The Running Grave

Fu/Return (The Turning Point)

Going out and coming in without error.

Friends come without blame.

To and fro goes the way.

On the seventh day comes return.

It furthers one to have somewhere to go.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

90

Now it is the time of struggle.

The transition must be completed.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Five days after Robin had left Chapman Farm, Strike set out from the office at midday to meet Sir Colin Edensor for a full update on the UHC case. Over Robin’s protestations, Strike had insisted she take a full week off work, because he remained concerned about both her mental and physical health, and was glad to hear that her parents had come down from Yorkshire to stay with her.

Sir Colin, who’d only just returned from a week’s holiday with his eldest son’s family, naturally wanted a full update on Robin’s discoveries without delay. As he was coming into central London for a charity board meeting, he offered Strike lunch at Rules restaurant in Covent Garden. While Strike feared the comfortable glamour of the old restaurant would provide an incongruous backdrop for revelations that were certain to dismay the retired civil servant, he had no objection to being offered a full cooked lunch and therefore accepted. However, he resolved to resist pudding, and chose to walk to Covent Garden from the office, in tribute to his continued commitment to weight loss.

He’d been en route for five minutes, enjoying the sunshine, when his mobile rang and he saw Lucy’s number.

‘Hey,’ he said, answering, ‘what’s up?’

‘I’ve just got back from the specialist, with Ted.’

‘Oh Christ, sorry,’ said Strike, with a familiar gut-twist of guilt. ‘I should’ve called you. It’s been a very busy week. What’s the news?’

‘Well, the specialist was very nice and very thorough,’ said Lucy, ‘but he definitely doesn’t think Ted’s fit to live alone any more.’

‘OK,’ said Strike. ‘Good to know going back to the old house isn’t an option. What was Ted’s reaction? Did he take it all in?’

‘He sort of nodded along while we were there, but he’s literally just told me he thinks he ought to be getting home. I’ve found him packing twice in the last few days, although if you distract him he’s completely happy to come downstairs and watch TV or have something to eat. I just don’t know what to do next.’

‘Is Greg agitating to get him out of the spare room?’

‘Not agitating,’ said Lucy defensively, ‘but we’ve talked it through and I suppose it would be hard having Ted to live with us while we’re both working. Ted would still be alone for most of the day.’

‘Luce, I think it’s got to be a care home in London.’

He expected his sister to start crying, and wasn’t disappointed.

‘But Joan would’ve hated—’

‘What she’d have hated,’ said Strike firmly, ‘would be for Ted to break his neck trying to get down those stairs, or for him to wander off and get lost again because nobody’s keeping an eye on him. If we sell the house in Cornwall, we’ll be able to get him into a good place up here where both of us can visit.’

‘But his roots – Cornwall’s all he’s ever—’

‘It’s not all he’s ever known,’ said Strike. ‘He was a Red Cap for seven years, he went all over the bloody place. I want to know he’s being fed properly, and that someone’s keeping an eye on his health. If he moves up here, we can see him regularly and take him out. It’s a bloody nightmare, him being five and a half hours away, every time something goes wrong. And before you say he’ll miss all his friends, half of them are dead, Luce.’

‘I know, I just…’

‘This is the answer. You know it is.’

He could tell that somewhere beneath Lucy’s distress was relief that he was taking charge, that the decision wasn’t hers alone. After some more reassurance and encouragement, she bade him farewell, sniffing but sounding calmer. This left Strike with a few minutes in which to relegate his own family problems to the back of his mind, and focus on those of the Edensors.

Rules, which Strike had never visited before, lay in Maiden Lane and had an impressive old-world frontage. Upon telling the maître d’ who he was meeting, Strike was shown through the restaurant, of which the walls were bestrewn with antlers, Victorian prints and antique clocks, to a red velvet booth in which Sir Colin, kindly faced as ever, was sitting.

‘Very good of you to meet at my convenience,’ said Sir Colin as they shook hands. He was scanning Strike’s face rather anxiously for some intimation of what he was about to hear.

‘Very grateful for the lunch,’ said Strike, easing himself into the booth. ‘Did you have a good holiday?’

‘Oh, yes, it was wonderful spending some time with the grandchildren,’ said Sir Colin. ‘Constantly thinking how much Sally would have… but anyway…’

A waiter arrived to offer menus and drinks. Both men declined the latter.

‘So, your partner’s out of Chapman Farm?’ said Sir Colin.

‘She is, yes,’ said Strike, ‘and she’s got us a lot of good information. Firstly,’ said Strike, who could see no way of cushioning the worst blow and thought it was best delivered immediately, ‘Will had no idea your wife’s died.’

Sir Colin’s hand went to his mouth.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Strike. ‘I know that must be hard to hear.’

‘But we wrote,’ said Sir Colin shakily, lowering his hand. ‘We wrote multiple times.’

‘Robin found out that church members are pressured to sign a declaration that they don’t want to be given letters from the outside. This seems to be something the church does with people who’ve progressed up a certain number of levels to what they call pure spirit – in other words, people they think they’ve really got their hooks into, and whose isolation they want to cement. From the moment the declaration’s signed, the church withholds all correspondence. It’s supposedly viewable upon request, but from what Robin’s told me, asking to read letters would put a church member in line for immediate demotion to manual labour and possibly punishment.’

