“She were… like they all are,” said Betty, with a shrug.

“We spoke to Mrs. Bayliss’s daughters recently,” said Strike. “They were telling us about the threatening notes that were sent to Dr. Bamborough, before she disappeared.”

Betty breathed in and out, her collapsed chest doing its valiant best for her, and a small squeak issued from her ruined lungs.

“Do you know anything about those notes?”

“No,” said Betty. “I ’eard… they’d bin sent. Everyone ’eard, round ’ere.”

“Who did they hear it from?”

“Probably that Irene Bull…”

“You remember Irene, do you?”

With many more pauses to catch her breath, Betty Fuller explained that her youngest sister had been in the same year as Irene at school. Irene’s family had lived in a road off Skinner Street: Corporation Row.

“Thought…’er shit… smelled of roses… that one,” said Betty. She laughed, but then broke yet again into a volley of hoarse coughs. When she’d recovered, she said, “The police… asked ’em all… not to talk… but the mouth on… that girl… everyone knew… there’d been threats made.”

“According to Wilma’s daughters,” said Strike, watching for Betty’s reaction, “you knew who sent those notes.”

“No, I never,” said Betty Fuller, no longer smiling.

“You were sure Marcus Bayliss hadn’t sent them, though?”

“Marcus never…’e was a lovely… y’know, I always liked… a darkie, me,” said Betty Fuller, and Robin, hoping Betty hadn’t seen her wince, looked down at her hands. “Very ’andsome… I’d’ve given it…’im for free… hahaha… big, tall man,” said Betty wistfully, “… kind man… no, ’e never freatened no doctor.”

“So who d’you think—”

“My second girl… my Cathy…” continued Betty, “determinedly deaf, ’er dad was a darkie… dunno ’oo ’e was… condom split… I kept ’er ’cause… I like kids, but… she don’t give a shit… about me. Smackhead!” said Betty fiercely. “I never touched it… seen too many… go that way… stole from me… I told ’er… keep the fuck… my ’ouse…”

“Cindy’s good,” gasped Betty. She was fighting her breathlessness now, though still relishing Strike’s captive attention. “Cindy… drops by. Earning… decent money…”

“Really?” said Strike, playing along, waiting for his opportunity. “What does Cindy do?”

“Escort,” wheezed Betty. “Lovely figure… up West… makin’ more’n I ever… Arabs an’ whatnot… but she says…‘Ma, you wouldn’t… like it these days… all they want… is anal.’” Betty cackled, coughed and then, without warning, turned her head to look at Robin perched on the bed and said with vitriol: “She don’t find it… funny, this one… do you?” she demanded of Robin, who was taken aback. “’S’pect… you give it away… for meals an’ jewelry… an’ fink it’s… fink it’s free… look at ’er face,” wheezed Betty, eyeing Robin with dislike, “you’re the same as…? the sniffy fuckin’… social worker… we ’ad round… when I… minding Cathy’s kids… gorn now,” said Betty, angrily. “Took into care…

“‘New, Mrs. Fuller,’” said Betty, adopting a grotesquely genteel accent, “‘new, it meks… new diff’rence to me…’ow yew ladies mek… ends meet… sex work is work’… they’ll tell yer that… patronisin’… fuckin’… but would they… want their daughters… doin’ it? Would they fuck,” said Betty Fuller, and she paid for her longest speech yet with her most severe spate of coughing.

“Cindy does… too much coke,” Betty wheezed, her eyes watering, when she could talk again. “… keeps the weight off… Cathy, it was smack… boyfriend… workin’ for ’im… beat ’er blue… pregnant and lost it…”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Strike.

“It’s all kids… on the street… these days,” said Betty, and a glimmer of what Strike thought was real distress showed through the determinedly tough exterior. “Firteen, fourteen… children… my day… we’d’ve marched ’em… right back ’ome… it’s all right, grown women, but kids—whatchew fucking starin’ at?” she barked to Robin.

“Cormoran, I might—” said Robin, standing up and gesturing toward the door.

“Yeah, off you fuck,” said Betty Fuller, watching with satisfaction as Robin left her room. “You doin’ ’er, are you?” she wheezed at Strike, once the door had clicked shut behind Robin.

“No,” he said.

“What the fuck’s… point, then?”

“She’s very good at the job,” said Strike. “When she’s not up against someone like you, that is,” and Betty Fuller grinned, displaying her Cheddar-yellow teeth.

“Hahaha… I know…’er type… knows fuckin’ nothing… ’bout real life…”

“There was a man living in Leather Lane, back in Margot Bamborough’s day,” said Strike. “Name of Niccolo Ricci? ‘Mucky,’ they used to call him.”

Betty Fuller said nothing, but the milky eyes narrowed.

“What d’you know about Ricci?” asked Strike.

“Same as… ev’ryone,” said Betty.

Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw Robin emerge into the daylight. She lifted her hair briefly off her neck, as though needing to remove weight from herself, then walked out of sight with her hands in her jacket pockets.

“It warn’t Mucky… what freatened ’er,” said Betty. “’E wouldn’t… write notes. Not ’is… style.”

“Ricci turned up at the St. John’s practice Christmas party,” said Strike. “Which seemed odd.”

“Don’t know… nuffin’ ’bout that…”

“Some of the people at the party assumed he was Gloria Conti’s father.”

“Never ’eard of ’er,” wheezed Betty.

“According to Wilma Bayliss’s daughters,” said Strike, “you told their mother you were scared of the person who wrote the notes. You said the writer of the notes killed Margot Bamborough. You told Wilma he’d kill you, too, if you said who he was.”

Betty’s milky eyes were expressionless. Her thin chest labored to get enough oxygen into her lungs. Strike had just concluded that she definitely wasn’t going to talk, when she opened her mouth.

“Local girl I knew,” she said, “friend o’ mine… she met Mucky… ’e come cruisin’… our corner…’e says to Jen…‘You’re better’n this… workin’ the street… body like yours… I could get you… five times what… you’re earnin’ ’ere…’ so off Jen goes,” said Betty, “up West… Soho… strippin’ for punters… sex wiv ’is mates…”