“Billy,” said the man, his hand flying from nose to chest three times in quick succession. The third time his hand fell, he grabbed it with his other hand and held it tightly.
“And you saw a child strangled, Billy?” said Strike, as in the next room Denise gabbled:
“Police, quickly!”
“What did she say?” asked Billy, his sunken eyes huge in his face as he glanced nervously towards the outer office, one hand clasping the other in his effort to suppress his tic.
“That’s nothing,” said Strike easily. “I’ve got a few different cases on. Tell me about this child.”
Strike reached for a pad and paper, all his movements slow and cautious, as though Billy were a wild bird that might take fright.
“He strangled it, up by the horse.”
Denise was now gabbling loudly into the phone beyond the flimsy partition wall.
“When was this?” asked Strike, still writing.
“Ages… I was a kid. Little girl it was, but after they said it was a little boy. Jimmy was there, he says I never saw it, but I did. I saw him do it. Strangled. I saw it.”
“And this was up by the horse, was it?”
“Right up by the horse. That’s not where they buried her, though. Him. That was down in the dell, by our dad’s. I seen them doing it, I can show you the place. She wouldn’t let me dig, but she’d let you.”
“And Jimmy did it, did he?”
“Jimmy never strangled nobody!” said Billy angrily. “He saw it with me. He says it didn’t happen but he’s lying, he was there. He’s frightened, see.”
“I see,” lied Strike, continuing to take notes. “Well, I’ll need your address if I’m going to investigate.”
He half-expected resistance, but Billy reached eagerly for the proffered pad and pen. A further gust of body odor reached Strike. Billy began to write, but suddenly seemed to think better of it.
“You won’t come to Jimmy’s place, though? He’ll fucking tan me. You can’t come to Jimmy’s.”
“No, no,” said Strike soothingly. “I just need your address for my records.”
Through the door came Denise’s grating voice.
“I need someone here quicker than that, he’s very disturbed!”
“What’s she saying?” asked Billy.
To Strike’s chagrin, Billy suddenly ripped the top sheet from the pad, crumpled it, then began to touch nose and chest again with his fist enclosing the paper.
“Don’t worry about Denise,” said Strike, “she’s dealing with another client. Can I get you a drink, Billy?”
“Drink of what?”
“Tea? Or coffee?”
“Why?” asked Billy. The offer seemed to have made him even more suspicious. “Why do you want me to drink something?”
“Only if you fancy it. Doesn’t matter if you don’t.”
“I don’t need medicine!”
“I haven’t got any medicine to give you,” said Strike.
“I’m not mental! He strangled the kid and they buried it, down in the dell by our dad’s house. Wrapped in a blanket it was. Pink blanket. It wasn’t my fault. I was only a kid. I didn’t want to be there. I was just a little kid.”
“How many years ago, do you know?”
“Ages… years… can’t get it out of my head,” said Billy, his eyes burning in his thin face as the fist enclosing the piece of paper fluttered up and down, touching nose, touching chest. “They buried her in a pink blanket, down in the dell by my dad’s house. But afterwards they said it was a boy.”
“Where’s your dad’s house, Billy?”
“She won’t let me back now. You could dig, though. You could go. Strangled her, they did,” said Billy, fixing Strike with his haunted eyes. “But Jimmy said it was a boy. Strangled, up by the—”
There was a knock on the door. Before Strike could tell her not to enter, Denise had poked her head inside, much braver now that Strike was here, full of her own importance.
“They’re coming,” she said, with a look of exaggerated meaning that would have spooked a man far less jumpy than Billy. “On their way now.”
“Who’s coming?” demanded Billy, jumping up. “Who’s on their way?”
Denise whipped her head out of the room and closed the door. There was a soft thud against the wood, and Strike knew that she was leaning against it, trying to hold Billy in.
“She’s just talking about a delivery I’m expecting,” Strike said soothingly, getting to his feet. “Go on about the—”
“What have you done?” yelped Billy, backing away towards the door while he repeatedly touched nose and chest. “Who’s coming?”
“Nobody’s coming,” said Strike, but Billy was already trying to push the door open. Meeting resistance, he flung himself hard against it. There was a shriek from outside as Denise was thrown aside. Before Strike could get out from around the desk, Billy had sprinted through the outer door. They heard him jumping down the metal stairs three at a time and Strike, infuriated, knowing that he had no hope of catching a younger and, on the evidence, fitter man, turned and ran back into his office. Throwing up the sash window, he leaned outside just in time to see Billy whipping around the corner of the street out of sight.
“Bollocks!”
A man heading inside the guitar shop opposite stared around in some perplexity for the source of the noise.
Strike withdrew his head and turned to glare at Denise, who was dusting herself down in the doorway to his office. Incredibly, she looked pleased with herself.
“I tried to hold him in,” she said proudly.
“Yeah,” said Strike, exercising considerable self-restraint. “I saw.”
“The police are on their way.”
“Fantastic.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Then I think I’ll go and freshen up the bathroom,” she said, adding in a whisper, “I don’t think he used the flush.”
3
I fought out that fight alone and in the completest secrecy.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
As she walked along the unfamiliar Deptford street, Robin was raised to temporary light-heartedness, then wondered when she had last felt this way and knew that it had been over a year. Energized and uplifted by the afternoon sunshine, the colorful shopfronts and general bustle and noise, she was currently celebrating the fact that she never need see the inside of the Villiers Trust Clinic again.
Her therapist had been unhappy that she was terminating treatment.
“We recommend a full course,” she had said.
“I know,” Robin replied, “but, well, I’m sorry, I think this has done me as much good as it’s going to.”
The therapist’s smile had been chilly.
“The CBT’s been great,” Robin had said. “It’s really helped with the anxiety, I’m going to keep that up…”
She had taken a deep breath, eyes fixed on the woman’s low-heeled Mary Janes, then forced herself to look her in the eye.