Strike fell silent while four rotund men in expensive suits passed the booth, then went on,

‘Someone at the church – probably Mazu Wace, who Robin says is in charge of correspondence – informed Will that you’d written to say his mother was ill. Robin thinks this was probably to cover themselves, in case of legal action from you. She thinks Mazu will have encouraged Will to see this as a ruse to manipulate him, and asked whether he wanted further news. If he’d said “yes”, Robin believes he’d have been punished, possibly severely. In any case, we know no further information about your wife was passed on. When Robin told Will his mother was dead, he was very distressed and went immediately to the church superiors to ask to write to you. I presume you haven’t received any such letter?’

‘No,’ said Sir Colin faintly. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Well, that’s the last contact with Will Robin had before she escaped, but—’

‘What d’you mean, “escaped”?’

‘She found herself in a dangerous situation and had to run for it, by night.’

A waiter now appeared to take their food order. Strike waited until the man was out of earshot before saying,

‘In slightly better news, Will’s definitely having doubts about the church. Robin witnessed Will challenging a Principal on church doctrine, and Jonathan Wace personally informed Robin that Will keeps getting stuck on step six to pure spirit, which means accepting the church’s teaching, rather than understanding it.’

‘That’s the Will I know,’ said Sir Colin, looking slightly more encouraged.

‘Yeah, that’s obviously good,’ said Strike, wishing he didn’t have to immediately dash any faint hopes he’d raised, ‘but, ah, there’s something else Robin found out, which explains why Will hasn’t followed through on these doubts, and left. I wouldn’t tell you this if we didn’t have very strong reasons for believing it, but he appears to have fathered a child at Chapman Farm.’

‘Oh God,’ said Sir Colin, aghast.

‘Obviously, without a DNA test we can’t be absolutely sure,’ said Strike, ‘but Robin says the little girl looks like Will, and from observing his behaviour with the child and from conversations she overheard in there, she’s certain he’s the father.’

‘Who’s the mother?’

Wishing he had almost any other answer Strike said,

‘She’s called Lin.’

‘Lin… not the one Kevin wrote about? With the stammer?’

‘That’s the one, yes,’ said Strike.

Neither man spoke aloud what Strike was sure was uppermost in Sir Colin’s mind: that Lin was the product of Jonathan Wace’s rape of Deirdre Doherty. Strike now dropped his voice. Little though he wanted to alarm Edensor further, he felt it would be unethical to withhold the next bit of information.

‘I’m afraid it’s likely Lin was underage when she gave birth to Will’s daughter. According to Robin, Lin doesn’t look much older than fifteen or sixteen now, and as far as she could judge, the daughter’s around two years old.’

Strike couldn’t entirely blame Sir Colin for burying his face in his hands. He then took a deep breath, let his hands fall, straightened up in his seat and said quietly,

‘Well, I’m glad James isn’t here.’

Remembering Sir Colin’s eldest son’s rage at Will during their only previous meeting, Strike silently concurred.

‘I think it’s important to remember that it’s a punishable offence at Chapman Farm to refuse to “spirit bond” – in other words, to refuse sex. Will and Lin’s relationship has to be seen in that context. They’d both been groomed to believe spirit bonding wasn’t just acceptable, but righteous.’

‘Even so—’

‘The church doesn’t celebrate birthdays. Lin herself might not know how old she is. Will might have believed she was of age when it happened.’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘I don’t think Lin would want to press charges,’ said Strike, again lowering his voice as a portly middle-aged couple were led past their table. ‘Robin says Lin’s fond of Will and she loves the daughter they had together. Will seems to feel warmly towards Lin, too. Robin thinks that as Will’s doubts about the church have grown, his awareness of what’s considered immoral in the outside world has begun to reassert itself, because he’s now refusing to have sex with her.’

The waiter now arrived with their food. Strike glanced with some envy at Sir Colin’s steak and kidney pudding; he’d ordered sea bass, and he was becoming increasingly bored of fish.

Sir Colin ate a single mouthful, then put down his knife and fork again, looking queasy. Keen to cheer up a client for whom he felt a great deal more empathy than others who’d hired the agency, Strike said,

‘Robin’s got us a few solid leads, though, and I’m hopeful at least one of them will lead to building a case against the church. Firstly, there’s a small boy called Jacob.’

He outlined Jacob’s precarious state of health, the neglect and lack of medical treatment he was enduring, then described Robin’s interview with the police, hours after leaving the church compound.

‘If the authorities manage to gain entry to the farm and examine the boy, which they may already have done, we’ll have something very significant against the UHC. Robin’s expecting to hear back from the police any time now.’

‘Well, that’s certainly – not good news, not for the poor child,’ said Sir Colin, ‘but if we can only put the Waces on the back foot for a change—’

‘Exactly,’ said Strike. ‘And Jacob’s only one of the leads Robin got. The next is Lin herself. She was removed from the farm after having an adverse reaction to some plants she was eating in an attempt to give herself a miscarriage – this wasn’t Will’s child,’ Strike added. ‘As I told you, he’s been refusing to sleep with her now.’

‘What d’you mean by “removed”?’

