Page 284 of Troubled Blood

Absolute secrecy about the interview, including signing a non-disclosure agreement that guaranteed Strike would never talk to the press about it, had been the first precondition set by the authorities.

“He really wants it to be you,” said Robin. “Tucker. He says Creed’s got a big ego and he’ll want to meet you. And the psychiatrists must agree, mustn’t they, or they wouldn’t be allowing it? Brian Tucker says Creed always saw himself as high status, and deserving of associating with famous, successful people.”

“It isn’t a psychiatrist’s job to decide whether I’ll be able to get anything out of him,” said Strike. “I’d imagine all they’ll care about is whether I’m going to rile him up. You don’t get put in Broadmoor for being mildly eccentric.”

Strike was silent for a long time, looking out of the window, and Robin too remained quiet, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought. When at last Strike spoke again, he sounded matter of fact, and focused on the plan for Skegness.

“I looked up the B&B on TripAdvisor. It’s called the Allardice, which is his wife’s maiden name. We won’t walk in there cold, because if he isn’t there and the wife smells a rat, she can call him and warn him not to come back, so we’ll park, get ourselves into a position where we can see the building, and ring him. If he’s there, we walk straight in before he’s got a chance to run—or catch him as he leaves, as the case might be. And if he isn’t in, we wait.”

“For how long?” said Robin.

“I’d like to say ‘as long as it takes,’” said Strike, “but we’re not actually being paid for this, so I’ve got to be back in town on Monday.”

“I could stay behind,” suggested Robin.

“I don’t think so,” said Strike.

“Sorry,” said Robin, immediately regretting the suggestion, afraid that Strike might think she was simply after another weekend away in a hotel. “I know we’re short-staffed—”

“It isn’t that. You were the one who pointed out women have a habit of dying or disappearing around Steve Douthwaite. Could be a case of bad luck, but on the other hand… three different surnames is a lot for a man with nothing to hide. I’m taking the lead on this one.”

They arrived in the small seaside town at eleven, leaving the Land Rover in a car park beside Skegness Bowl, an enormous red-walled seafront bowling alley. Strike could smell and taste the sea as he got out of the car, and turned instinctively toward it, but the ocean was invisible from where he stood. Instead he found himself looking at a manmade waterway of a murky green, along which a laughing young woman and her boyfriend were pedaling a dinghy-sized boat. The driver’s door slammed and Strike turned to see Robin, still in sunglasses, wrapping the scarf around her neck.

“Told you,” she said to the mystified Strike, to whom the day felt unequivocally hot. Not for the first time wondering what it was about women and their bizarre ability to feel non-existent chills, Strike lit up, waited beside the Land Rover while Robin bought a parking permit, then walked with her up to Grand Parade, a wide street that ran along the seafront.

“‘The Savoy,’” said Strike, smirking as he read the names of the larger hotels, whose upper windows could surely see the distant sea. “‘The Quorn.’ ‘The Chatsworth.’”

“Don’t jeer,” said Robin. “I used to love coming to Skegness when I was a kid.”

“The Allardice should be up there,” Strike said, as they crossed the road, pointing up broad Scarbrough Avenue. “Yeah, that’s it, the one with the blue awning.”

They paused on the corner, beside an enormous mock Tudor hotel which boasted the Jubilee Carvery and Café. Early-morning drinkers of both beer and coffee were sitting at outside tables, enjoying the sunshine.

“Perfect place to keep an eye out,” said Strike, pointing at one of these pavement tables. “I could use a cup of tea.”

“OK, I’ll order,” said Robin. “I need the loo, anyway. Are you going to call him or d’you want me to do it?”

“I will,” said Strike, already sinking onto one of the chairs, and taking out his mobile.

As Robin disappeared into the bar, Strike lit a cigarette, then keyed in the Allardice’s number, his eyes on the front of the B&B. It stood in a row of eight tall red buildings, several of which had been converted into small boarding houses and had similar scalloped PVC awnings over the entrances. Spotless white net curtains hung at almost every window.

“Morning, the Allardice,” said a Scottish woman, who sounded on the irritable side of brisk.

“Steve there?” said Strike, faking casualness and confidence.

“That you, Barry love?”

“Yeah,” said Strike.

“He’s on his way now,” she said. “We only had a small, sorry. But do me a favor, Barry, and don’t hold him up, because there are four beds to change here and he’s supposed to be getting me more milk.”

“Righto,” said Strike, and not wanting to speak another syllable that might reveal him to be anyone other than Barry, he hung up.

“Is he there?” asked Robin anxiously, dropping into the seat opposite Strike. She’d washed her hands in the bathroom, but they were still damp, because she’d been in such a hurry to get back to Strike.

“No,” said Strike, knocking his cigarette ash into the small pink metal bucket placed on the table for that purpose. “He’s delivering something to a bloke up the road and will be back shortly, bringing milk.”

“Oh,” said Robin quietly, turning to look over her shoulder at the Allardice’s royal blue awning, on which the name was inscribed in curly white lettering.