking puzzled.

“Where’s Dr. Brenner’s thing?” she muttered.

Still clutching several clippings, she walked on her knees back toward the open drawer and rummaged in there again.

“No, it really isn’t ’ere,” said Janice, returning to the coffee table. “That’s very odd…”

“You don’t think Oakden took it, do you?” Strike suggested.

Janice looked up.

“That cheeky sod,” she said slowly. “’E could of bloody asked.”

She swept her clippings back into their folder, returned it to her drawer, used the mantelpiece to pull herself back up, knees clicking loudly again, then sat back down on the sofa with a sigh of relief and said,

“You know, ’e was always light-fingered, that boy.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Money went missing, back at the practice.”

“Really?” said Strike.

“Yeah. It all come to ’an ’ead after Margot disappeared. Little bits of money kept going missing and they fort it was Wilma, the cleaner—ev’ryone except me. I always fort it was Carl. ’E used to drop in after school, and in the school ’olidays. I dropped a word in Dr. Gupta’s ear, but I dunno, probably ’e didn’t want to upset Dorothy, and it was easier to push Wilma out. True, there were ovver issues wiv Wilma… she drank,” said Janice, “and ’er cleaning wasn’t the best. She couldn’t prove she never nicked it, and after there was a staff meeting about it, she resigned. She could see the way it was going.”

“And did the thefts stop?”

“Yeah,” said Janice, “but so what? Carl might’ve thought ’e’d better give it rest, after nearly being found out.”

Strike, who tended to agree, said,

“Just a couple more questions. The first’s about a woman called Joanna Hammond.”

“I should know ’oo that is, should I?”

“She was Steve Douthwaite’s—”

“—girlfriend, ’oo killed ’erself,” said Janice. “Oh yeah.”

“Can you remember whether she was registered with the St. John’s practice?”

“No, she weren’t. I fink they lived over in Hoxton.”

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