“You must have been seriously unwell, were you?” Strike was asking Betty. “To need a house call?”

He had no particular reason for asking, except to establish a friendly conversational atmosphere. In his experience of old ladies, there was little they enjoyed more than discussing their health.

Betty Fuller suddenly grinned at him, showing chipped yellow teeth.

“You ever taken it… up the shitter… with a nine-inch cock?”

Only by exercising the utmost restraint did Robin prevent herself letting out a shocked laugh. She had to hand it to Strike: he didn’t so much as grin as he said,

“Can’t say I have.”

“Well,” wheezed Betty Fuller, “you can… take it from me… fuckin’… agony… geezer went at me… like a fucking power drill… split my arsehole open.”

She gasped for air, half-laughing.

“My Cindy ’ears me moanin’… blood… says ‘Mum, you gotta… get that seen to…’ called… doctor.”

“Cindy’s your—”

“Daughter,” said Betty Fuller. “Yeah… got two. Cindy and Cathy…”

“And Dr. Brenner came out to see you, did he?” asked Strike, trying not to dwell on the mental image Betty had conjured.

“Yeah… takes a look… sends me to A&E, yeah… nineteen stitches,” said Betty Fuller. “And I sat on… an ice pack… for a week… and no fuckin’ money… comin’ in… After that,” she panted, “no anal… unless they was… payin’ double and nuthin’ over… six inches… neither.”

She let out a cackle of laughter, which ended in coughs. Strike and Robin were carefully avoiding looking at each other.

“Was that the only time you met Dr. Brenner?” asked Strike, when the coughing had subsided.

“No,” croaked Betty Fuller, thumping her chest. “I seen ’im regular… ev’ry Friday night… for monfs… after.”

She didn’t seem to feel any qualms about telling Strike this. On the contrary, Strike thought she seemed to be enjoying herself.

“When did that arrangement start?” asked Strike.

“Couple o’ weeks… after ’e seen me… for me arse,” said Betty Fuller. “Knocked on me door… wiv ’is doctor’s bag… pre­tendin’ ’e’d… come to check… then ’e says… wants a regular ’pointment. Friday night…’alf past six… tell the neighbors… medical… if they ask…”

Betty paused to cough noisily. When she’d quelled her rattling chest, she went on,

“… and if I told anyone…’e’d go to the cops… say I was… extorting ’im…”

“Threatened you, did he?”

“Yeah,” panted Betty Fuller, though without rancor, “but ’e wasn’t… try’na get it… free… so I kep’… me mouf shut.”

“You never told Dr. Bamborough what was going on?” asked Robin.

Betty looked sideways at Robin who, in Strike’s view, had rarely looked as out of place as she did sitting on Betty’s bed: young, clean and healthy, and perhaps Betty’s drooping, occluded eyes saw his partner the same way, because she seemed to resent both question and questioner.

“’Course I fuckin’… didn’t. She tried ta get me to… stop working… Brenner… easiest job of the week.”

“Why was that?” asked Strike.

Betty laughed wheezily again.

“’E liked me… lyin’ still, like I was… coma… playin’ dead. ’E fucked me… sayin’ ’is dirty words… I pretended… couldn’t ’ear… except once,” said Betty, with a half-chuckle, half-cough, “the bleedin’ fire alarm… went off ’alfway… I said… in ’is ear… ‘I’m not stayin’ dead… if we’re on fuckin’ fire… I’ve got kids… next room…’ ’E was livid… turned out it was… false alarm…”

She cackled, then coughed again.

“D’you think Dr. Bamborough suspected Dr. Brenner of visiting you?” asked Robin.

“No,” said Betty, testily, with another sideways glance. “’Course she fuckin’ didn’t… was eivver of us gonna tell ’er?”

“Was Brenner with you,” asked Strike, “the night she went missing?”

“Yeah,” said Betty Fuller indifferently.

“He arrived and left at the usual times?”

“Yeah,” said Betty again.

“Did he keep visiting you, after Dr. Bamborough disappeared?”

“No,” said Betty. “Police… all over the surgery… no, ’e stopped comin’… I ’eard…’e retired, not long after… Dead now, I s’pose?”

“Yes,” said Strike, “he is.”

The ruined face bore witness to past violence. Strike, whose own nose had been broken, was sure Betty’s hadn’t originally been the shape it was now, with its crooked tip.

“Was Brenner ever violent to you?”

“Never.”

“While your—arrangement was going on,” said Strike, “did you ever mention it to anyone?”

“Nope,” said Betty.

“What about after Brenner retired?” asked Strike. “Did you happen to tell a man called Tudor Athorn?”

“Clever, aincha?” said Betty, with a cackle of mild surprise. “Yeah, I told Tudor…’e’s long gawn, ’s well… used to drink… wiv Tudor. ’Is nephew’s… still round ’ere… grown up… I seen ’im… about. Retarded,” said Betty Fuller.

“In your opinion,” said Strike, “given what you know about Brenner, d’you think he’d have taken advantage of a patient?”

There was a pause. Betty’s milky eyes surveyed Strike.

“On’y… if she was out cold.”

“Not otherwise?” said Strike.

Taking a deep breath of oxygen through her crooked nose, Betty said,

“Man like that… when there’s one fing… what really… gets ’im off… that’s all ’e wants…”

“Did he ever want to drug you?” asked Strike.

“No,” said Betty, “didn’t need to…”

“D’you remember,” asked Strike, turning a page in his notebook, “a social worker called Wilma Bayliss?”

“Colored girl?” said Betty. “Yeah… you smoke, dontcha?” she added. “Can smell it… give us one,” she said, and out of the wrecked old body came a whiff of flirtatiousness.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Strike, smiling. “Seeing as you’re on oxygen.”

“Oh fuck off, then,” said Betty.

“Did you like Wilma?”

“’Oo?”

“Wilma Bayliss, your social worker.”