Page 268 of Troubled Blood

“What, tucked inside a Christmas card? No. By text.”

“You didn’t—?”

“Ask for it? No,” said Robin, no longer smiling. “He’s a creep, Pat.”

She turned back to the kettle. The untouched bottle of vodka was still standing beside the sink. As Robin’s eyes fell on it, she remembered the idea that had occurred to her on Saturday night, shortly before Morris’s hands closed around her waist. After giving the secretary her coffee, she carried her own into the inner office, along with the book she’d taken from her bag. Pat called after her,

“Shall I update the rota, or will you?”

“I’ll do it,” said Robin, closing the door, but instead, she called Strike.

“Morning,” he said, answering on the second ring.

“Hi. I forgot to tell you an idea I had on Saturday night.”

“Go on.”

“It’s about Gloria Conti. Why did she vomit in the bathroom at Margot’s barbecue, if Oakden didn’t spike the punch?”

“Because he’s a liar, and he did spike the punch?” suggested Strike. He was currently in the same Islington square that Robin had patrolled on Friday, but he paused now and reached for his cigarettes, eyes on the central garden, which today was deserted. Beds densely planted with purple pansies looked like velvet cloaks spread upon the glistening grass.

“Or did she throw up because she was pregnant?” said Robin.

“I thought,” said Strike, after a pause while lighting a cigarette, “that only happens in the mornings? Isn’t that why it’s called—”

On the point of saying “morning sickness,” Strike remembered the expectant wife of an old army friend, who’d been hospitalized for persistent, round-the-clock vomiting.

“My cousin threw up any time of the day when she was pregnant,” said Robin. “She couldn’t stand certain food smells. And Gloria was at a barbecue.”

“Right,” said Strike, who was suddenly remembering the odd notion that had occurred to him after talking to the Bayliss sisters. Robin’s theory struck him as stronger than his. In fact, his idea was weakened if Robin’s was true.

“So,” he said, “you’re thinking it might’ve been Gloria who—”

“—had the abortion at the Bride Street clinic? Yes,” said Robin. “And that Margot helped her arrange it. Irene mentioned Gloria being closeted in Margot’s consulting room, remember? While Irene was left on reception?”

The lilac bush in the central garden was casting out such a heavy scent that Strike could smell it even over the smoke of his cigarette.

“I think you could be on to something here,” said Strike slowly.

“I also thought this might explain—”

“Why Gloria doesn’t want to talk to us?”

“Well, yes. Apart from it being a traumatic memory, her husband might not know what happened,” said Robin. “Where are you just now?”

“Islington,” said Strike. “I’m about to have a crack at Mucky Ricci.”

“What?” said Robin, startled.

“Been thinking about it over the weekend,” said Strike, who, unlike Robin, had had no time off, but had run surveillance on Shifty and Miss Jones’s boyfriend. “We’re nearly ten months into our year, and we’ve got virtually nothing. If he’s demented, obviously it’ll be no-go, but you never know, I could be able to get something out of him. He might even,” said Strike, “get a kick out of reliving the good old days…”

“And what if his sons find out?”

“He can’t talk, or not properly. I’m banking on him being unable to tell them I’ve been in. Look,” said Strike, in no particular hurry to hang up, because he wanted to finish his cigarette, and would rather do it talking to Robin, “Betty Fuller thinks Ricci killed her, I could tell. So did Tudor Athorn; he told his nephew so, and they were the kind of people who were plugged into local gossip and knew about local low life.

“I keep going back to the thing Shanker said, when I told him about Margot vanishing without a trace. ‘Professional job.’ When you take a step back and look at it,” said Strike, now down to the last centimeter of his cigarette, “it seems borderline impossible for every trace of her to have disappeared, unless someone with plenty of practice handled it.”

“Creed had practice,” said Robin quietly.

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