Page 119 of Troubled Blood

While the kettle boiled, Strike checked his texts. Barclay had sent an update on Two-Times’ girlfriend, but the most recent message was from an unknown number, and he opened it first.

Hi Cormoran, it’s your half-sister, Prudence Donleavy, here. Al gave me your number. I do hope you’ll take this in the spirit it’s meant. Let me firstly say that I absolutely understand and sympathize with your reasons for not wanting to join us for the Deadbeats anniversary/album party. You may or may not know that my own journey to a relationship with Dad has been in many ways a difficult one, but ultimately I feel that connecting with him—and, yes, forgiving him—has been an enriching experience. We all hope very much that you’ll reconsider—

“What’s the matter?” said Joan.

She’d followed him into the kitchen, shuffling, slightly stooped.

“What are you doing? I can fetch anything you want—”

“I was going to show you where I hide the chocolate biscuits. If Ted knows, he scoffs the lot, and the doctor’s worried about his blood pressure. What were you reading? I know that look. You were angry.”

He didn’t know whether her new appreciation for honesty would stretch as far as his father, but somehow, with the wind and rain whipping around them, an air of the confessional had descended upon the house. He told her about the text.

“Oh,” said Joan. She pointed at a Tupperware box on a top shelf. “The biscuits are in there.”

They returned to the sitting room with the biscuits, which she’d insisted he put on a plate. Some things never changed.

“You’ve never met Prudence, have you?” asked Joan, when she was resettled in her chair.

“Haven’t met Prudence, or the eldest, Maimie, or the youngest, Ed,” said Strike, trying to sound matter of fact.

Joan said nothing for a minute or so, then a great sigh inflated, then collapsed, her thin chest, and she said,

“I think you should go to your father’s party, Corm.”

“Why?” said Strike. The monosyllable rang in his ears with an adolescent, self-righteous fury. To his slight surprise, she smiled at him.

“I know what went on,” she said. “He behaved very badly, but he’s still your father.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Strike. “Ted’s my dad.”

He’d never said it out loud before. Tears filled Joan’s eyes.

“He’d love to hear you say that,” she said softly. “Funny, isn’t it… years ago, years and years, I was just a girl, and I went to see a proper gypsy fortune teller. They used to camp up the road. I thought she’d tell me lots of nice things. You expect them to, don’t you? You’ve paid your money. D’you know what she said?”

Strike shook his head.

“‘You’ll never have children.’ Just like that. Straight out.”

“Well, she got that wrong, didn’t she?” said Strike.

Tears started again in Joan’s bleached eyes. Why had he never said these things before, Strike asked himself. It would have been so easy to give her pleasure, and instead he’d held tightly to his divided loyalties, angry that he had to choose, to label, and in doing so, to betray. He reached for her hand and she squeezed it surprisingly tightly.

“You should go to that party, Corm. I think your father’s at the heart of… of a lot of things. I wish,” she added, after a short pause, “you had someone to look after you.”

“Doesn’t work that way these days, Joan. Men are supposed to be able to look after themselves—in more ways than one,” he added, smiling.

“Pretending you don’t need things… it’s just silly,” she said quietly. “What does your horoscope say?”

He picked up the paper again and cleared his throat.

“‘Sagittarius: with your ruler retrograde, you may find you aren’t your usual happy-go-lucky self…’”

32

Where euer yet I be, my secrete aide

Shall follow you.