Page 246 of Troubled Blood

“Did you like Dr. Bamborough?” Strike was asking Betty.

“She were… all right,” said Betty.

“Did you ever meet any of the other doctors at the practice?” asked Strike.

Betty Fuller’s chest rose and fell with her labored breathing. Though it was hard to tell with the nasal cannula in the way, Strike thought he saw a thin smile.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Which ones?”

“Brenner,” she said hoarsely, and coughed again. “Needed an ’ouse call…’mergency… she weren’t available.”

“So Dr. Brenner came out to see you?”

“Hurhm,” said Betty Fuller. “Yeah.”

There were a few small, cheaply framed photographs on the windowsill, Robin noticed. Two of them showed a fat tabby cat, presumably a lamented pet, but there were also a couple showing toddlers, and one of two big-haired teenaged girls, wearing puff-sleeved dresses from the eighties. So you could end up alone, in near squalor, even if you had children? Was it solely money, then, that made the difference? She thought of the ten thousand pounds she’d be receiving into her bank account later that week, which would be reduced immediately by legal bills and council tax. She’d need to be careful not to fritter it away. She really needed to start saving, to start paying into a pension.

“You must have been seriously unwell, were you?” Strike was asking Betty. “To need a house call?”

He had no particular reason for asking, except to establish a friendly conversational atmosphere. In his experience of old ladies, there was little they enjoyed more than discussing their health.

Betty Fuller suddenly grinned at him, showing chipped yellow teeth.

“You ever taken it… up the shitter… with a nine-inch cock?”

Only by exercising the utmost restraint did Robin prevent herself letting out a shocked laugh. She had to hand it to Strike: he didn’t so much as grin as he said,

“Can’t say I have.”

“Well,” wheezed Betty Fuller, “you can… take it from me… fuckin’… agony… geezer went at me… like a fucking power drill… split my arsehole open.”

She gasped for air, half-laughing.

“My Cindy ’ears me moanin’… blood… says ‘Mum, you gotta… get that seen to…’ called… doctor.”

“Cindy’s your—”

“Daughter,” said Betty Fuller. “Yeah… got two. Cindy and Cathy…”

“And Dr. Brenner came out to see you, did he?” asked Strike, trying not to dwell on the mental image Betty had conjured.

“Yeah… takes a look… sends me to A&E, yeah… nineteen stitches,” said Betty Fuller. “And I sat on… an ice pack… for a week… and no fuckin’ money… comin’ in… After that,” she panted, “no anal… unless they was… payin’ double and nuthin’ over… six inches… neither.”

She let out a cackle of laughter, which ended in coughs. Strike and Robin were carefully avoiding looking at each other.

“Was that the only time you met Dr. Brenner?” asked Strike, when the coughing had subsided.

“No,” croaked Betty Fuller, thumping her chest. “I seen ’im regular… ev’ry Friday night… for monfs… after.”

She didn’t seem to feel any qualms about telling Strike this. On the contrary, Strike thought she seemed to be enjoying herself.

“When did that arrangement start?” asked Strike.

“Couple o’ weeks… after ’e seen me… for me arse,” said Betty Fuller. “Knocked on me door… wiv ’is doctor’s bag… pre­tendin’ ’e’d… come to check… then ’e says… wants a regular ’pointment. Friday night…’alf past six… tell the neighbors… medical… if they ask…”

Betty paused to cough noisily. When she’d quelled her rattling chest, she went on,

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