“It’s like—it’s locked—on the inside,” said Barclay, panting and letting go.

He unzipped his holdall and, after some rummaging, pulled out a crowbar, which he wedged the end of into the crack separating the lid from the body of the ottoman. “Come—oan—you—fucker,” he gasped, as the end of the crowbar lost its grip and nearly hit Barclay in the face. “Somethin’s stickin’ it doon.”

Robin peeked back at Samhain’s bedroom door. It remained closed. Mother and son were still arguing about the chocolate biscuits. The budgerigars chirruped. Beyond the window, Robin could see an airplane trail, a fuzzy white pipe cleaner stretched across the sky. Everyday things became so strange, when you were waiting for something dreadful to happen. Her heart was pounding fast.

“Help me,” said Barclay through gritted teeth. He’d managed to get the end of the crowbar deeper into the crack in the ottoman. “It’s gonnae take two.”

After another glance at Samhain’s closed door, Robin hurried over to Barclay and gripped the crowbar alongside him. Using all their weight and force, both pushed the handle toward the floor.

“Jesus,” panted Robin. “What’s holding it?”

“Where’s—Strike—when you need—”

There was a loud crunching, cracking noise. The crowbar suddenly gave way as the lid of the ottoman opened. Robin turned and saw a cloud of dust rising into the air. Barclay pushed the lid up.

The ottoman had been filled with concrete, which had stuck the lid down upon itself. The gray matter was lumpy and looked as though it might have been badly mixed. In two places, something smooth broke through the uneven, ashen surface: one resembling a few inches of walrus tusk, the other, a curved surface that hinted at a dark ivory globe. Then Robin saw, stuck to a bit of the concrete that had adhered to the lid of the ottoman, a few fair hairs.

They heard footsteps on the landing. Barclay slammed the lid of the ottoman down as Samhain opened the door. He was followed by Deborah.

“I’ll teach you that magic trick now,” said Barclay, walking toward Samhain. “Come in the kitchen, we’ll do it there.”

The two men left. Deborah shuffled into the room, and picked up the faded purple throw that Robin had cast aside.

“Did you open it?” she mumbled, eyes on the old carpet.

“Yes,” said Robin, far more calmly than she felt. She sat down on the ottoman, even though she felt sacrilegious doing it. I’m sorry, Margot. I’m so sorry.

“I need to make a phone call now, Deborah. Then I think we should all have some hot chocolate.”

71

Such is the face of falshood, such the sight

Of fowle Duessa, when her borrowed light

Is laid away, and counterfesaunce knowne.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

A train came roaring and rattling along the Southeastern railway line. Strike, who was standing on the opposite side of the road, felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out, but for a few seconds the din was such that he couldn’t immediately hear Robin.

“… found her.”

“Say that again?” he shouted, as the train rumbled away.

“We’ve—found—her. Inside the ottoman inside the sitting room. Concrete was poured in all around her, but we can see a bit of her skull and maybe a femur.”

“Shit.”

Strike had expected the presence of the body in the Athorns’ flat, but there was nothing routine, ever, about finding a dead human. “Concrete?” he repeated.

“Yes. It doesn’t look that well mixed. Amateurish. But it’s done the job. It probably killed most of the smell.”

“Hell of a weight on a supporting beam.”

“Well, exactly. Where are you?”

“Outside, about to go in. Right: call 999, then call Layborn and tell him where I am, and why. That should speed things up.”

“OK. Good luck.”

Strike hung up. The nondescript street of terraced houses was quiet now the train had gone, birdsong replacing its thunderous clamor. Strike, who’d been waiting where he couldn’t be seen, now walked up the street, passing three small houses, and at the fourth, turned left up a short garden path, then beat a tattoo on the dark red front door.

The net curtains twitched, and Janice Beattie’s cross face appeared. Strike raised a hand in greeting. The curtain fell.

After a slightly longer wait than might have been expected, given the short distance from sitting room to hall, Janice opened the door. She was dressed all in black today, with sheepskin carpet slippers on her feet. Her clear china-blue eyes, rimmed in steel, looked as kind and innocent as ever. Silver-haired, apple-cheeked, she frowned up at the detective, but didn’t speak.

“Can I come in?” asked Strike.

There was a long pause. The wild birds tweeted, and Strike thought fleetingly of the budgies in the Athorns’ flat, where part of his mind was dwelling on the image of a skull and a femur, poking up through concrete.

“If you must,” said Janice slowly.

He followed Janice into the red sitting room, with its cheap crimson Turkish rug, its dried-flower pictures and its faded photographs. The sun was making the spun-glass Cinderella carriage and its six horses twinkle on top of the fire, which Janice had on, in spite of the mildness of the September day.

“Wanna cup of tea?” said Janice.

“That’d be great,” said Strike, fully alive to the unreality of the situation.

He listened to her sheepskin-muffled footsteps receding and the sound of the kitchen door opening. Taking out his mobile phone, he switched it to record and laid it on the arm of the chair in which he’d sat last time. He then pulled on a pair of latex gloves and followed Janice quietly out of the room, the worn carpet muffling his footsteps.

At the door, he paused, listening to the soft bubbling of boiling water against a kettle lid, and the tinkle of teaspoons, and the opening of a cupboard. With one fingertip, he pushed open the kitchen door.

Janice spun round, eyes wide. On seeing him, she grabbed one of the china mugs on the tray and raised it hurriedly to her lips, but Strike had already taken a stride toward her. Gripping the thin wrist with his latex-gloved hand, forcing the mug away from her mouth, he felt bone beneath the soft flesh and the papery skin of the elderly. With his free hand, he pulled the mug out of hers, and examined it. A good inch of viscous white liquid was swimming in the bottom of it. Still holding Janice’s wrist, he looked into the teapot, which contained more of the same, then opened the cupboard over the kettle.

It was jammed with bottles of pills, weedkiller, bleach and jam jars full of what looked like home-dried plants, leaves and fungus: a poisoner’s storehouse, a testimony to a lifetime’s careful study of the means by which death could be delivered in the guise of healing.

“Think I’ll skip tea,” said Strike. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

She offered no resistance as he led her by the wrist back through to the sitting room and pushed her down onto the sofa.

“A murder-suicide would be a hell of a way to go out,” said Strike, standing over her, “but I don’t much fancy being victim number… how many is it?”

Janice said nothing. Her round blue eyes registered only shock.