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‘He was a doctor, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s right,’ said Strike. ‘Did you used to see much of him?’
‘I didn’t, but Maeve did. She kept getting nervous rashes. He used to treat her.’
Strike made a note of this, his face expressionless.
‘D’you remember Jonathan Wace’s daughter?’ asked Robin.
‘Well, no,’ said Niamh, looking confused. ‘She was dead.’
‘Sorry, not Daiyu – I mean his elder daughter, Abigail.’
‘Oh, did he have another one?’ said Niamh, surprised. ‘No, I never met her.’
‘OK,’ said Strike, having made a final note, ‘that’s been helpful, thank you. We’re trying to establish a timeline, find out who was there, and when.’
‘I’m sorry I don’t remember more,’ said Niamh.
Cups of tea finished, they all rose from the table, Robin disengaging her foot carefully from Basil.
‘If,’ said Niamh tentatively, ‘you find out anything about Mum, will you let me know?’
‘Of course,’ said Strike.
‘Thank you. Since having Charlie, I think about Mum such a lot… Oisin and Maeve say they don’t care, but I think it would mean a lot to them, too, if we could find out what happened to her…’
Strike, Robin noticed, looked unusually severe as the three of them headed down the hall, even allowing for the natural surliness of his resting expression. At the front door, Robin thanked Niamh for her time and the biscuits. Basil stood panting beside them, tail wagging, evidently convinced he might yet wheedle fun and treats out of the strangers.
Strike now turned to his partner.
‘You go on. I’d like a private word with Niamh.’
Though surprised, Robin asked no questions, but left. When the sound of her footsteps had disappeared, Strike turned back to Niamh.
‘I’m sorry to ask this,’ he said quietly, looking down at her, ‘but has your younger sister ever talked to you about what Harold Coates did, to cure her rashes?’
‘I think he gave her some cream, that’s all,’ said Niamh, looking nonplussed.
‘She’s never talked about anything else that happened, when he was treating her?’
‘No,’ said Niamh, fear now dawning in her face.
‘How old’s your sister now – twenty-one?’
‘Yes,’ said Niamh.
‘Harold Coates was a paedophile,’ said Strike, and Niamh gasped and clapped her hands to her face. ‘I think you should ask her what happened. She’s probably in need of more help than anti-depressants, and it might be a relief to have someone else know.’
‘Oh my God,’ whispered Niamh through her fingers.
‘I’m sorry,’ repeated Strike. ‘It won’t be much consolation, I know, but Maeve was far from the only one.’
22
Nine at the top means:
Look to your conduct and weigh the favourable signs.
