“None of them have got the guts to say that they all felt like killing Dad at times, not now he’s dead, so they project it all onto someone else. And that,” said Raphael, “is why none of them are talking about Geraint Winn. He gets double protection, because Saint Freddie was involved in Winn’s big grudge. It’s staring them in the face that he had a real motive, but we’re not supposed to mention that.”
“Go on,” said Robin, her pen at the ready. “Mention.”
“No, forget it,” said Raphael, “I shouldn’t have—”
“I don’t think you say much accidentally, Raff. Out with it.”
He laughed.
“I’m trying to stop fucking over people who don’t deserve it. It’s all part of the great redemption project.”
“Who doesn’t deserve it?”
“Francesca, the little girl I—you know—at the gallery. She’s the one who told me. She got it from her older sister, Verity.”
“Verity,” repeated Robin.
Sleep-deprived, she struggled to remember where she had heard that name. It was very like “Venetia,” of course… and then she remembered.
“Wait,” she said, frowning in her effort to concentrate. “There was a Verity on the fencing team with Freddie and Rhiannon Winn.”
“Right in one,” said Raphael.
“You all know each other,” said Robin wearily, unknowingly echoing Strike’s thought as she started writing again.
“Well, that’s the joy of the public school system,” said Raphael. “In London, if you’ve got the money, you meet the same three hundred people everywhere you go… Yeah, when I first arrived at Drummond’s gallery, Francesca couldn’t wait to tell me that her big sister had once dated Freddie. I think she thought that made the pair of us predestined, or something.
“When she realized I thought Freddie was a bit of a shit,” said Raphael, “she changed tack and told me a nasty story.
“Apparently, at his eighteenth, Freddie, Verity and a couple of others decided to mete out some punishment to Rhiannon for having dared to replace Verity on the fencing team. In their view she was—I don’t know—a bit common, a bit Welsh?—so they spiked her drink. All good fun. Sort of stuff that goes on the dorm, you know.
“But she didn’t react too well to neat vodka—or maybe, from their point of view, she reacted really well. Anyway, they managed to take some nice pictures of her, to pass around among themselves… this was in the early days of the internet. These days I suppose half a million people would have viewed them in the first twenty-four hours, but Rhiannon only had to endure the whole fencing team and most of Freddie’s mates having a good gloat.
“Anyway,” said Raphael, “about a month later, Rhiannon killed herself.”
“Oh my God,” said Robin quietly.
“Yeah,” said Raphael. “After little Franny told me the story, I asked Izzy about it. She got very upset, told me not to repeat it, ever—but she didn’t deny it. I got lots of ‘nobody kills themselves because of a silly joke at a party’ bluster and she told me I mustn’t talk about Freddie like that, it would break Dad’s heart…
“Well, the dead don’t have hearts to break, do they? And personally, I think it’s about time somebody pissed on Freddie’s eternal flame. If he hadn’t been born a Chiswell, the bastard would’ve been in borstal. But I suppose you’ll say I can talk, after what I did.”
“No,” said Robin gently. “That isn’t what I was going to say.”
The pugnacious expression faded from his face. He checked his watch.
“I’m going to have to go. I’ve got to be somewhere at nine.”
Robin raised her hand to signal for the bill. When she turned back to Raphael, she saw his eyes moving in routine fashion over both the other women in the restaurant, and in the mirror she saw how the blonde tried to hold his gaze.
“You can go,” she said, handing over her credit card to the waitress. “I don’t want to make you late.”
“No, I’ll walk you out.”
While she was still putting her credit card back into her handbag, he picked up her coat and held it up for her.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Out on the pavement, he hailed a taxi.
“You take this one,” he said. “I fancy a walk. Clear my head. I feel as though I’ve had a bad therapy session.”
“No, it’s all right,” said Robin. She didn’t want to charge a taxi all the way back to Wembley to Strike. “I’m going to get the Tube. Goodnight.”
“’Night, Venetia,” he said.
Raphael got into the taxi, which glided away, and Robin pulled her coat more tightly around herself as she walked off in the opposite direction. It had been a chaotic interview, but she had managed to get much more than she had expected out of Raphael. Taking out her mobile again, she phoned Strike.
59
We two go with each other…
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
When he saw Robin was calling him, Strike, who had taken his notebook out to the Tottenham for a drink, pocketed the former, downed the remainder of his pint in one and took the call out onto the street.
The mess that building works had made of the top of Tottenham Court Road—the rubble-strewn channel where a street had been, the portable railings and the plastic barricades, the walkways and planks that enabled tens of thousands of people to continue to pass through the busy junction—were so familiar to him now that he barely noticed them. He had not come outside for the view, but for a cigarette, and he smoked two while Robin relayed everything that Raphael had told her.
Once the call was over, Strike returned his mobile to his pocket and absentmindedly lit himself a third cigarette from the tip of the second and continued to stand there, thinking deeply about everything she had said and forcing passersby to navigate around him.
A couple of things that Robin had told him struck the detective as interesting. Having finished his third cigarette and flicked it into the open abyss in the road, Strike retreated inside the pub and ordered himself a second pint. A group of students had now taken his table, so he headed into the back, where high bar stools sat beneath a stained-glass cupola whose colors were dimmed by night. Here, Strike took out his notebook again and re-examined the list of names over which he had pored in the early hours of Sunday, while he sought distraction from thoughts of Charlotte. After gazing at it again in the manner of a man who knows something is concealed there, he turned a few pages to reread the notes he had made of his interview with Della.
Large, hunch-backed and motionless but for the eyes flicking along the lines he had scribbled in the blind woman’s house, Strike unknowingly repelled a couple of timid backpackers who had considered asking whether they might share his table and take the weight off their blistered feet. Fearing the consequences of breaking his almost tangible concentration, they retreated before he noticed them.
Strike turned back to the list of names. Married couples, lovers, business partners, siblings.
Pairs.
He flicked further backwards to the pages to find the notes he had made during the interview with Oliver, who had taken them through the forensic findings. A two-part killing, this: amitriptyline and helium, each potentially fatal on its own, yet used together.
Pairs.
Two victims, killed twenty years apart, a strangled child and a suffocated government minister, the former buried on the latter’s land.
Pairs.
Strike turned thoughtfully to a blank page and made a new note for himself.
Francesca—confirm story
60
… you really must give me some explanation of your taking this matter—this possibility—so much to heart.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm