Page 78 of Troubled Blood

“Irene was determined to have a go at Gloria, wasn’t she?”

“She was, yeah, but the fact that Gloria had a drug-dealing brother is information worth knowing, as is the fact that there were a stack of drugs on the premises that were ripe for nicking. Brenner wouldn’t have wanted to admit he had them in the first place, so probably wouldn’t have reported the theft, which makes for a situation open to exploitation.”

“A criminal brother doesn’t make a person criminal in themselves.”

“Agreed, but it makes me even keener to find Gloria. The term ‘person of interest’ fits her pretty accurately…

“And then there’s the abortion,” said Strike. “If Irene’s telling the truth about the nursing home calling to confirm the appointment—”

“If,” said Robin.

“I don’t think that was a lie,” said Strike. “For the opposite reason to the pill in Brenner’s cup. That lie’s too big. People don’t make things like that up. Anyway, she told Janice about it at the time, and their little row about patient confidentiality rings true. And C. B. Oakden must’ve based the story on something. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that tip-off came from Irene. She doesn’t strike me as a woman who’d turn down a chance to speculate or gossip.”

Robin said nothing. She’d only once in her life had to face the possibility that she might be pregnant, and could still remember the relief that had flooded her when it became clear that she wasn’t, and wouldn’t have to face still more contact with strangers, and another intimate procedure, more blood, more pain.

Imagine aborting your husband’s child, she thought. Could Margot really have done that, when she already had that child’s sister at home? What had been going through her mind, a month before she disappeared? Perhaps she’d been quietly breaking down, like Talbot? The past few years had taught Robin how very mysterious human beings were, even to those who thought they knew them best. Infidelity and bigamy, kinks and fetishes, theft and fraud, stalking and harassment: she’d now delved into so many secret lives she’d lost count. Nor did she hold herself superior to any of the deceived and duped who came to the agency, craving truth. Hadn’t she thought she knew her own husband back to front? How many hundreds of nights had they lain entwined like Siamese twins, whispering confidences and sharing laughter in the dark? She’d spent nearly half her life with Matthew, and not until a hard, bright diamond ear stud had appeared in their bed had she realized that he was living a life apart, and was not, and perhaps never had been, the man she thought she knew.

“You don’t want to think she had an abortion,” said Strike, correctly deducing at least part of the reason for Robin’s silence. She didn’t answer, instead asking,

“You haven’t heard back from her friend Oonagh, have you?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Strike. “Yeah, I got an email yesterday. She is a retired vicar, and she’d be delighted to meet us when she comes down to London to do some Christmas shopping. Date to be confirmed.”

“That’s good,” said Robin. “You know, I’d like to talk to someone who actually liked Margot.”

“Gupta liked her,” said Strike. “And Janice, she’s just said so.”

Robin ripped open the second bag of crisps.

“Which is what you’d expect, isn’t it?” she said. “That people would at least pretend they liked Margot, after what happened. But Irene didn’t. Don’t you find it a bit… excessive… to be holding on to that much resentment, forty years later? She really put the boot in. Wouldn’t you think it was… I don’t know, more politic…”

“To claim to be friends?”

“Yes… but maybe Irene knew there were far too many witnesses to the fact that they weren’t friends. What did you think of the anonymous notes? True or false?”

“Good question,” said Strike, scratching his chin. “Irene really enjoyed telling us Margot had been called ‘the c-word,’ but ‘hell­fire’ doesn’t sound like the kind of thing she’d invent. I’d have expected something more in the ‘uppity bitch’ line.”

He drew out his notebook again, and scanned the notes he’d made of the interview.

“Well, we still need to check these leads out, for what they’re worth. Why don’t you follow up Charlie Ramage and Leamington Spa, and I’ll look into the Bennie-abusing Applethorpe?”

“You just did it again,” said Robin.

“Did what?”

“Smirked when you said ‘Bennies.’ What’s so funny about benzedrine?”

“Oh—” Strike chuckled. “I was just reminded of something my Uncle Ted told me. Did you ever watch Crossroads?”

“What’s Crossroads?”

“I always forget how much younger you are,” Strike said. “It was a daytime soap opera and it had a character in it called Benny. He was—well, these days you’d call him special needs. Simple. He wore a wooly hat. Iconic character, in his way.”

“You were thinking of him?” said Robin. It didn’t seem particularly amusing.

“No, but you need to know about him to understand the next bit. I assume you know about the Falklands War.”

“I’m younger than you, Strike. I’m not pig-ignorant.”

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