‘She didn’t want to leave, doubtless because of her daughter, but they took her forcibly off the premises. We haven’t yet been able to trace her yet. No hospital’s admitting to having her. Of course, she might be at one of the other UHC centres, but I’ve done a bit of research and my hunch is that she’s at a residential clinic run by Dr Zhou in Borehamwood.’

‘I know about that place,’ said Sir Colin. ‘Pattersons got one of their people in there to have a look around, but it didn’t turn up anything of value. It seems to be a glorified spa, no obvious wrongdoing and nobody tried to recruit their detective to the UHC.’

‘Even so, it seems the most likely place for them to have hidden Lin. As I say, she was in need of urgent medical care and I don’t think they’d want her anywhere she couldn’t be watched over by a senior member of the church, because she’s a definite flight risk – Robin overheard her suggesting to Will that they do “what Kevin did”.

‘If we can trace Lin and get her out of their clutches, we’d have a very valuable witness. Robin thinks Lin would value getting custody of her daughter over her loyalty to the church, and if we can get the child out, Will might well follow. But I want to tread very carefully in trying to locate Lin, because we don’t want to spook the UHC into hiding her somewhere unreachable. If you’re happy to bear the expense, I’d like to get one of our own people into that clinic – not Robin, obviously, but possibly our other female detective.’

‘Yes, of course. I have a duty of care to the girl. She’s the mother of my granddaughter, after…’

His eyes brimmed with tears.

‘I do apologise… every time we meet I seem to…’

Their waiter now returned to the table to ask Sir Colin whether there was something wrong with his steak and kidney pudding.

‘No,’ said Sir Colin weakly, ‘it’s very good. Just not particularly hungry… so sorry,’ he added to Strike, wiping his eyes as the waiter retreated again. ‘Sally really craved a granddaughter, you know. We run to boys a lot in both our families… but for it to happen under these circumstances…’

Strike waited for Sir Colin to compose himself before continuing.

‘Robin got a third possible lead: one of Kevin Pirbright’s sisters.’

Strike now told the story of Emily’s aborted escape attempt in Norwich.

‘It would mean more costs, I’m afraid,’ Strike said, ‘but I suggest putting one of our people in Norwich, to attempt a direct approach to Emily the next time she goes out collecting money for the church. Robin’s given us a good physical description. She and Emily struck up a rapport in there and I think, if one of our operatives mentions Robin, Emily might be persuaded to leave with them.’

‘Yes, I’d be happy for you to try that,’ said Sir Colin, whose virtually untouched pie was growing cold in front of him. ‘I’d feel as though I were doing something for Kevin, if I helped his sister get out… well,’ said Sir Colin, who was clearly shaken but trying to focus on the positive, ‘your partner’s done an astounding job. She’s achieved more in four months than Pattersons managed in eighteen.’

‘I’ll tell her you said that. It’ll mean a lot to her.’

‘She couldn’t come to lunch?’ asked Sir Colin.

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘I want her to take some time off. She went through a lot in there.’

‘But you wouldn’t want her to testify,’ said Sir Colin, with no hint of a question in his voice. It was a relief to Strike to have an intelligent client, for a change.

‘Not as things stand. The church’s lawyers would have a field day with Robin’s lack of impartiality, given that she was paid to go in there and gather dirt on them. The culture of fear in the church is such that I think they’d close ranks and terrify anyone at Chapman Farm who could back up her account. If she starts talking about supernatural events and torture techniques without corroboration—’

‘Torture techniques?’

‘She was shut up in a box for eight hours, unable to move out of a bent kneeling position.’

As far as Strike could tell in the flattering, diffused lighting, Sir Colin now turned rather pale.

‘Kevin told me he was tied to trees at night and so on, but he never mentioned being locked in a box.’

‘I think it’s reserved for the very worst transgressions,’ said Strike, choosing not to tell Sir Colin that his son, too, had been subjected to the punishment.

He now hesitated, considering how best to frame what he wanted to say next. He was loath to ruin the very slight sense of hope he’d induced in his client, and only too aware that Sir Colin had already committed to tripling the fees he was paying the agency.

‘Robin’s leads have definitely put us in a far better position than we were in,’ he said. ‘If we’re lucky, and we get Lin and Emily out, and they’re prepared to talk, and if there’s a police investigation into Jacob, we’ll definitely land a few heavy punches on the church.’

‘But those are significant “ifs”,’ said Sir Colin.

‘Right,’ said Strike. ‘We’ve got to be realistic. The Waces are adept at batting off critics. They could choose a few scapegoats to take the blame for everything Robin, Lin and Emily allege – and that’s assuming the other two are prepared to testify. They might not be up to taking the stand against a church that’s intimidated and coerced them for most of their lives.’

‘No,’ said Edensor, ‘I can see we’d better not count our chickens yet.’

‘I keep going back to something Wace’s eldest daughter said to me,’ said Strike. ‘Words to the effect of “It’s like cancer. You’ve got to cut the whole thing out, or you’ll be back where you started.”’

‘But how do you cut out something that’s metastasised across continents?’

‘Well,’ said Strike, ‘there might be a way. Did Kevin ever talk to you in any depth about Daiyu?’

