“I was—I was c- cruel to her!” wailed Roy. “I was! I made things difficult! Showed no interest in her work. I drove her away! She was going to l- leave me… I know what happened. I know. I’ve always known. The day before—before she went—she left a message—in the clock—silly—thing we used to—and the note said —Please t- talk to me…”

Roy’s sobs overtook him. As Cynthia got up and went to kneel on Roy’s other side, Anna reached for her father’s hand, and this time, he let her hold it. Clinging to his daughter, he said,

“I was waiting—for an apology. For going to drink—with Satchwell. And because she hadn’t—written an apology—I didn’t t- talk to her. And the next day—

“I know what happened. She liked to walk. If she was upset—long walks. She forgot about Oonagh—went for a walk—trying to decide what to do—leave me—because I’d made her—so—so sad. She wasn’t—paying attention—and Creed—and Creed—must have…”

Still holding his hand, Anna slid her other arm around her father’s shaking shoulders and drew her to him. He cried inconsolably, clinging to her. Strike and Robin both pretended an interest in the flowered rug.

“Roy,” said Kim gently, at last. “Nobody in this room hasn’t said or done things they don’t bitterly regret. Not one of us.”

Strike, who’d got far more out of Roy Phipps than he’d expected, thought it was time to draw the interview to a close. Phipps was in such a state of distress that it felt inhumane to press him further. When Roy’s sobs had subsided a little, Strike said formally,

“I want to thank you very much for talking to us, and for the tea. We’ll get out of your hair.”

He and Robin got to their feet. Roy remained entangled with his wife and daughter. Kim stood up to show them out.

“Well,” Kim said quietly, as they approached the front door, “I have to tell you, that was… well, close to a miracle. He’s never talked about Margot like that, ever. Even if you don’t find out anything else… thank you. That was… healing.”

The rain had ceased and the sun had come out. A double rainbow lay over the woods opposite the house. Strike and Robin stepped outside, into clean fresh air.

“Could I ask you one last thing?” said Strike, turning back to Kim who stood in the doorway.

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s about that summer house thing in the garden, beside the koi pond. I wondered why it’s got a cross of St. John on the floor,” said Strike.

“Oh,” said Kim. “Margot chose the design. Yes, Cynthia told me, ages ago. Margot had just got the job at St. John’s—and funnily enough, this area’s got a connection to the Knights Hospitaller, too—”

“Yes,” said Robin. “I read about that, at Hampton Court.”

“So, she thought it would be a nice allusion to the two things… You know, now you mention it, I’m surprised nobody ever changed it. Every other trace of Margot’s gone from the house.”

“Expensive, though,” said Strike, “to remove slabs of granite.”

“Yes,” said Kim, her smile fading a little. “I suppose it would be.”

37

Spring-headed Hydres, and sea-shouldring Whales,

Great whirlpooles, which all fishes make to flee,

Bright Scolopendraes, arm’d with siluer scales

Mighty Monoceros, with immeasured tayles…

The dreadfull Fish, that hath deseru’d the name

Of Death…

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

Rain fell almost ceaselessly into February. On the fifth, the most savage storm yet hit the south. Thousands of homes lost power, part of the sea wall supporting the London-South West railway line collapsed, swathes of farmland disappeared under flood water, roads became rivers and the nightly news featured fields turned to seas of gray water and houses waist-deep in mud. The Prime Minister promised financial assistance, the emergency services scrambled to help the stranded, and high on her hill above the flooded St. Mawes, Joan was deprived of a promised visit from Strike and Lucy, because they were unable to reach her either by road or train.

Strike sublimated the guilt he felt for not heading to Cornwall before the weather rendered the journey impossible by working long hours and skimping on sleep. Masochistically, he chose to work back-to-back shifts, so that Barclay and Hutchins could take some of the leave due to them because of his previous trips to see Joan. In consequence, it was Strike, not Hutchins, who was sitting in his BMW in the everlasting rain outside Elinor Dean’s house in Stoke Newington on Wednesday evening the following week, and Strike who saw a man in a tracksuit knock on her door and be admitted.

Strike waited all night for the man to reappear. Finally, at six in the morning, he emerged onto the still dark street with his hand clamped over his lower face. Strike, who was watching him through night vision glasses, caught a glimpse of Elinor Dean in a cozy quilted dressing gown, waving him off. The tracksuited man hurried back to his Citroën with his right hand still concealing his mouth and set off in a southerly direction.

Strike tailed the Citroën until they reached Risinghill Street in Pentonville, where Strike’s target parked and entered a modern, red-brick block of flats, both hands now in his pockets and nothing unusual about his mouth as far as the detective could see. Strike waited until the man was safely inside, took a note of which window showed a light five minutes later, then drove away, parking shortly afterward in White Lion Street.

Early as it was, people were already heading off to work, umbrellas angled against the continuing downpour. Strike wound down the car window, because even he, inveterate smoker though he was, wasn’t enjoying the smell of his car after a night’s surveillance. Then, though his tongue ached from too much smoking, he lit up again and phoned Saul Morris.

“All right, boss?”

Strike, who didn’t particularly like Morris calling him “boss,” but couldn’t think of any way to ask him to stop without sounding like a dickhead, said,

“I want you to switch targets. Forget Shifty today; I’ve just followed a new guy who spent the night at Elinor Dean’s.” He gave Morris the address. “He’s second floor, flat on the far left as you’re looking at the building. Fortyish, graying hair, bit of a paunch. See what you can find out about him—chat up the neighbors, find out where he works and have a dig around online, see if you can find out what his interests are. I’ve got a hunch he and SB are visiting that woman for the same reason.”

“See, this is why you’re the head honcho. You take over for one night and crack the case.”

Strike wished Morris would stop brown-nosing him, too. When he’d hung up, he sat smoking for a while, while the wind nipped at his exposed flesh, and rain hit his face in what felt like icy needle pricks. Then, after checking the time to make sure his early-rising uncle would be awake, he phoned Ted.

“All right, boy?” said his uncle, over the crackling phone line.

“Fine. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Ted. “Just having some breakfast. Joanie’s still asleep.”