The house to which Strike had driven wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Far from being a country manor, Delamore Lodge was a small, run-down dwelling of dark stone that resembled an abandoned chapel, set in a wild garden that looked as though it hadn’t been touched in years. As Strike parked, he noticed that one of the Gothic windows had several cracked panes which had been covered from the inside with what looked like a black bin bag. Some of the roof tiles were missing. Viewed against an ominous November sky and through driving rain, Delamore Lodge was the kind of place local children might easily believe to be inhabited by a witch.
Placing his fake foot carefully, because sodden leaves from a few bare trees had formed a slimy carpet on the uneven path, Strike approached the oak front door and knocked. It opened seconds later.
Strike’s mental image of Decima Mullins as a well-groomed blonde in tailored tweed could hardly have been wider of the mark. He found himself facing a pale, dumpy woman whose long, straggly brown hair had greying roots and which looked as though it hadn’t been cut in a long time. She was wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a thick black woollen poncho. In conjunction with the wild garden and the ramshackle house, her outfit made Strike wonder whether he was looking at an upper-class eccentric who’d turned her back on society to paint bad pictures or throw wonky pots. It was a type he failed to find endearing.
‘Miss Mullins?’
‘Yes. You’re Cormoran?’
‘That’s me,’ said Strike, noticing that she got his first name right. Most people said ‘Cameron’.
‘Could I see some ID?’
Given how unlikely it was that a roving burglar had decided to turn up at her house by daylight in a BMW, at exactly the same time she was expecting a detective she’d summoned into Kent, Strike resented having to stand in the downpour while fumbling in his pocket for his driving licence. Once he’d shown it to her, she moved aside to let him enter a cramped hall, which seemed unusually full of umbrella stands and shoe racks, as though successive owners had added their own without removing the older ones. Strike, who’d endured too much squalor in his childhood, was unsympathetic to untidiness and dirtiness in those capable of tackling them, and his negative impression of this dowdy upper-class woman intensified. Possibly some of his disapproval showed in his expression because Decima said,
‘This used to be my great-aunt’s house. It was tenanted until a few months ago and they didn’t look after the place. I’m going to do it up and sell it.’
There were, however, no signs of redecoration or renovation. The wallpaper in the hall had torn in places and one of the overhead lamps was lacking a bulb.
Strike followed Decima into a poky kitchen, which had an old-fashioned range and worn flagstones that looked as though they’d been there hundreds of years. A wooden table was surrounded by mismatched chairs. Possibly, Strike thought, eyes on a red leather notebook lying on the table, his hostess was an aspiring poet. This, in his view, was a step down even from pottery.
‘Before we start,’ said Decima, turning to look up at Strike, ‘I need you to promise me something.’
‘OK,’ said Strike.
The light from the old-fashioned lamp hanging overhead didn’t flatter her round, rather flat face. If better groomed, she might have attained a mild prettiness, but the overall impression was one of neglectful indifference to her appearance. She’d made no attempt to conceal her purple eyebags or what looked like a nasty case of rosacea on both nose and cheeks.
‘You keep things confidential for clients, don’t you?’
‘There’s a standard contract,’ said Strike, unsure what he was being asked.
‘Yes, I know there’d be a contract, that’s not what I mean.
‘I can’t see why I’d need—’
‘I want an
‘OK,’ said Strike again. He suspected it might not take much for Decima Mullins to start shouting or (and after the last ten days, he’d find this even less palatable) crying.
‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘D’you want coffee?’
‘That’d be great, thanks.’
‘You can sit down.’
She proceeded to the range, on which a pewter pot was sitting.
The chair creaked under Strike’s weight, the rain drummed on the intact windows, and the black bin bag stuck over the cracked panes with gaffer tape rustled in the wind. Apart from themselves, the house seemed to be deserted. Strike noticed that Decima’s poncho was stained in places, as though she’d been wearing it for days. The back of her hair was also matted in places.