‘Daiyu?’ said Sir Colin, looking puzzled. ‘Oh, you mean the Drowned Prophet? No more than he put in the blog and emails I gave you. Why?’

‘Because the one sure-fire way of bringing down the church would be to dismantle the myth of the Drowned Prophet. If we could smash the central pillar of their whole belief system—’

‘That’s surely rather ambitious?’ said Sir Colin. As Strike had feared, he now looked slightly mistrustful.

‘I’ve been looking into what actually happened on that beach in Cromer and I’ve got a lot of questions. I’ve now tracked down the key witness: Cherie Gittins, the woman who took Daiyu to the beach where she drowned. I’m hoping to interview her shortly. And then we’ve got Kevin’s murder.’

At that moment, the waiter came to collect their plates and offer the pudding menu. Both men declined, but asked for coffee.

‘What about Kevin’s murder?’ said Sir Colin, when the waiter had gone.

‘I’m afraid,’ said Strike, ‘I think it far more likely that the UHC had Kevin killed, than that he was dealing drugs.’

‘But—’

‘Initially, I was of your opinion. I couldn’t see why they’d need to shoot him. They’ve got excellent lawyers and he was undoubtedly unstable and easy to discredit. But the longer the investigation’s gone on, the less I’ve bought the drug-dealing theory.’

‘Why? What have you found out?’

‘Most recently, I’ve heard an unsubstantiated allegation that there have been guns at Chapman Farm. The source was second-hand,’ Strike admitted, ‘and not particularly trustworthy, so I’ll have to try and confirm his account, but the fact remains I think it would be unwise to underestimate the kinds of contacts the UHC have made over the last thirty years. There were no guns found in the raid on the farm in eighty-six, but since then they’ve had at least one violent criminal living at the farm. All they needed was a recruit who knew where to lay hands on guns illegally – assuming Wace didn’t already have that knowledge.’

‘You really think they murdered Kevin because of his book?’ said Sir Colin, sounding sceptical.

‘I don’t think the book, in and of itself, was a problem, because a journalist I interviewed called Fergus Robertson had already accused the UHC of pretty much everything Kevin was alleging: physical assault, sexual abuse and supernatural mind games. The church went after Robertson hard with lawyers, but he’s still alive.’

Their coffees arrived.

‘So what was the motive, if not the book?’ said Sir Colin.

‘Kevin told you he was piecing things together during the last weeks of his life, didn’t he? Things he thought he’d suppressed?’

‘Yes – as I told you, he was becoming increasingly erratic and troubled. I deeply regret that I didn’t offer more support—’

‘I don’t think any amount of support could have stopped him being shot. I think Kevin pieced together something about Daiyu’s drowning. The church would’ve been able to bully a publisher into deleting unsubstantiated allegations, but they’d lost the power to bully Kevin into silence in his daily life. What if he blabbed his suspicions to the wrong person?’

‘But, as you say, this is guesswork.’

‘Were you aware Patterson didn’t hand over all their evidence when you fired them?’

‘No,’ said Sir Colin. ‘I wasn’t.’

‘Well, I’ve got hold of a taped interview with Kevin they’d recorded covertly, five days before he was shot. It’s a botched job: most of what he said isn’t audible, which is why they didn’t bother giving it to you. In that tape, Kevin told Patterson’s operative he was intending to meet somebody from the church to “answer for it”. What “it” is, I don’t know, but he was talking a lot about Daiyu during the conversation. And you never visited Kevin’s bedsit, did you?’

‘No – I wish I had.’

‘Well, he’d scribbled all over the walls – and somebody had gouged a few words out of the plaster. It might’ve been Kevin himself, of course, but there’s a possibility his killer did it.

‘Robin got some strange information about Daiyu’s movements the night before she supposedly drowned, from Kevin’s sister Emily. What Emily said tallied with something Kevin had written on his bedsit wall, about a plot. As a matter of fact,’ said Strike, picking up his coffee cup, ‘Emily doesn’t believe Daiyu’s dead.’

‘But,’ said Sir Colin, still frowning, ‘that’s incredibly unlikely, surely?’

‘Unlikely,’ said Strike, ‘but not impossible. As it happens, alive or dead, Daiyu was worth a lot of money. She was the sole beneficiary of her biological father’s will, and he had a lot to leave. Where there’s no body, there’s got to be a doubt – which is why I want to talk to Cherie Gittins.’

‘With respect,’ said Sir Colin, with the polite but firm air Strike imagined he’d once brought to discussions of hare-brained political projects during his professional life, ‘I’m more hopeful that your partner’s leads will achieve my immediate aim – that of getting Will out of Chapman Farm – than that anyone can bring the entire religion down.’

‘But you don’t object to me interviewing Cherie Gittins?’

‘No,’ said Sir Colin slowly, ‘but I wouldn’t want this investigation to devolve into a probe into Daiyu Wace’s death. After all, it was ruled an accident, and you’ve no proof it wasn’t, have you?’

Strike, who couldn’t blame his client for this scepticism, reassured Sir Colin that the agency’s aim remained extracting his son from the UHC. The lunch concluded amicably, with Strike promising to pass on any new developments promptly, particularly as regarded the police investigation into the mistreatment of Jacob.

