Page 156 of Troubled Blood

“He’s not here.”

“No, I—”

“He died.”

“Yes,” said Strike. “I’m sorry. I’m really here because of a doctor who used to work—”

“Dr. Brenner,” she said at once.

“You remember Dr. Brenner?” said Strike, surprised.

“I didn’t like him,” she said.

“Well, I wanted to ask you about a different doc—”

Samhain reappeared at the sitting room door and said loudly to his mother,

“D’you want a hot chocolate, or not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you want a hot chocolate, or not?” Samhain demanded of Strike.

“Yes please,” Strike said, on the principle that all friendly gestures should be accepted in such situations.

Samhain lumbered out of sight. Pausing in her crocheting, Deborah pointed at something straight ahead of her and said,

“That’s Gwilherm, there.”

Strike looked around. An Egyptian ankh, the symbol of eternal life, had been drawn on the wall behind the old TV. The walls were pale yellow everywhere except behind the ankh, where a patch of dirty green survived. In front of the ankh, on top of the flat-topped television set, was a black object which Strike at first glance took for a vase. Then he spotted the stylized dove on it, realized that it was an urn and understood, finally, what he was being told.

“Ah,” said Strike. “Those are Gwilherm’s ashes, are they?”

“I told Tudor to get the one with the bird, because I like birds.”

One of the budgerigars fluttered suddenly across the cage in a blur of bright green and yellow.

“Who painted that?” asked Strike, pointing at the ankh.

“Gwilherm,” said Deborah, continuing to dextrously ply her crochet hook.

Samhain re-entered the room, holding a tin tray.

“Not on my jigsaw,” his mother warned him, but there was no other free surface.

“Should I—?” offered Strike, gesturing toward the puzzle, but there was no space anywhere on the floor to accommodate it.

“You close it,” Deborah told him, with a hint of reproach, and Strike saw that the jigsaw mat had wings, which could be fastened to protect the puzzle. He did so, and Samhain laid the tray on top. Deborah stuck her crochet hook carefully in the ball of wool and accepted a mug of instant hot chocolate and a Penguin biscuit from her son. Samhain kept the Batman mug for himself. Strike sipped his drink and said, “Very nice,” not entirely dishonestly.

“I make good hot chocolate, don’t I, Deborah?” said Samhain, unwrapping a biscuit.

“Yes,” said Deborah, blowing on the surface of the hot liquid.

“I know this was a long time ago,” Strike began again, “but there was another doctor, who worked with Dr. Brenner—”

“Old Joe Brenner was a dirty old man,” said Samhain Athorn, with a cackle.

Strike looked at him in surprise. Samhain directed his smirk at the closed jigsaw.

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