Page 290 of Troubled Blood

“Perhaps,” said Strike, hoping to return to the last visit with Margot in due course, “we could go over your alibi for the time Dr. Bamborough disappeared?”

Donna was sobbing, tears and mucus flowing freely now. Robin grabbed a paper napkin off the tray beside the kettle and handed it to her.

Cowed by his wife’s distress, Douthwaite allowed Strike to lead him back over his shaky alibi for the evening in question, sticking to the story that he’d been sitting unnoticed in a café, scanning the newspapers for flats to rent.

“I wanted to clear out, get away from all the gossip about Joanna. I just wanted to get away.”

“So the desire to move wasn’t triggered by anything that passed between you and Dr. Bamborough during your last visit?” Strike asked.

“No,” said Douthwaite, still not looking at Strike. “How could it be?”

“Given up on her?” Donna asked from behind the wet napkin with which she was blotting her eyes. “Knew he’d made a fool of himself. Same as with that young lassie from Leeds, eh, Steve?”

“Donna, for fuck’s sake—”

“He forgets,” Donna said to Robin, “he’s not that cocky little sod in his twenties any more. Deluded, b—baldy bastard,” she sobbed.

“Donna—”

“So you moved to Waltham Forest…” prompted Strike.

“Yeah. Police. Press. It was a nightmare,” said Douthwaite. “I thought of ending it, to tell you the—”

“Shame you didn’t,” said Donna savagely. “Save us all a lot of time and trouble.”

As though he hadn’t heard this, and ignoring Douthwaite’s look of outrage, Strike asked,

“What made you go to Clacton-on-Sea? Did you have family there?”

“I haven’t got family, I grew up in care—”

“Oh, someone pass him a bloody violin,” said Donna.

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” said Douthwaite, displaying unvarnished anger for the first time. “And I’m allowed to tell the truth about my own bloody life, aren’t I? I just wanted to be a Redcoat, because I sing a bit and it looked like a fun way to earn a living—”

“Fun,” muttered Donna, “oh yeah, as long as you’re having fun, Steve—”

“—get away from people treating me like I’d killed someone—”

“And whoops!” said Donna. “There’s another one gone, in the pool—”

“You know bloody well I had nothing to do with Julie drowning!”

“How could I know?” said Donna, “I wasn’t there! It was before we even met!”

“I showed you the story in the paper!” said Douthwaite. “I showed you, Donna, come on!” He turned to Strike. “A bunch of us were drinking in our chalet. Me and some mates were playing poker. Julie was tired. She left before we finished our game, walked back to her chalet. She walked round the pool, slipped in the dark, knocked herself out and—”

For the first time, Douthwaite showed real distress.

“—she drowned. I won’t ever forget it. Never. I ran outside in me underpants next morning, when I heard the shouting. I saw her body when they were taking her out of the pool. You don’t forget something like that. She was a kid. Twenty-two or something. Her parents came and… it was a horrible thing. Horrible. I never… that someone can go like that. A slip and a trip…

“Yeah, so… that’s when I applied for a job at the Ingoldmells Butlin’s up the road from here. And that’s where I met Donna,” he said, with an apprehensive glance at his wife.

“So you leaving Clacton-on-Sea and changing your name again had nothing to do with a man called Oakden coming to question you about Margot Bamborough?” asked Strike.

Donna’s head jerked up.

“Oh my God,” she said, “so even the Julie bit’s a lie?”

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