Page 310 of Troubled Blood

“Would she’ve taken a can of Coke from a stranger?”

“That’s what you offered Noreen, right? And the Coke was full of phenobarbital?”

“Yeah. She was almost asleep by the time we came to my stop. I said, ‘You’ve missed yours, darling. Come on, I’ll take you to a taxi rank.’ Walked her straight off the bus, arm round her. She wasn’t a big girl, Noreen. That was one of the easiest.”

“Did you adjust dosage for weight?”

There was another slight pause.

“Busses and cans of pop, and adjusting drugs for weight?… You know what, Cormoran? I think my second guess was right. You’re here for little Louise Tucker.”

“No,” said Strike with a sigh, settling back in his chair. “As it happens, you were spot on first time round. I was hired by Margot Bamborough’s daughter.”

There was a longer silence now, and the psychiatrist again checked his watch. Strike knew that his time was nearly up, and he thought Creed knew it, too.

“I want to go back to Belmarsh, Cormoran,” said Creed, leaning in now that Strike had leaned back. “I want to finish my book. I’m sane, you know it, too, you just said it. I’m not ill. It’s costing the taxpayer five times as much to keep me in here as it would in jail. Where would the British public say I should be, eh?”

“Oh, they’d want you back in prison,” said Strike.

“Well, I agree with them,” said Creed. “I agree.”

He looked sideways at Dr. Bijral, who had the look of a man about to call a halt.

“I’m sane and if I’m treated like it, I’ll act like it,” said Creed.

He leaned further forwards.

“I killed Louise Tucker,” said Creed in a soft voice, and in Strike’s peripheral vision the psychiatrist and the nurse both froze, astonished. “Picked her up off a street corner in my van, November 1972. Freezing cold that night. She wanted to go home and she had no money. I couldn’t resist, Cormoran,” said Creed, those big black pupils boring into Strike’s. “Little girl in her school uniform. No man could resist. Did it on impulse… no planning… no wig, no drugged Coke, nothing…”

“Why wasn’t there any trace of her in the basement?” said Strike.

“There was. I had her necklace. But I never had her in the basement, see? You want proof, I’ll give you proof: she called her stepmother ‘Claws.’ Tell Tucker she told me that, all right? Yeah, we had a five-minute chat about how pissed off she was at home, before she realized we were going the wrong way. Then she starts screaming and banging on the windows.

“I turned into a dark car park,” said Creed quietly, “put my hand over her mouth, dragged her into the back of the van, fucked her and throttled her. I’d’ve liked to keep her longer, but she was loud, too loud.

“Dumb thing to do, but I couldn’t resist, Cormoran. No planning—school uniform! But I had work next day, I needed the van empty. I wanted to take the body back to the basement, but old Vi Cooper was wide awake when I drove back up Liverpool Road. She was looking down at me out the top window when I drove past, so I didn’t stop. Told her later she’d imagined it was me. The old bitch used to sit up to see what time I came in. I usually drugged her if I was off on the prowl, but this was a spur-of-the-moment treat…”

“What did you do with the body?” said Strike.

“Ah,” said Creed, sitting back in his seat. The wet lips slid over each other, and the wide pupils gaped. “I think I’m going to need a transfer back to Belmarsh before I tell anyone that. You go and tell the newspapers I’ve decided to confess to killing Louise, and that I’m sane, and I should be in Belmarsh, and if I’m transferred, I’ll tell old Brian Tucker where I put his little girl. You go tell the authorities, that’s my offer…

“You never know, I might even feel up to talking about Margot Bamborough when I’m out of here. Let’s get these drugs out of my system, and maybe I’ll remember better.”

“You’re full of shit,” said Strike, getting to his feet, looking angry. “I’m not passing this on.”

“Don’t be like that, because it’s not the one you came for,” said Creed, with a slow smile. “You’re coming across like a proper narcissist, Cormoran.”

“I’m ready to go,” Strike told Dr. Bijral.

“Don’t be like that,” said Creed. “Oi!”

Strike turned back.

“All right… I’ll give you a little clue about where I put Louise’s body, and we’ll see whether you’re as clever as you think you are, all right? We’ll see whether you or the police work it out first. If they find the body, they’ll know I’m sane, and I’m ready to talk about Margot Bamborough, as long as I get moved where I want to go. And if nobody can figure out the clue, someone’ll have to come back and talk to me, won’t they? Maybe even you. We could play chess for more clues, Cormoran.”

Strike could tell that Creed was imagining weeks of front pages, as he laid a trail for investigators to follow. Psychological torture for the Tuckers, manipulation of public opinion, Strike, perhaps, at his beck and call: it was a sadist’s wet dream.

“Go on then,” said Strike, looking down at him. “What’s the clue?”