Nevertheless, it was the deaths of Daiyu Wace and Kevin Pirbright about which Strike was thinking as he set off back to Denmark Street. Sir Colin Edensor was correct in saying that Strike still had no concrete evidence to support his suspicions. It might indeed be overambitious to think that he’d be able to destroy the myth of the Drowned Prophet, which had survived uncontested for twenty-one years. But after all, thought the detective, still hungry after his meagre meal of fish, yet noticing how much more easily he was walking without the several stone he’d already shed, it was sometimes surprising what concerted effort in pursuit of a worthwhile goal could achieve.

91

Nine in the fourth place means:

Joyousness that is weighed is not at peace.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

While Strike was having coffee with Sir Colin Edensor, Robin was drinking a mug of tea at the table in her sitting room, her laptop and notebook open in front of her, hard at work and savouring the temporary peace. The man upstairs, whose music was usually audible, was at work, and she’d managed to get her parents out of the flat by asking them to do some food shopping.

Robin’s adjustment from life at Chapman Farm to her flat in London was proving far more difficult than she’d anticipated. She felt agitated, disorientated and overwhelmed, not only by her freedom, but also by her mother’s constant vigilance which, while kindly meant, was aggravating Robin, because it reminded her of the unrelenting surveillance she’d just escaped. She realised now, when it was too late, that what she’d really needed on returning to London was silence, space and solitude in which to reground herself in the outside world, and to concentrate on the long report for Strike in which she was tabulating everything she hadn’t yet told him about life at Chapman Farm. Guilt about her parents’ four months of anxiety on her behalf had made her agree to their visit but, much as she loved them, all she wanted now was their return to Yorkshire. Unfortunately, they were threatening to stay another week, ‘to keep you company’ and ‘to look after you’.

With a sinking heart, she now heard the lift doors out on the landing. As she got up to let her parents back in, the mobile on the table behind her started to ring.

‘Sorry,’ she said to her mother, who was laden with heavy Waitrose bags, ‘I need to get that, it might be Strike.’

‘You’re supposed to be taking time off!’ said Linda, a comment Robin ignored. Sure enough, on returning to her phone she saw her partner’s number, and answered.

‘Hi,’ said Robin, as Linda said, deliberately loudly,

‘Don’t be long, we’ve bought cakes. You should be eating and putting your feet up.’

‘Bad time?’ said Strike.

‘No,’ said Robin, ‘but could you give me two minutes? I’ll ring you back.’

She hung up and headed to the doorway of the cramped kitchen, where her parents were putting the shopping away.

‘I’m just going to nip out and get some fresh air,’ said Robin.

‘What aren’t we allowed to hear?’ said Linda.

‘Nothing, he’s just giving me an update I asked for,’ said Robin, keeping her tone light with some difficulty. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

She hurried out of the flat, keys in hand. Having reached Blackhorse Road, which offered exhaust fumes rather than clean air, she called Strike back.

‘Everything OK?’

‘It’s fine, I’m fine,’ said Robin feverishly. ‘My mother’s just driving me up the wall.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike.

‘I’ve told her about a hundred times it was my choice to go Chapman Farm, and my choice to stay in that long, but—’

Robin bit back the end of the sentence, but Strike knew perfectly well what she’d been about to say.

‘She thinks it’s all on me?’

‘Well,’ said Robin, who hadn’t wanted to say it, but was yearning to unburden herself, ‘yes. I’ve told her I had to argue you into letting me do the job, and that you wanted me to come out earlier, I’ve even told her she should be bloody grateful you were there when I ran for it, but she… God, she’s infuriating.’

‘You can’t blame her,’ said Strike reasonably, remembering how appalled he’d been at Robin’s appearance when he’d first seen her. ‘It’s your parents, of course they’re going to be worried. How much have you told them?’

‘That’s the joke! I haven’t told them a tenth of it! I had to say I didn’t get enough food, because that’s obvious, and they know I’m not sleeping very well –’ Robin wasn’t about to admit she’d woken herself up the previous evening by yelping loudly in her sleep ‘– but given what I could have said – and I think Ryan’s been winding them up, telling them how worried he was, all the time I was in there. He’s trying to get an earlier flight home from Spain, but honestly, the last thing I need is for him and my mother to get together… oh, and they’ve put up a huge poster of Jonathan Wace on the side of a building just up the road.’

‘Advertising his Super Service at Olympia? Yeah, it’s everywhere.’

‘I feel like I can’t get away from… sorry, I know I’m ranting,’ said Robin, exhaling as she leaned up against a convenient wall and watched the passing traffic. At least she couldn’t see Wace’s face from here. ‘Tell me about Colin Edensor. How did he take it all?’

‘About as well as could be expected,’ said Strike. ‘Full of praise for you and all the leads you got. He’s approved funds to try and find Lin and get Emily out, but he’s far less enthused by the idea of debunking Daiyu’s myth. Can’t say that was a surprise. I know full well it’s a long shot.’

‘The police still haven’t got back to me about Jacob.’

‘Well, getting warrants take time,’ said Strike, ‘although I’d have thought they’d have been in touch by now, given it’s a dying child.’

‘Well, exactly. Listen, Strike, I really think I could—’

‘You’re taking this week off,’ said Strike. ‘You need to catch up on sleep and get some food into you. A doctor would probably say it should be longer.’

