“I think you’d like her,” he said. “I’m sure she’d like you.”

“Lucy says she’s pretty.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“Poor girl,” murmured Joan. He wondered why. Of course, the knife attack had been reported in the press, when Robin had given evidence against the Shacklewell Ripper.

“Funny, you talking about horoscopes,” Strike said, trying to ease Joan off Robin, and funerals, and death. “We’re investigating an old disappearance just now. The bloke who was in charge of the case…”

He’d never before shared details of an investigation with Joan, and he wondered why not, now he saw her rapt attention.

“But I remember that doctor!” she said, more animated than he had seen her in days. “Margot Bamborough, yes! She had a baby at home…”

“Well, that baby’s our client,” said Strike. “Her name’s Anna. She and her partner have got a holiday home in Falmouth.”

“That poor family,” said Joan. “Never knowing… and so the officer thought the answer was in the stars?”

“Yep,” said Strike. “Convinced the killer was a Capricorn.”

“Ted’s a Capricorn.”

“Thanks for the tip-off,” said Strike seriously, and she gave a little laugh. “D’you want more tea?”

While the kettle boiled, Strike checked his texts. Barclay had sent an update on Two-Times’ girlfriend, but the most recent message was from an unknown number, and he opened it first.

Hi Cormoran, it’s your half-sister, Prudence Donleavy, here. Al gave me your number. I do hope you’ll take this in the spirit it’s meant. Let me firstly say that I absolutely understand and sympathize with your reasons for not wanting to join us for the Deadbeats anniversary/album party. You may or may not know that my own journey to a relationship with Dad has been in many ways a difficult one, but ultimately I feel that connecting with him—and, yes, forgiving him—has been an enriching experience. We all hope very much that you’ll reconsider—

“What’s the matter?” said Joan.

She’d followed him into the kitchen, shuffling, slightly stooped.

“What are you doing? I can fetch anything you want—”

“I was going to show you where I hide the chocolate biscuits. If Ted knows, he scoffs the lot, and the doctor’s worried about his blood pressure. What were you reading? I know that look. You were angry.”

He didn’t know whether her new appreciation for honesty would stretch as far as his father, but somehow, with the wind and rain whipping around them, an air of the confessional had descended upon the house. He told her about the text.

“Oh,” said Joan. She pointed at a Tupperware box on a top shelf. “The biscuits are in there.”

They returned to the sitting room with the biscuits, which she’d insisted he put on a plate. Some things never changed.

“You’ve never met Prudence, have you?” asked Joan, when she was resettled in her chair.

“Haven’t met Prudence, or the eldest, Maimie, or the youngest, Ed,” said Strike, trying to sound matter of fact.

Joan said nothing for a minute or so, then a great sigh inflated, then collapsed, her thin chest, and she said,

“I think you should go to your father’s party, Corm.”

“Why?” said Strike. The monosyllable rang in his ears with an adolescent, self-righteous fury. To his slight surprise, she smiled at him.

“I know what went on,” she said. “He behaved very badly, but he’s still your father.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Strike. “Ted’s my dad.”

He’d never said it out loud before. Tears filled Joan’s eyes.

“He’d love to hear you say that,” she said softly. “Funny, isn’t it… years ago, years and years, I was just a girl, and I went to see a proper gypsy fortune teller. They used to camp up the road. I thought she’d tell me lots of nice things. You expect them to, don’t you? You’ve paid your money. D’you know what she said?”

Strike shook his head.

“‘You’ll never have children.’ Just like that. Straight out.”

“Well, she got that wrong, didn’t she?” said Strike.

Tears started again in Joan’s bleached eyes. Why had he never said these things before, Strike asked himself. It would have been so easy to give her pleasure, and instead he’d held tightly to his divided loyalties, angry that he had to choose, to label, and in doing so, to betray. He reached for her hand and she squeezed it surprisingly tightly.

“You should go to that party, Corm. I think your father’s at the heart of… of a lot of things. I wish,” she added, after a short pause, “you had someone to look after you.”

“Doesn’t work that way these days, Joan. Men are supposed to be able to look after themselves—in more ways than one,” he added, smiling.

“Pretending you don’t need things… it’s just silly,” she said quietly. “What does your horoscope say?”

He picked up the paper again and cleared his throat.

“‘Sagittarius: with your ruler retrograde, you may find you aren’t your usual happy-go-lucky self…’”

32

Where euer yet I be, my secrete aide

Shall follow you.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

It was three o’clock in the afternoon and Robin, who was sitting in her Land Rover close to the nondescript house in Stoke Newington that Strike had watched before Christmas, had seen nothing of interest since arriving in the street at nine o’clock that morning. As rain drizzled down her windscreen she half-wished she smoked, just for something to do.

She’d identified the blonde owner-occupier of the house online. Her name was Elinor Dean, and she was a divorcée who lived alone. Elinor was definitely home, because Robin had seen her pass in front of a window two hours previously, but the squally weather seemed to be keeping her inside. Nobody had visited the house all day, least of all Shifty’s Boss. Perhaps they were relatives, after all, and his pre-Christmas visit was simply one of those things you did in the festive season: pay social debts, give presents, check in. The patting on the head might have been a private joke. It certainly didn’t seem to suggest anything sexual, criminal or deviant, which was what they were looking for.

Robin’s mobile rang.

“Hi.”

“Can you talk?” asked Strike.

He was walking down the steeply sloping street where Ted and Joan’s house lay, leaning on the collapsible walking stick he’d brought with him, knowing that the roads would be wet and possibly slippery. Ted was back in the house; they’d just helped Joan upstairs for a nap, and Strike, who wanted to smoke and didn’t much fancy the shed again, had decided to go for a short walk in the relentless rain.

“Yes,” said Robin. “How’s Joan?”

“Same,” said Strike. He didn’t feel like talking about it. “You said you wanted a Bamborough chat.”

“Yeah,” said Robin. “I’ve got good news, no news and bad news.”