Page 249 of Troubled Blood

“‘New, Mrs. Fuller,’” said Betty, adopting a grotesquely genteel accent, “‘new, it meks… new diff’rence to me…’ow yew ladies mek… ends meet… sex work is work’… they’ll tell yer that… patronisin’… fuckin’… but would they… want their daughters… doin’ it? Would they fuck,” said Betty Fuller, and she paid for her longest speech yet with her most severe spate of coughing.

“Cindy does… too much coke,” Betty wheezed, her eyes watering, when she could talk again. “… keeps the weight off… Cathy, it was smack… boyfriend… workin’ for ’im… beat ’er blue… pregnant and lost it…”

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

“It’s all kids… on the street… these days,” said Betty, and a glimmer of what Strike thought was real distress showed through the determinedly tough exterior. “Firteen, fourteen… children… my day… we’d’ve marched ’em… right back ’ome… it’s all right, grown women, but kids—whatchew fucking starin’ at?” she barked to Robin.

“Cormoran, I might—” said Robin, standing up and gesturing toward the door.

“Yeah, off you fuck,” said Betty Fuller, watching with satisfaction as Robin left her room. “You doin’ ’er, are you?” she wheezed at Strike, once the door had clicked shut behind Robin.

“No,” he said.

“What the fuck’s… point, then?”

“She’s very good at the job,” said Strike. “When she’s not up against someone like you, that is,” and Betty Fuller grinned, displaying her Cheddar-yellow teeth.

“Hahaha… I know…’er type… knows fuckin’ nothing… ’bout real life…”

“There was a man living in Leather Lane, back in Margot Bamborough’s day,” said Strike. “Name of Niccolo Ricci? ‘Mucky,’ they used to call him.”

Betty Fuller said nothing, but the milky eyes narrowed.

“What d’you know about Ricci?” asked Strike.

“Same as… ev’ryone,” said Betty.

Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw Robin emerge into the daylight. She lifted her hair briefly off her neck, as though needing to remove weight from herself, then walked out of sight with her hands in her jacket pockets.

“It warn’t Mucky… what freatened ’er,” said Betty. “’E wouldn’t… write notes. Not ’is… style.”

“Ricci turned up at the St. John’s practice Christmas party,” said Strike. “Which seemed odd.”

“Don’t know… nuffin’ ’bout that…”

“Some of the people at the party assumed he was Gloria Conti’s father.”

“Never ’eard of ’er,” wheezed Betty.

“According to Wilma Bayliss’s daughters,” said Strike, “you told their mother you were scared of the person who wrote the notes. You said the writer of the notes killed Margot Bamborough. You told Wilma he’d kill you, too, if you said who he was.”

Betty’s milky eyes were expressionless. Her thin chest labored to get enough oxygen into her lungs. Strike had just concluded that she definitely wasn’t going to talk, when she opened her mouth.

“Local girl I knew,” she said, “friend o’ mine… she met Mucky… ’e come cruisin’… our corner…’e says to Jen…‘You’re better’n this… workin’ the street… body like yours… I could get you… five times what… you’re earnin’ ’ere…’ so off Jen goes,” said Betty, “up West… Soho… strippin’ for punters… sex wiv ’is mates…”

“I met ’er… coupla years later… visitin’ ’er mum… and she tole me a story.

“Girl at their club… gorgeous girl, Jen said… got raped… knifepoint. Cut…” said Betty Fuller, indicating her own sagging torso, “right down the ribs… by a mate… of Ricci’s…

“Some people,” said the old woman, “fink a hooker… being raped… it just means she never… got paid…’spect your Miss Stick-Up-’Er-Arse,” said Betty, glancing at the window, “finks that… but it ain’t that…

“This girl… angry… wants revenge… get back… at Ricci… so the silly bitch… turns police informer…

“And Mucky found out,” wheezed Betty Fuller, “and ’e filmed it… as they killed ’er. My mate Jen was told… by someone… what ’ad seen… the film… Ricci kept it… in the safe… show people… if they needed… scaring…

“Jen’s dead now,” said Betty Fuller. “Overdosed… firty-odd years ago… fort she’d be better… up West… and ’ere’s me… workin’ the streets… still alive.

“I ain’t got nuffing… to say… about no notes… it warn’t Marcus… that’s all… That’s my meals on wheels,” said Betty, her head turning, and Strike saw a man heading toward the outside door, with a pile of foil trays in his arms.

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