‘Listen, you know how Jiang said he’d recognised someone who’d been at Chapman Farm a long time ago? Did I tell you that, I can’t remember?’

‘You did,’ said Strike, who considered it a bad sign that Robin’s conversation was jumping around so much, ‘yes.’

‘OK, so I’ve been trying to find out who that could be, and I think—’

‘Robin—’

‘—it must be either Marion Huxley or Walter Fernsby. Jiang made it sound like they’d just come back, and they were the only ones of the recent intake who’re old enough to have been there years ago. So I’ve been trying to trace—’

‘This can wait,’ said Strike loudly, talking over her. ‘This can all wait.’

‘For God’s sake, you sound like my mother! She keeps interrupting me when I’m trying to look things up, like I’m some – some geriatric convalescent.’

‘I don’t think you’re a geriatric convalescent,’ said Strike patiently, ‘I just think you need a break. If either Walter or Marion were there before, we can look into it when you’re—’

‘Don’t say “better”, I’m not ill. Strike, I want to get that bloody church, I want to find something on them, I want—’

‘I know what you want, and I want the same thing, but I don’t want my partner having a breakdown.’

‘I’m not—’

‘Get some rest, eat some food and calm the fuck down. Listen,’ he added, before she could respond. ‘I’m going to drive to Thornbury on Monday to try and interview Cherie Gittins – or Carrie Curtis Woods, as she is now. She’ll be back from her holidays, her husband should be at work, and I think she’ll be home with her kids, because there’s no indication of her having a job on her Facebook page. D’you fancy coming with me to interview her?’

‘Oh God, yes,’ said Robin fervently. ‘That’ll give me an excuse to get rid of my parents, telling them I’m going back to work. Much more of this will tip me over the edge. What are you up to for the rest of the day?’

‘On the Franks this evening,’ said Strike. ‘Everything’s in place for them to make their big move and they still haven’t bloody done it. Wish they’d hurry up.’

‘You want them to try and abduct Tasha Mayo?’

‘Honestly, yes. Then we can get the bastards arrested. Did I tell you one of them’s been done for stalking and the other one for flashing? And that they’re using a different surname to the one they used to have? A good reminder to all of us that oddballs aren’t necessarily harmless.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that constantly since I got out of Chapman Farm,’ said Robin. ‘Thinking about how the church has got so big, and how they’ve got away with it, all this time. People have just let them get on with it… a bit weird, but harmless…’

‘If you’d met my mother,’ said Strike, who was now waiting to cross Charing Cross Road, ‘you’d have seen the purest example of that mindset I’ve ever come across. It was a point of pride with her to like anyone who was a bit off. In fact, the more off, the better, which is how I ended up with Shanker as a stepbrother – speaking of whom, he rang me last night to say Jordan Reaney’s back in the nick, but they’re keeping him on suicide watch.’

‘Are you thinking of interviewing him again?’

‘Don’t think there’s any point. I think he’ll keep shtum even if Shanker’s mates beat the shit out of him again. That’s a very frightened man.’

‘Frightened of the Drowned Prophet?’ said Robin, to whom Strike had related the story of his encounter with Reaney on their drive back to London from Felbrigg Lodge.

‘There wasn’t a Drowned Prophet when Reaney was in the church, Daiyu was still alive for most of his time there. No, the more I think about it, the more I think what’s scaring Reaney is a gate arrest.’

‘Meaning…?’

‘That he’s done something he’s worried he could be nicked for the moment he leaves jail.’

‘But he can’t have had anything to do with Daiyu’s drowning. You told me he overslept.’

‘I know, but he could have done any number of dodgy things that had nothing to do with Daiyu. He might be worried he’ll be done for what was going on in those Polaroids.’

‘You think he was one of them?’

‘Dunno. He could be the guy with the skull tattoo. He’s got a devil on his upper arm now, which could be covering up an old marking. Skull Tattoo was sodomising a man we know had a low IQ and possibly brain damage, so Reaney might be scared he’s going to be done for rape.’

‘Oh God,’ said Robin quietly, ‘it’s terrible, all of it.’

‘Of course, if it was him, Reaney could argue in court he was forced to do it,’ said Strike. ‘If the church really has got guns, someone could’ve had one trained on those kids in the pig masks and forced them to perform. I can understand why Reaney wouldn’t want the episode publicised, though. Rapists and paedos are bottom of the food chain, even among hardened cons.

‘Anyway,’ said Strike, remembering a little late that he wasn’t supposed to be encouraging his partner to focus on violence and depravity, but encouraging her to keep her mind on pleasanter matters, ‘go and eat cake and watch a film with your mother or something. That should keep her happy.’

‘She’s probably hidden my laptop while I’ve been talking to you. I’ll let you know if the police get back to me about Jacob.’

‘Do,’ said Strike, ‘but in the meantime—’

‘Doughnuts and romcoms,’ sighed Robin. ‘Yes, all right.’

92

The power of the inferior people is growing.

The danger draws close to one’s person; already there are clear indications…

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Relieved by the prospect of getting back to the investigation on Monday, Robin took the lift back upstairs to her flat. In the sitting room she quietly closed her laptop, with the intention of resuming work once her parents were safely tucked into the sofa bed that evening, then accepted a fresh mug of tea and a chocolate éclair from her mother.

