Page 248 of Troubled Blood

Taking a deep breath of oxygen through her crooked nose, Betty said,

“Man like that… when there’s one fing… what really… gets ’im off… that’s all ’e wants…”

“Did he ever want to drug you?” asked Strike.

“No,” said Betty, “didn’t need to…”

“D’you remember,” asked Strike, turning a page in his notebook, “a social worker called Wilma Bayliss?”

“Colored girl?” said Betty. “Yeah… you smoke, dontcha?” she added. “Can smell it… give us one,” she said, and out of the wrecked old body came a whiff of flirtatiousness.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Strike, smiling. “Seeing as you’re on oxygen.”

“Oh fuck off, then,” said Betty.

“Did you like Wilma?”

“’Oo?”

“Wilma Bayliss, your social worker.”

“She were… like they all are,” said Betty, with a shrug.

“We spoke to Mrs. Bayliss’s daughters recently,” said Strike. “They were telling us about the threatening notes that were sent to Dr. Bamborough, before she disappeared.”

Betty breathed in and out, her collapsed chest doing its valiant best for her, and a small squeak issued from her ruined lungs.

“Do you know anything about those notes?”

“No,” said Betty. “I ’eard… they’d bin sent. Everyone ’eard, round ’ere.”

“Who did they hear it from?”

“Probably that Irene Bull…”

“You remember Irene, do you?”

With many more pauses to catch her breath, Betty Fuller explained that her youngest sister had been in the same year as Irene at school. Irene’s family had lived in a road off Skinner Street: Corporation Row.

“Thought…’er shit… smelled of roses… that one,” said Betty. She laughed, but then broke yet again into a volley of hoarse coughs. When she’d recovered, she said, “The police… asked ’em all… not to talk… but the mouth on… that girl… everyone knew… there’d been threats made.”

“According to Wilma’s daughters,” said Strike, watching for Betty’s reaction, “you knew who sent those notes.”

“No, I never,” said Betty Fuller, no longer smiling.

“You were sure Marcus Bayliss hadn’t sent them, though?”

“Marcus never…’e was a lovely… y’know, I always liked… a darkie, me,” said Betty Fuller, and Robin, hoping Betty hadn’t seen her wince, looked down at her hands. “Very ’andsome… I’d’ve given it…’im for free… hahaha… big, tall man,” said Betty wistfully, “… kind man… no, ’e never freatened no doctor.”

“So who d’you think—”

“My second girl… my Cathy…” continued Betty, “determinedly deaf, ’er dad was a darkie… dunno ’oo ’e was… condom split… I kept ’er ’cause… I like kids, but… she don’t give a shit… about me. Smackhead!” said Betty fiercely. “I never touched it… seen too many… go that way… stole from me… I told ’er… keep the fuck… my ’ouse…”

“Cindy’s good,” gasped Betty. She was fighting her breathlessness now, though still relishing Strike’s captive attention. “Cindy… drops by. Earning… decent money…”

“Really?” said Strike, playing along, waiting for his opportunity. “What does Cindy do?”

“Escort,” wheezed Betty. “Lovely figure… up West… makin’ more’n I ever… Arabs an’ whatnot… but she says…‘Ma, you wouldn’t… like it these days… all they want… is anal.’” Betty cackled, coughed and then, without warning, turned her head to look at Robin perched on the bed and said with vitriol: “She don’t find it… funny, this one… do you?” she demanded of Robin, who was taken aback. “’S’pect… you give it away… for meals an’ jewelry… an’ fink it’s… fink it’s free… look at ’er face,” wheezed Betty, eyeing Robin with dislike, “you’re the same as…? the sniffy fuckin’… social worker… we ’ad round… when I… minding Cathy’s kids… gorn now,” said Betty, angrily. “Took into care…