Page 195 of Troubled Blood

“How long were you together?”

“Coupla years, all told. We broke up, then got back togevver. She didn’t like me using other models. Jealous. Not cut out for an artist’s muse, Margot. Didn’t like sitting still and not talking, haha… no, I fell hard for Margot Bamborough. Yeah, there was a damn sight more to her than being a Bunny Girl.”

Of course there was, thought Robin, though still smiling politely. She became a bloody doctor.

“Did you ever paint her?”

“Yeah,” said Satchwell. “Few times. Some sketches and one full-size picture. I sold them. Needed the cash. Wish I ’adn’t.”

He fell into a momentary abstraction, his uncovered eye surveying the pub, and Robin wondered whether old memories were genuinely resurfacing behind the heavily tanned face, which was so deeply lined and dark it might have been carved from teak, or whether he was playing the part that was expected of him when he said quietly,

“Hell of a girl, Margot Bamborough.”

He took a sip of his beer, then said,

“It’s her ’usband who’s hired you, is it?”

“No,” said Robin. “Her daughter.”

“Oh,” said Satchwell, nodding. “Yeah, of course: there was a kid. She didn’t look as though she’d ’ad a baby, when I met her after they got married. Slim as ever. Both my wives put on about a stone with each of our kids.”

“How many children have you got?” asked Robin, politely.

She wanted the food to hurry up. It was harder to walk out once food was in front of you, and some instinct told her that Paul Satchwell’s whimsical mood might not last.

“Five,” said Satchwell. “Two with me first wife, and three with me second. Didn’t mean to: we got twins on the last throw. All pretty much grown up now, thank Christ. Kids and art don’t mix. I love ’em,” he said roughly, “but Cyril Connolly had it right. The enemy of promise is the pram in the bloody ’all.”

He threw her a brief glance out of his one visible eye and said abruptly,

“So ’er ’usband still thinks I had something to do with Margot disappearing, does ’e?”

“What d’you mean by ‘still’?” inquired Robin.

“’E gave my name to the police,” said Satchwell. “The night she disappeared. Thought she might’ve run off with me. Did you know Margot and I bumped into each other a coupla weeks before she disappeared?”

“I did, yes,” said Robin.

“It put ideas into what’s-’is-name’s head,” he said. “I can’t blame him, I s’pose it did look fishy. I’d’ve probably thought the same, if my bird had met up with an old flame right before they buggered off—disappeared, I mean.”

The food arrived: Satchwell’s steak and chips looked appetizing, but Robin, who’d been too busy concentrating on her questions, hadn’t read the small print on the menu. Expecting a plate of salad, she received a wooden platter bearing various ramekins containing hot sausage slices, hummus and a sticky mess of mayonnaise-coated leaves, a challenging assortment to eat while taking notes.

“Want some chips?” offered Satchwell, pushing the small metal bucket that contained them toward her.

“No thanks,” said Robin, smiling. She took a bite of a breadstick and continued, her pen in her right hand,

“Did Margot talk about Roy, when you bumped into her?”

“A bit,” said Satchwell, his mouth full of steak. “She put up a good front. What you do, when you meet the ex, isn’t it? Pretend you think you did the right thing. No regrets.”

“Did you think she had regrets?” asked Robin.

“She wasn’t ’appy, I could tell. I thought, nobody’s paying you attention. She tried to put a brave face on it, but she struck me as miserable. Knackered.”

“Did you only see each other the once?”

Satchwell chewed his steak, looking at Robin thoughtfully. At last he swallowed, then said,

“Have you read my police statement?”