‘What did he want?’ Linda said, sitting herself down on the sofa.

‘To tell me to take it easy and eat cake, so he’d be happy about this,’ she added, indicating the éclair.

‘So Ryan’s coming home on—?’

‘Next Sunday, unless he gets an earlier flight,’ said Robin.

‘We do like Ryan,’ said Linda.

‘I’m glad,’ said Robin, pretending she hadn’t heard the unspoken but not Strike.

‘He’s been very good about keeping us updated,’ added Linda, again with a silent addendum: unlike Strike. ‘D’you think he’d like children?’

Oh, for God’s sake.

‘No idea,’ lied Robin. Ryan had in fact made it perfectly clear he’d like children.

‘He always asks after Annabel,’ said Linda warmly, referring to Robin’s niece. ‘Actually – we’ve got news. Jenny’s pregnant again.’

‘Fantastic!’ said Robin, who liked her sister-in-law, but wondered why this information had so far been withheld from her.

‘And,’ said Linda, taking a deep breath. ‘Martin’s girlfriend’s pregnant, too.’

‘I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend,’ said Robin. Martin, who came immediately after her in birth order, was the only son who still lived with their parents, and had a patchy job history.

‘They’ve only been together three months,’ said Linda.

‘What’s she like?’

Linda and Michael looked at each other.

‘Well,’ said Linda, and the monosyllable rang with disapproval.

‘She likes a drink,’ said Michael.

‘She’s called Carmen,’ said Linda.

‘Is Martin pleased?’

‘We don’t really know,’ said Linda.

‘Might be the making of him,’ said Robin, who wasn’t convinced, but felt it was best to be optimistic in front of her parents.

‘That’s what I said,’ said Michael. ‘He’s talking about getting his HGV licence. Long-distance lorry driving, you know.’

‘Well, he’s always liked driving,’ said Robin, choosing not to mention the many near misses Martin had had, full of drink and bravado.

‘Like you,’ said her father, ‘with that advanced driving qualification.’

Robin had taken her advanced driving course in the months after the rape that had finished her university career, when command of a vehicle had given her back a sense of safety and control. Relieved to be offered a conversational topic that was neither children nor her career, Robin began to talk about the old Land Rover, and whether it would pass its next MOT.

The afternoon passed relatively peacefully because Robin found a documentary on TV which fortunately caught both her parents’ interest. Itching to return to her laptop but afraid of disturbing the precarious calm, Robin watched mindlessly until, with evening drawing in, she suggested a takeaway, and ordered a Deliveroo.

The pizzas had only just been delivered when the buzzer beside the flat door sounded.

‘Robin Ellacott?’ said a tinny male voice, when Robin pressed the intercom.

‘Yes?’

‘This is PC Blair Harding. Could we come in?’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Robin, pressing the button to let them through the outer door downstairs.

‘What do the police want with you?’ said Linda, looking alarmed.

‘It’s OK,’ said Robin soothingly. ‘I’ve been waiting for this – I gave a statement about something I witnessed at Chapman Farm.’

‘What thing?’

‘Mum, it’s fine,’ said Robin, ‘it’s to do with someone who wasn’t getting proper medical attention. The police said they’d get back to me.’

Rather than be drawn into further explanations, Robin stepped out onto the landing to wait for the police to arrive, wondering how strange the police might think her if she asked for the update on Jacob downstairs, in their car.

The lift doors opened a couple of minutes later to reveal a white male officer and a far shorter Asian policewoman, whose black hair was pulled back into a bun. Both looked serious, and Robin felt suddenly anxious: was Jacob dead?

‘Hi,’ she said apprehensively.

‘Robin Ellacott?’

‘Yes – is this is about Jacob?’

‘That’s right,’ said the policewoman, glancing at the open door to Robin’s flat. ‘Is that where you live?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, disconcerted by the sternness of the officers’ expressions.

‘Can we go in?’ said the female officer.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Robin.

Linda and Michael, who’d both got to their feet, looked worried to see the two officers entering the flat after their daughter.

‘These are my parents,’ said Robin.

‘Hi,’ said the male officer. ‘I’m PC Harding and this is PC Khan.’

‘Hello,’ said Linda uncertainly.

‘You obviously know what this is about,’ said PC Khan, looking at Robin.

‘Yes. Jacob. What’s happened?’

‘We’re here to invite you down to the station, Mizz Ellacott,’ said PC Harding.

Robin, who was experiencing a slow-motion lift-drop of the stomach without knowing exactly why, said,

‘Can’t you just tell me what’s happened here?’

‘We’re inviting you to an interview under caution,’ said PC Khan.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Robin. ‘Are you saying I’m under arrest?’

‘No,’ said PC Harding. ‘This would be a voluntary interview.’

‘What about?’ said Linda, before Robin could get the words out.

‘We’ve had an accusation of child abuse,’ said PC Harding.

‘Against – against me?’ said Robin.

‘That’s right,’ said PC Harding.

‘What?’ exploded Linda.

‘It’s a voluntary interview,’ said PC Harding again.

Robin was vaguely aware that Linda was talking, but couldn’t take in what she was saying.

