‘Rupe would never have gone to be a ski instructor – for God’s sake,’ said Decima, her voice suddenly raw. ‘Never! He didn’t want to learn to ski in the first place, but they made him, at his bloody school. He hated it. Who wouldn’t, after their parents died that way? Zac was supposed to be his friend, you’d think he’d realise that’s the last thing Rupe would have wanted to do!’
‘I thought it was unlikely myself,’ said Strike. ‘Now, this next question might seem strange, but Zacharias mentioned Rupert having a “lucky T-shirt”.’
‘Oh – yes, he did,’ said Decima, and for a split second, their client almost smiled, but then her face fell. ‘They found it in Wright’s room?’
‘No,’ said Strike, ‘but can you tell us about it?’
‘Why?’
‘Lorimer says Rupert tore it up before he disappeared.’
‘What?’ said Decima weakly. ‘No, he… he’d never have done that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because… he thought it was lucky, he loved it.’
‘What made it lucky?’ asked Robin.
‘He was always wearing it when good things happened to him: when he heard he’d got a job in London and could come back to England, and when he passed his driving test – and – and he was w-wearing it – the night – I told him – I w-was pregnant…’
Oh God, thought Robin. Oh shit.
Decima burst into tears.
‘He can’t have torn it up!’ she wailed, all restraint gone: Robin thought her voice was likely to have carried across the whole floor of the club. Robin reached instinctively across the table to offer comfort, but their client recoiled.
‘No – no – don’t – he can’t have torn that T-shirt up, he can’t…’
Strike’s and Robin’s eyes met, the former’s slightly exasperated, Robin’s anguished.
‘He loved that T-shirt!’ sobbed Decima, groping for her napkin. ‘He loved it!’
‘Can you describe it for us?’ said Robin, with no real aim in view except to give Decima the sense that she was being taken seriously, and listened to, and that the detectives were still actively trying to help.
‘It’s b-black,’ sobbed Decima indistinctly, her face now concealed behind the napkin, ‘with “White Lion” written on it—’
‘“White Lion”?’ repeated Robin.
‘They were an eighties band,’ sobbed Decima, ‘glam rock… Rupe found the T-shirt in a second-hand shop, when he was a teenager… he had this bit of video… of his dad singing a White Lion song to him, when he was a baby… “Little Fighter”, the song’s called… and – and Rupe used to sing it… it was a sort of joke… sort of a personal theme song… that’s why I called Lion “Lion”!’
‘Right,’ said Robin, and not caring what Strike thought, she added, ‘well, it sounds as though Zacharias must have made a mistake. I can’t see why Rupert would have torn up the T-shirt, if it meant that much to him.’
The door now opened again and the waiter reappeared with their food. He remained tactfully oblivious to Decima’s tears as he set down her plate, while she wiped her face and blew her nose.
When the waiter had withdrawn, Strike said,
‘You’re probably aware the police considered other contenders for Wright, aside from Jason Knowles?’
Robin couldn’t understand the abrupt change of subject, but Strike was acting entirely out of self-interest. He had a nasty feeling that immediately after this interview, Robin was going to tell him they had a moral duty to convince Decima that her boyfriend had never been William Wright, but he wasn’t going to sacrifice the imminent trip to Crieff and Ironbridge; he needed that Lake District hotel. It was essential, therefore, that Robin heard from Decima’s own lips that she wanted them to rule out all other possible contenders for the dead man in the vault.
‘Yes, I… I knew they considered other people,’ said Decima, still trying to stem her tears, ‘Sir Daniel – Sir Daniel Gayle,’ she added in parenthesis to Robin, ‘he’s a retired commissioner –’ She said it with a pathetic insistence on his rank – you see, I’ve got reliable sources of information, I’m well connected, I’m rational – ‘told me they were looking into a missing veteran, and some man who’d killed someone by accident, and run away.’
‘One of them had killed someone by accident, had he?’ said Strike. ‘Can you remember a name?’
‘No. Sir Daniel said they were really only keeping the files open on those two men because they couldn’t get DNA for either of them. Why are you asking about them?’ she said, still trying to stem her tears with the napkin.
‘You said you wanted proof of who the man in the vault was,’ said Strike. ‘That necessarily means looking at the other possibilities, but if you’d rather we focused solely on Rupert, and what happened to him—’
‘He’s dead, I know he’s dead!’ said Decima, now with a trace of hysteria. ‘I do want certainty – but I know who it was in the vault…’
‘So you’d like us to try and rule out those two men?’ said Strike.
‘I suppose, if you can, it might make the police wake up and take Rupe more seriously,’ said Decima, wiping her eyes on the napkin. ‘I said to them, “you can take DNA from my baby, when he’s born, you can check it against Wright’s”… but after Anjelica said he was in New York, that was it, they stopped investigating… it was because we weren’t married, I know that… but he’s not in New York, he can’t be… I keep thinking I hear him…’
‘You hear him?’ said Robin, worried.
‘I think I hear him, coming up the drive… or calling my name… I dream he’s come back, but I know he’ll never come back… he’ll never see Lion… he’ll never know… never know how sorry I am…’
‘Sorry for what?’ said Robin.
‘The last time I ever spoke to him… I was so angry at him for stealing the nef, it was such a stupid thing to do… it’s my fault, it’s all my fault, I was angry and Rupe felt he had no other choice but to try and sort out the whole mess alone… I killed him,’ wailed Decima Mullins, ‘and one day I’ll have to explain to Lion what I did!’
50
… no sordid ambitions or pitiful greeds or base considerations can tempt a true Scottish Knight to dishonor…
An hour after they’d sat down with Decima, and with no more information gained than they’d learned within the first quarter of an hour of lunch, Strike and Robin left Quo Vadis, both aware that their client was considerably unhappier for having met them. Decima had continued to insist over her untouched food that Rupert had been William Wright, reiterating the danger posed by Dredge the drug dealer, and dwelling with a kind of morbid despair on the height and build of the body in the vault, which, as she’d emphasised multiple times, exactly matched Rupert, down to height, weight and blood group.
While Strike had left the restaurant with Decima’s official sanction for the trip to Crieff and Ironbridge, he could tell he was about to have trouble with Robin, who looked both angry and worried, so he suggested a coffee at his favourite local café, which was three minutes’ walk away. Sure enough, once both were sitting at a round metal table outside Bar Italia, Robin said,