Page 307 of Troubled Blood

“Dennis, this is Cormoran Strike,” said Dr. Bijral, as he sat down in a chair against the wall. Marvin stood, tattooed arms folded, beside him.

“Hello, Dennis,” said Strike, sitting down opposite him.

“Hello, Cormoran,” said Creed, in a flat voice which retained its working-class, East London accent.

The sunlight fell like a gleaming pane across the table between them, highlighting the smears on the lenses of Creed’s wire-rimmed glasses and the dust motes in the air. Behind the dirt, Strike saw irises of such pale gray that they faded into the sclera, so that the enormous pupils seemed surrounded by whiteness. Close to, Strike could see the jagged scar which ran from temple to nose, dragging at his left lower eyelid, a relic of the attack that had almost taken half Creed’s sight. The plump, pale hands on the table were slightly shaking and the slack mouth trembled: side-effects, Strike guessed, of Creed’s medication.

“Who’re you working for?” Creed asked.

“’Spect you’ll be able to work that out, from my questions,” said Strike.

“Why not say, then?” asked Creed, and when Strike didn’t answer, he said, “Sign of narcissism, withholding information to make yourself feel powerful, you know.”

Strike smiled.

“It’s not a question of trying to feel powerful. I’m simply familiar with the King’s Gambit.”

Creed pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose.

“Told you I play chess, did they?”

“Yeah.”

“D’you play?”

“Badly.”

“So how does the King’s Gambit apply to this situation?”

“Your opening move appears to open an easy route to your king. You’re offering to jump straight into discussing the missing woman I’m investigating.”

“But you think that’s a ploy?”

“Maybe.”

There was a short pause. Then Creed said,

“I’ll tell you who I think sent you, then, shall I?”

“Go on.”

“Margot Bamborough’s daughter,” said Dennis Creed, watching carefully for Strike’s reaction. “The husband gave up on her long since, but her daughter’ll be forty-odd now and she’ll be well-heeled. Whoever hired you’s got money. You won’t come cheap. I’ve read all about you, in the paper.

“The second possibility,” said Creed, when Strike didn’t respond, “is old Brian Tucker. He pops up every few years, making a spectacle of himself. Brian’s skint, though… or did he put out the begging bowl on the internet? Get on the computer and whine out some hard-luck story, so mugs send in cash? But I think, if he’d done that, it would’ve been in the papers.”

“D’you get online much?” asked Strike.

“We’re not allowed, in here,” said Creed. “Why are you wasting time? We’ve only got forty-five minutes. Ask a question.”

“That was a question, what I just asked you.”

“Why won’t you tell me which so-called victim you’re interested in?”

“‘So-called’ victim?”

“Arbitrary labels,” said Creed. “‘Victim.’ ‘Patient.’ This one deserves pity… this one gets caged. Maybe those women I killed were the real patients, and I’m the true victim?”

“Novel point of view,” said Strike.

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