‘But you never saw Kathryn Kent until she came to the door to say that her sister had died?’
‘Was that her, was it?’ asked Leonora, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with her cuff. ‘Fat, i’n’t she? Well, she could’ve got his credit card details any time, couldn’t she? Taken it out of his wallet while he was sleeping.’
It was going to be difficult to find and question Kathryn Kent, Strike knew. He was sure she would have absconded from her flat to avoid the attentions of the press.
‘The things the murderer bought on the card,’ he said, changing tack, ‘were ordered online. You haven’t got a computer at home, have you?’
‘Owen never liked ’em, he preferred his old type—’
‘Have you ever ordered shopping over the internet?’
‘Yeah,’ she replied, and his heart sank a little. He had been hoping that Leonora might be that almost mythical beast: a computer virgin.
‘Where did you do that?’
‘Edna’s, she let me borrow hers to order Orlando an art set for her birthday so I didn’t have to go into town,’ said Leonora.
Doubtless the police would soon be confiscating and ripping apart the kind-hearted Edna’s computer.
A woman with a shaved head and a tattooed lip at the next table began shouting at a warder, who had warned her to stay in her seat. Leonora cowered away from the prisoner as she erupted into obscenities and the officer approached.
‘Leonora, there’s one last thing,’ said Strike loudly, as the shouting at the next table reached a crescendo. ‘Did Owen say anything to you about meaning to go away, to take a break, before he walked out on the fifth?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘’F course not.’
The prisoner at the next table had been persuaded to quieten down. Her visitor, a woman similarly tattooed and only slightly less aggressive-looking, gave the prison officer the finger as she walked away.
‘You can’t think of anything Owen said or did that might’ve suggested he was planning to go away for a while?’ Strike persisted as Leonora watched their neighbours with anxious, owl-like eyes.
‘What?’ she said distractedly. ‘No – he never tells – told me – always just went… If he knew he was going, why wouldn’t he say goodbye?’
She began to cry, one thin hand over her mouth.
‘What’s going to happen to Dodo if they keep me in prison?’ she asked him through her sobs. ‘Edna can’t have her for ever. She can’t handle her. She went an’ left Cheeky Monkey behind an’ Dodo had done some pictures for me,’ and after a disconcerted moment or two Strike decided that she must be talking about the plush orang-utan that Orlando had been cradling on his visit to their house. ‘If they make me stay here—’
‘I’m going to get you out,’ said Strike with more confidence than he felt; but what harm would it do to give her something to hold on to, something to get her through the next twenty-four hours?
Their time was up. He left the hall without looking back, wondering what it was about Leonora, faded and grumpy, fifty years old with a brain-damaged daughter and a hopeless life, that had inspired in him this fierce determination, this fury…
Because she didn’t do it, came the simple answer. Because she’s innocent.
In the last eight months a stream of clients had pushed open the engraved glass door bearing his name and the reasons they had sought him had been uncannily similar. They had come because they wanted a spy, a weapon, a means of redressing some balance in their favour or of divesting themselves of inconvenient connections. They came because they sought an advantage, because they felt they were owed retribution or compensation. Because overwhelmingly, they wanted more money.
But Leonora had come to him because she wanted her husband to come home. It had been a simple wish born of weariness and of love, if not for the errant Quine then for the daughter who missed him. For the purity of her desire, Strike felt he owed her the best he could give.
The cold air outside the prison tasted different. It had been a long time since Strike had been in an environment where following orders was the backbone of daily life. He could feel his freedom as he walked, leaning heavily on the stick, back towards the bus stop.
At the back of the bus, three drunken young women wearing headbands from which reindeer antlers protruded were singing:
‘They say it’s unrealistic,
But I believe in you Saint Nick…’
Bloody Christmas, thought Strike, thinking irritably of the presents he would be expected to buy for his nephews and godchildren, none of whose ages he could ever remember.
The bus groaned on through the slush and the snow. Lights of every colour gleamed blurrily at Strike through the steamed-up bus window. Scowling, with his mind on injustice and murder, he effortlessly and silently repelled anyone who might have considered sitting in the seat beside him.