‘Go and unpack,’ Inigo snarled at his son, who seemed only too happy to leave his father’s vicinity. As the sound of Gus’s footsteps receded upstairs, Inigo manoeuvred his wheelchair into position beside a low coffee table and gesticulated rudely at Strike and Robin to sit down in two armchairs covered in striped blue and white canvas.
Watercolours dotted the walls of the room, which were painted white. Remembering the Tribulationem et Dolorum website (‘ He continues to make art and music within the necessary limits of his condition’) Robin wondered whether they were Inigo’s or Katya’s, and what Mariam or Pez would make of them: to her, they seemed insipid and amateurish. The largest, which had been given a whimsical driftwood frame, showed Island Wall as they’d entered it, with Aquarelle Cottage on the right; the perspective had gone a little awry, so that while the street looked of immense length, vanishing to a point on the horizon, the houses appeared far too big for their setting. An electric keyboard stood in one corner and on a music stand sat a book of print music, 30 kleine Choralvorspiele by Max Reger, on the front of which was a line drawing of the German composer who, being cross-looking, paunchy and bespectacled, bore a remarkable resemblance to their unwilling host.
‘So,’ said Inigo, glaring at Strike, ‘to what do I owe this intrusion into my privacy?’
‘To Kea Niven,’ said Strike.
Though he attempted to maintain his obstreperous expression, Inigo was betrayed by the slight, convulsive closing of his hands on the arms of his wheelchair and the twitch of his silent mouth.
‘What in the world do you imagine I can tell you that my wife hasn’t?’ he said after too long a pause.
‘Quite a lot. We believe you’ve forged a private relationship with Kea Niven, without your wife’s knowledge, dating back at least a couple of years.’
Strike allowed silence to spread between them like ice: dangerous to break, impossible to glide past. At last the older man said,
‘I don’t see that my private relationships – and I’m far from admitting that this particular relationship exists – can have the remotest relevance to your enquiry. That’s assuming,’ said Inigo, now turning red where he’d previously been pale, ‘that you’re still trying to find out who this Anomie person is. Or has Katya engaged you to investigate me instead?’
‘Currently, we’re only investigating Anomie.’
‘And your proof of this alleged relationship is…?’
‘Mr Upcott,’ said Strike patiently, ‘a man of your intelligence knows I’m not going to lay out everything we know so you can tailor your story accordingly.’
‘How bloody dare you suggest I have any reason to “tailor” anything,’ exploded Inigo, and Robin could tell he found it a relief to become openly angry. ‘I’m in contact with any number of chronically ill people through a website I run. Yes, Kea visited the website for advice. I gave her exactly what I’d give any person suffering from this lousy condition of ours, which doctors barely believe exists.’
‘But you didn’t tell your wife Kea Niven had contacted you?’
‘I didn’t know who Kea was at the time. She visited the website under a pseudonym, as many users do. There’s shame and stigma attached to having conditions the bloody medical profession think are psychosomatic, I’ll have you know!’
‘But there came a point when you found out who Arke was?’
In the slight pause that followed, they heard a creak on the stairs. Inigo’s head turned so quickly Robin wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d given himself whiplash.
‘What are you doing?’ he roared as Gus hastily descended the stairs again.
‘I’ve unpacked,’ said Gus, appearing in the doorway looking apprehensive. ‘I really need to leave now if I’m going to—’
‘And I’m supposed to get essentials in for myself, am I?’ shouted Inigo.
‘Sorry, I forgot,’ said Gus. ‘I’ll get them now. What d’you—?’
‘Use your bloody initiative,’ said Inigo, turning back to face Strike and Robin. He waited, breathing heavily, until they’d heard the front door close, then said in a more controlled voice, ‘as far as I can remember – and I talk to a lot of different people online – after a couple of weeks Kea happened to mention something that led me to understand she’d been involved in some way with that damned cartoon, and – yes, we, ah, mutually discovered our rather remote offline connection.’
‘It didn’t strike you as an odd coincidence that she’d shown up on your website?’
‘Why should it?’ said Inigo, now growing red in the face. ‘A huge number of people visit my site. It’s considered one of the best online resources for people suffering from chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia.’
‘But you didn’t tell your wife?’ Strike asked again.
‘There’s such a thing as patient confidentiality, you know!’
‘I didn’t realise you’re a doctor.’
‘Of course I’m not a bloody doctor, you don’t need to be a doctor to have certain ethics around sharing personal details of people who come to you for medical advice and psychological support!’
‘I see,’ said Strike. ‘So it was regard for Kea’s privacy that stopped you telling Katya you were talking to her?’
‘What else would it be?’ asked Inigo, but his attempt at a counter-attack was undermined by the increasing redness of his face. ‘If you’re implying – utterly ridiculous. She’s young enough to be my daughter!’
Remembering Katya’s claim to have felt maternal towards Josh Blay, Robin couldn’t decide whether she felt more distaste or compassion for the miserable Upcotts, who’d each, it seemed, sought solace and, perhaps, the hope of a recovered youth through their relationships with twenty-somethings.
‘And you’ve since met Kea face to face, of course,’ said Strike, taking a shot in the dark.
At this, Inigo turned crimson. Robin wondered in a slight panic what they’d do if he had a heart attack. Raising a shaking hand and pointing it at Strike, he said hoarsely,
‘You’ve been following me. This is a despicable infringement – outrageous invasion of my – my—’
He began to cough; indeed, he sounded as though he was choking. Robin jumped up and hurried to the kitchen area, grabbed a glass off the shelf and filled it with tap water. Inigo was still coughing when she returned, but he accepted the water and, though spilling a good deal of it down his front, managed to take a few mouthfuls. At last he regained some semblance of control over his breathing.
‘I haven’t witnessed you meeting Kea,’ said Strike, adding, less truthfully, ‘I was asking a question.’
Inigo glared at him, watery-eyed, mouth trembling.
‘How many times have you and Kea met?’
Inigo was now visibly shaking with resentment and rage. The water in his glass slopped onto his thigh.
‘Once,’ he said. ‘Once. She happened to be in London and we met for coffee. She was feeling particularly ill and wanted my advice and support, which I’m happy to say I was able to give her.’
He attempted to put the glass of water down on the coffee table; it slipped through his shaking hand and smashed on the hardwood floor.
‘For fuck’s SAKE,’ bellowed Inigo.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Robin hastily, jumping up once again and heading for kitchen roll.
‘Outrageous – outrageous,’ repeated Inigo, his breathing laboured. ‘This whole – to follow me here – you invade my space – and all because I’ve attempted to help a girl—’