“What else has Janice told you?” he said again.

“She never mentioned you,” said Robin, now immensely curious. “We had no idea you knew each other.”

“But she claims Margot was seen in Leamington Spa after she disappeared? No, she knows exactly what she’s bloody doing.”

Satchwell took another chip, ate it, then suddenly got to his feet and walked past Robin, who looked over her shoulder to see him striding into the gents. His back view was older than his front: she could see the pink scalp through the thin white hair and there was no backside filling out his jeans.

Robin guessed he considered the interview finished. However, she had something else up her sleeve: a dangerous something, perhaps, but she’d use it rather than let the interview end here, with more questions raised than answered.

It was fully five minutes before he reappeared and she could tell that he’d worked himself up in his absence. Rather than sitting back down, he stood over her as he said,

“I don’t think you’re a fucking detective. I think you’re press.”

Seen from below, the tortoise’s neck was particularly striking. The chain, the turquoise and silver rings and the long hair now seemed like fancy dress.

“You can call Anna Phipps and check if you like,” said Robin. “I’ve got her number here. Why d’you think the press would be interested in you?”

“I had enough of them last time. I’m off. I don’t need this. I’m supposed to be recuperating.”

“One last thing,” said Robin, “and you’re going to want to hear it.”

She’d learned the trick from Strike. Stay calm, but assertive. Make them worry what else you’ve got.

Satchwell turned back, his one uncovered eye hard as flint. No trace of flirtation remained, no attempt to patronize her. She was an equal now; an adversary.

“Why don’t you sit down?” said Robin. “This won’t take long.”

After a slight hesitation, Satchwell eased himself back into his seat. His hoary head now blocked the stuffed deer head that hung on the brick wall behind him. From Robin’s point of view, the horns appeared to rise directly out of the white hair that fell in limp curls to his shoulders.

“Margot Bamborough knew something about you that you didn’t want to get out,” said Robin. “Didn’t she?”

He glared at her.

“The pillow dream?” said Robin.

Every line of his face hardened, turning him vulpine. The sunburned chest, wrinkled beneath its white hair, caved as he exhaled.

“Told someone, did she? Who?” Before Robin could answer, he said, “’Er husband, I suppose? Or that fucking Irish girl, was it?”

His jaws worked, chewing nothing.

“I should never ’ave told her,” he said. “That’s what you do when you’re drunk and you’re in love, or whatever the fuck we were. Then I ’ad it playing on my mind for years that she was gonna…”

The sentence ended in silence.

“Did she mention it, when you met again?” asked Robin, feeling her way, pretending she knew more than she did.

“She asked after my poor mother,” said Satchwell. “I fort at the time, are you ’aving a go? But I don’t think she was. Maybe she’d learned better, being a doctor, maybe she’d changed her views. She’ll have seen people like Blanche. A life not worth living.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning forwards slightly, “I still think it was a dream. All right? I was six years old. I dreamed it. And even if it wasn’t a dream, they’re both dead and gone now and nobody can say no different. My old mum died in ’89. You can’t get ’er for anything now, poor cow. Single mother, trying to cope with us all on ’er own. It’s merciful,” said Satchwell, “putting someone out of their misery. A mercy.”

He got up, drained beneath his tan, his face sagging, turned and walked away, but at the moment he was about to disappear he suddenly turned and tottered back to her, his jaw working.

“I think,” he said, with as much malevolence as he could muster, “you’re a nasty little bitch.”

He left for good this time.

Robin’s heart rate was barely raised. Her dominant emotion was elation. Pushing her unappetizing ramekins aside, she pulled the little metal bucket he’d left behind toward her, and finished the artist’s chips.

48

Sir Artegall, long hauing since,

Taken in hand th’exploit…

To him assynd, her high beheast to doo,

To the sea shore he gan his way apply…

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

Joan’s funeral service finished with the hymn most beloved of sailors, “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.” While the congregation sang the familiar words, Ted, Strike, Dave Polworth and three of Ted’s comrades in the lifeboat service shouldered the coffin back down the aisle of the simple cream-walled church, with its wooden beams and its stained-glass windows depicting purple-robed St. Maudez, for whom both village and church were named. Flanked by an island tower and a seal on a rock, the saint watched the coffin-bearers pass out of the church.

O Savior, whose almighty word

The winds and waves submissive heard,

Who walked upon the foaming deep,

And calm amidst the rage did sleep…

Polworth, by far the shortest of the six men, walked directly behind Strike, doing his best to bear a fair share of the load.

The mourners, many of whom had had to stand at the back of the packed church, or else listen as best they could from outside, formed a respectful circle around the hearse outside as the shining oak box was loaded onto it. Barely a murmur was heard as the rear doors slammed shut on Joan’s earthly remains. As the straight-backed undertaker in his thick black overcoat climbed back into the driver’s seat, Strike put an arm around Ted’s shoulders. Together, they watched the hearse drive out of sight. Strike could feel Ted trembling.

“Look at all these flowers, Ted,” said Lucy, whose eyes were swollen shut, and the three of them turned back to the church to examine the dense bank of sprays, wreaths and bunches that created a jubilant blaze against the exterior wall of the tiny church.

“Beautiful lilies, Ted, look… from Marion and Gary, all the way from Canada…”

The congregation was still spilling out of the church to join those outside. All kept a distance from the family while they moved crabwise along the wall of the church. Joan would surely have delighted in the mass of floral tributes and Strike drew unexpected consolation from messages that Lucy was reading aloud to Ted, whose eyes, like hers, were puffy and red.

“Ian and Judy,” she told her uncle. “Terry and Olive…”

“Loads, aren’t there?” said Ted, marveling.

The now-whispering, milling crowd of mourners were doubtless wondering whether it would be heartless to set out immediately for the Ship and Castle, where the wake was to be held, Strike thought. He couldn’t blame them; he too was craving a pint and perhaps a chaser too.

“‘With deepest sympathy, from Robin, Sam, Andy, Saul and Pat,’” Lucy read aloud. She turned to look at Strike, smiling. “How lovely. Did you tell Robin pink roses were Joan’s favorite?”