‘Rena Liddell? Yes,’ said Strike, and he realised by her tone of voice that she still had her suspicions about her husband’s precise relationship with his late friend’s sister. ‘They weren’t… there was nothing romantic there. He just wanted to make contact with her and give her that silver necklace thing.’
‘That shoulda been
Heads turned. Some of the expressions were accusatory: Strike was upsetting the widow.
‘Shall we go outside for a moment?’ said Strike, who didn’t fancy putting on a miserable floor show for the mourners, and he led Jade back into the smoking area. She collapsed into a wooden chair and he sat down beside her while she sobbed. At last, she plunged a hand into her black handbag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
‘Not vaping any more?’ Strike asked, watching enviously as she lit up.
‘I’ll probably go back to it,’ said Jade, taking a deep drag of her Marlboro and blowing the smoke at the sky, ‘but I’m allowed a fuckin’ cigarette today, i’n I?’
‘Definitely,’ said Strike.
‘That silver necklace was Niall’s mum’s. ’Is dad bought it years ago, in Oman. Why’d ’e give it to
‘I think,’ said Strike, ‘to make up for something. Guilt, that he survived when her brother didn’t? And he thought it was protective.’
‘So why’d ’e wanna protect
‘Because he knew she was in trouble and had no family, now that Ben was dead?’ suggested Strike.
Jade wept, her cigarette burned slowly downwards, and Strike wished he could take it from her and finish it. At last, Jade said,
‘You know that code, on the briefcase ’e filled wiv bricks? Know what it was?’
‘No,’ said Strike.
‘My due date, for the baby I lost. So… so it must’ve meant somefing to ’im, mustn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Strike. ‘It must… there were only bricks inside the briefcase, I heard?’
‘Bricks an’ stuff ’e’d written, all wrapped up in polyfene, but they told me nobody could read it. Waterlogged. I dunno if that’s true… maybe it was a le’er to me?’
‘Maybe,’ said Strike.
He personally would have bet that Semple had written what he’d believed to be the truth about his E Squadron mission, whatever that had been. He saw no other reason for him to leave hints behind him as to where he and his information could be found, or for its suppression, waterlogged or not.
‘Sometimes you wan’ someone so bad, even when you know it’s wrong an’ it’s not gonna work, but you still wan’ ’em, y’know?’ said Jade, in a choked voice.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, and Charlotte smiled sardonically in his mind’s eye.
‘We weren’ no good for each ovver, but we still wan’ed it. Couldn’ get out of it. We wasn’ compa’ible, I know what ev’ryone said, an’ fine, they was righ’, but we did – I did love ’im,’ she whispered. ‘I really did. I always fel’ like I couldn’
Strike thought of the belief he’d long ago abandoned, that he could somehow tinker with Charlotte, and fix her, and make her whole and happy.
‘You all right, babe?’ said a wary voice behind them.
The man with the ginger moustache Strike had glimpsed in Crieff had come to collect Jade.
‘Yeah,’ she croaked, getting to her feet again. ‘’M fine… see ya,’ she said to Strike, and Ginger Moustache led her away, with a suspicious glance back at the large man with the bandaged ear.
Strike watched as Jade was absorbed by the crowd. This time, he didn’t return to the function room. Once certain that nobody was looking at him through the glass door, he returned to his car.
125
A. E. Housman
The Hotel Serenità was even more beautiful in reality than on Instagram: a large building of weathered yellow stone, which had once been a country estate. Having paid the driver, Robin crossed the air-conditioned lobby with an assumed air of confidence, heading straight through it to an exterior area where she could see a few people enjoying lunch. She intended to order a meal, and then start making enquiries of the staff.
But that wasn’t necessary. Robin had barely been seated for two minutes when a round-faced, short-necked young man whose blond hair had been bleached nearly white in the Sardinian sun appeared, to offer her a menu written in English, and enquire whether he could get her a drink before she ordered.
‘Rupert,’ said Robin. Even though she’d expected him to be here, his sudden physical materialisation had come as a shock.
Fleetwood’s round face became suddenly slack with what Robin guessed was the culmination of months of dread.
‘My name’s Robin Ellacott,’ she said. ‘I’m a private—’