Page 88 of Troubled Blood

“Was this Paul Satchwell?” asked Robin.

“It was indeed,” said Oonagh. “He’d come to the club as someone’s guest, he wasn’t a member, so Margot t’ought it was a gray area. I was still worried she was going to lose the job.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“No, I didn’t like him,” said Oonagh. “T’ought he was Robert Plant, so he did, but Margot fell for him hook, line and sinker. She didn’t go out a lot, see, because she was saving. I’d been round the nightclubs in my first year in London; I’d met plenty of Satchwells. He was six years older than she was, an artist and he wore his jeans so tight you could see his cock and balls right through them.”

Strike let out an involuntary snort of laughter. Oonagh looked at him.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “You’re, ah, not like most vicars I’ve met.”

“I don’t t’ink the Good Lord will mind me mentioning cocks and balls,” said Oonagh airily. “He made ’em, didn’t he?”

“So they started dating?” asked Robin.

“They did,” said Oonagh. “Mad passion, it was. You could feel the heat off the two of them. For Margot—see, before Satchwell, she’d always had tunnel vision about life, you know, eyes on the prize: become a doctor and save her family. She was cleverer than any of the boys she knew, and men don’t like that much nowadays. She was taller than half of them, as well. She told me she’d never had a man interested in her brains before Satchwell. Interested in her brains, my aunt Nelly. The girl had a body like Jane Birkin. Oh, and it wasn’t only his looks, either, she said. He’d read t’ings. He could talk about art. He could talk for the hour about art, right enough. I heard him. Well, I don’t know a Monet from a poster of Margate, so I’m no judge, but it sounded a load of old bollocks to me.

“But he’d take Margot out to a gallery and educate her about art, then he’d take her home to bed. Sex makes fools of us all,” sighed Oonagh Kennedy. “And he was her very first and it was obvious, you know,” she nodded at Robin, “he knew what he was doing, so it was all that much more important to her. Mad in love, she was. Mad.

“Then, one night, just a couple o’ weeks before she was supposed to be starting medical school, she turns up at my flat howling. She’d dropped in on Paul unexpected after work and there was another woman at the flat with him. Naked. Modeling, he told her. Modeling—at midnight. She turned round and ran. He went chasin’ after her, but she jumped in a taxi and came to mine.

“Heartbroken, she was. All night, we sat up talking, me saying ‘You’re better off without him,’ which was no more than the truth. I said to her, ‘Margot, you’re about to start medical school. The place’ll be wall to wall with handsome, clever boys training to be doctors. You won’t remember Satchwell’s name after a week or two.’

“But then, near dawn, she told me a t’ing I’ve never told anyone before.”

Oonagh hesitated. Robin tried to look politely but warmly receptive.

“She’d let him take pictures of her. You know. Pictures. And she was scared, she wanted them back. I said to her, why in God’s name would you let him do such a t’ing, Margot? Because it would’ve killed her mother. The pride they had in her, their only daughter, their brilliant gorl. If those photos turned up anywhere, a magazine or I don’t know what, they’d have never lived it down, boastin’ up and down their street about their Margot, the genius.

“So I said, I’ll come with you and we’ll get them back. So we went round there early and banged on his door. The bastard—excuse me, now,” she said. “You’ll rightly say, that’s not a Christian attitude, but wait till you hear. Satchwell said to Margot, ‘I’ll speak to you, but not your nanny.’ Your nanny.

“Well, now. I spent ten years working with domestic abuse survivors in Wolverhampton and it’s one of the hallmarks of an abuser, if their victim isn’t compliant, it’s because she’s under someone else’s control. Her nanny.

“Before I know what’s going on, she’s inside and I’m stuck on the other side of a closed door. He’d pulled her in and slammed it in my face. I could hear them shouting at each other. Margot was giving as good as she got, God bless her.

“And then, and this is what I really wanted to tell you,” said Oonagh, “and I want to get it right. I told that Inspector Talbot and he didn’t listen to a word I was saying, and I told the one who took over, what was his name—?”

“Lawson?” asked Robin.

“Lawson,” said Oonagh, nodding. “I told both of ’em: I could hear Margot and Paul screaming at each other through the door, Margot telling him to give her the pictures and the negatives—different world, you see. Negatives, you had to get, if you didn’t want more copies made. But he refused. He said they were his copyright, the dirty bastard—so then I heard Margot say, and this is the important bit, ‘If you show those pictures to anyone, if they ever turn up in print, I’ll go straight to the police and I’ll tell them all about your little pillow dream—’”

“‘Pillow dream’?” repeated Robin.

“That’s what she said. And he hit her. A smack loud enough to hear through solid wood, and I heard her shriek. Well, I started hammering and kicking the door. I said, unless he opened it I was going for the police right now. That put the fear o’ God into him. He opened the door and Margot comes out, hand to her face, it was bright red, you could see his finger marks, and I pulled her behind me and I said to Satchwell, ‘Don’t you ever come near her again, and you heard what she said. There’ll be trouble if those pictures turn up anywhere.’

“And I swear to you, he looked murderous. He stepped right up to me, the way a man will when he wants to remind you what he could do, if he wanted. Almost standing on my toes, he was. I didn’t shift,” said Oonagh Kennedy. “I stood my ground, but I was scared, I won’t deny it. And he said to Margot, ‘Have you told her?’ And Margot says, ‘She doesn’t know anything. Yet.’ And he says, ‘Well, you know what’ll happen if I find out you’ve talked.’ And he mimed—well, never mind. It was an—an obscene pose, I suppose you’d say. One of the pictures he’d taken. And he walked back into his flat and slammed the door.”

“Did Margot ever tell you what she meant by the ‘pillow dream’?” asked Robin.

“She wouldn’t. You might t’ink she was scared, but… you know, I t’ink it’s just women,” sighed Oonagh. “We’re socialized that way, but maybe Mother Nature’s got a hand in it. How many kids would survive to their first birthday if their mammies couldn’t forgive ’em?

“Even that day, with his handprint across her face, she didn’t want to tell me, because there was a bit of her that didn’t want to hurt him. I saw it all the bloody time with my domestic abuse survivors. Women still protecting them. Still worrying about them! Love dies hard in some women.”

“Did she see Satchwell after that?”

“I wish to God I could say she didn’t,” said Oonagh, shaking her head, “but yes, she did. They couldn’t stay away from each other.

“She started her degree course, but she was that popular at the club, they let her go part time, so I was still seeing a lot of her. One day, her mammy called the club because her daddy had taken sick, but Margot hadn’t come in. I was terrified: where was Margot, what had happened to her, why wasn’t she there? I’ve often t’ought back to that moment, you know, because when it happened for real, I was so sure at first she’d turn up, like she had the first time.