Page 155 of Troubled Blood

Strike felt some qualms about capitalizing on the vulnerabilities of a man like Athorn, but the prospect of looking around what he now strongly suspected was the flat in which the self-proclaimed killer of Margot Bamborough had been living in 1974 was irresistible. After wiping his feet carefully on the doormat, Strike closed the door behind him, spotting as he did so a couple of letters lying on the floor, which the son of the house had simply walked over; one of them carried a wet footprint. Strike picked up the letters, then climbed the bare wooden stairs, over which hung a naked, non-functioning lightbulb.

As he climbed, Strike indulged himself with the fantasy of a flat which nobody other than the inhabitants had entered for forty years, with locked cupboards and rooms, or even—it had been known to happen—a skeleton lying in open view. For a split-second, as he stepped out onto the landing, his hopes surged: the oven in the tiny kitchen straight ahead looked as though it dated from the seventies, as did the brown wall tiles, but unfortunately, from a detective point of view, the flat looked neat and smelled fresh and clean. There were even recent Hoover marks on the old carpet, which was patterned in orange and brown swirls. The Tesco bags sat waiting to be unpacked on lino that was scuffed, but that had been recently washed.

To Strike’s right stood an open door onto a small sitting room. The man he’d followed was standing there, facing a much older woman, who was sitting crocheting in an armchair beside the window. She looked, as well she might, shocked to see a large stranger standing in her hall.

“He wants to talk to you,” announced the man.

“Only if you’re comfortable with that, Mrs. Athorn,” Strike called from the landing. He wished Robin was with him. She was particularly good at putting nervous women at their ease. He remembered that Janice had said that this woman was agoraphobic. “My name’s Cormoran Strike and I wanted to ask a few questions about your husband. But if you’re not happy, of course, I’ll leave immediately.”

“I’m cold,” said the man loudly.

“Change your clothes,” his mother advised him. “You’ve got wet. Why don’t you wear your coat?”

“Too tight,” he said, “you silly woman.”

He turned and walked out of the room past Strike, who stood back to let him pass. Gwilherm’s son disappeared into a room opposite, on the door of which the name “Samhain” appeared in painted wooden letters.

Samhain’s mother didn’t appear to enjoy eye contact any more than her son did. At last, addressing Strike’s knees, she said,

“All right. Come in, then.”

“Thanks very much.”

Two budgerigars, one blue, one green, chirruped in a cage in the corner of the sitting room. Samhain’s mother had been crocheting a patchwork blanket. A number of completed woolen squares were piled on the wide windowsill beside her and a basket of wools sat at her feet. A huge jigsaw mat was spread out on a large ottoman in front of the sofa. It bore a two-thirds completed puzzle of unicorns. As far as tidiness went, the sitting room compared very favorably with Gregory Talbot’s.

“You’ve got some letters,” Strike said, and he held up the damp envelopes to show her.

“You open them,” she said.

“I don’t think—”

“You open them,” she repeated.

She had the same big ears as Samhain and the same slight underbite. These imperfections notwithstanding, there was a prettiness in her soft face and in her dark eyes. Her long, neatly plaited hair was white. She had to be at least sixty, but her smooth skin was that of a much younger woman. There was a strangely otherworldly air about her as she sat, plying her crochet hook beside the rainy window, shut away from the world. Strike wondered whether she could read. He felt safe to open the envelopes that were clearly junk mail, and did so.

“You’ve been sent a seed catalog,” he said, showing her, “and a letter from a furniture shop.”

“I don’t want them,” said the woman beside the window, still talking to Strike’s legs. “You can sit down,” she added.

He sidled carefully between the sofa and the ottoman which, like Strike himself, was far too big for this small room. Having successfully avoided nudging the enormous jigsaw, he took a seat at a respectful distance from the crocheting woman.

“This one,” said Strike, referring to the last letter, “is for Clare Spencer. Do you know her?”

The letter didn’t have a stamp. Judging by the address on the back, the letter was from the ironmonger downstairs.

“Clare’s our social worker,” she said. “You can open it.”

“I don’t think I should do that,” said Strike. “I’ll leave it for Clare. You’re Deborah, is that right?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

Samhain reappeared in the door. He was now barefoot but wearing dry jeans and a fresh sweatshirt with Spider-Man on the front.

“I’m going to put things in the fridge,” he announced, and disap­peared again.

“Samhain does the shopping now,” Deborah said, with a glance at Strike’s shoes. Though timid, she didn’t seem averse to talking to him.

“Deborah, I’m here to ask you about Gwilherm,” Strike said.

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