‘Fine,’ said Robin calmly. ‘Let me get my coat.’

However, the first thing she did was to go back to the table, pick up a pen and scribble down Strike’s mobile number, the only one she knew by heart other than her own.

‘Phone Strike,’ she told her father, pressing the number into his hands.

‘Where are you taking her?’ Linda demanded of the officers. ‘We want to come!’

PC Khan gave the name of the police station.

‘We’ll find it, Linda,’ said Michael, because it was obvious to everyone that Linda intended either to force her way into the police car or ride bumper-to-bumper after it.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Robin reassured her parents, pulling on her coat. ‘I’ll sort this out. Phone Strike,’ she added firmly to her father, before picking up her keys and following the police out of the flat.

93

The seeds are the first imperceptible beginning of movement, the first trace of good fortune (or misfortune) that shows itself. The superior man perceives the seeds…

The I Ching or Book of Changes

At the precise moment Robin was getting into a police car on Blackhorse Road, Strike was sitting in his BMW in Bexleyheath watching the Frank brothers climbing into their old van, which was parked a short distance from their block of flats. Having let the van set off, Strike set off in pursuit, then called Midge.

‘Wotcha.’

‘Where’s Mayo?’

‘With me. Well, not with me – I’m waiting for her to come out of her gym.’

‘I told her to vary her bloody routine.’

‘It’s the only evening she’s got off from the theatre, and it’s less crowded this—’

‘I think tonight might be the night. They’ve just got in the van with what look like balaclavas in their hands.’

‘Oh, fook,’ said Midge.

‘Listen, if Mayo’s up for it – and only if she is – I say proceed as normal. Let this happen. I’ll pull Barclay off Toy Boy to make sure we’ve got enough manpower and we’ll get the fuckers in the attempt.’

‘She’ll be up for it,’ said Midge, who sounded excited. ‘She just wants this over.’

‘Good. Keep me posted on your location. I’ve got eyes on them now and I’ll let you know if anything changes. Gonna ring Barclay.’

Strike hung up, but before he could contact Barclay, an unknown number called him. Strike refused the call and pressed Barclay’s number instead.

‘Where are you?’

‘Outside Mrs Moneybags’ house. She was gettin’ pretty fuckin’ frisky wi’ Toy Boy on the way up the street.’

‘Well, I need you in Notting Hill, pronto. Looks like the Franks are planning their big move. Balaclavas, both of them in the van—’

‘Great, I fancy punchin’ someone. The mother-in-law’s staying. See ye there.’

No sooner had Barclay cut the call, Strike’s phone rang again. He jabbed at the dashboard with his finger, his eyes still on the van now separated from his BMW by a Peugeot 108.

‘Who’s been pissing off the UHC, then?’ said an amused voice.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Fergus Robertson.’

‘Oh,’ said Strike, surprised to hear from the journalist, ‘you. Why’re you asking?’

‘Because your Wikipedia page just tripled in length,’ said the journalist, who sounded as though he’d had a couple of drinks. ‘I recognise the house style. Beating girlfriends, fucking clients, drink problem, daddy issues – what’ve you got on them?’

‘Nothing I can tell you yet,’ said Strike, ‘but that doesn’t mean I won’t have something eventually.’

Whichever Frank brother was driving had either realised he was being followed, or was inept: he’d just earned several blasts of the horn from the Peugeot for indicating late. Robertson’s news, though deeply unwelcome to Strike, would have to be processed later.

‘Just thought I’d let you know,’ said the journalist. ‘We had an agreement, though, right? I get the story if—’

‘Yeah, fine,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve got to go.’

He hung up.

The Franks definitely seemed to be heading for Notting Hill, Strike thought, as they entered the Blackwall Tunnel. The same unknown number as before called again. He ignored it because the Franks had just sped up, and while this might mean they were worried about missing Tasha on her way back from the gym, Strike remained concerned that they’d realised he was following them.

His phone rang yet again: Prudence, his sister.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Strike growled at the speaker, ‘I’m busy.’

He let the call go to voicemail, but Prudence called back. Again, Strike ignored the call, although vaguely perturbed; Prudence had never done this before. When she called back a third time, Strike picked up.

‘I’m kind of in the middle of something,’ he told her. ‘Could I call you back later?’

‘This will be short,’ said Prudence. To his surprise, she sounded angry.

‘OK, what’s up?’

‘I asked you very clearly to stay away from my client who was in the UHC!’

‘What are you talking about? I haven’t been near them.’

‘Oh, really,’ said Prudence coldly. ‘She’s just told me somebody approached her online, probing her for information. She’s absolutely distraught. Whoever it was threatened her with the name of a woman she knew in the church.’

‘I don’t know who your client is,’ said Strike, eyes on the van ahead, ‘and I haven’t been threatening anyone online.’

‘Who else would have tracked her down and told her he knew she’d met this woman? Corm?’ she added, when he didn’t answer immediately.

‘If,’ said Strike, who’d just done some rapid mental deduction, ‘she had a Pinterest page—’

‘So it was you?’

‘I didn’t know she was your client,’ Strike said, now aggravated. The unknown number that kept calling was trying to get through again. ‘I saw her drawings and left a couple of comments, that’s all. I had no idea who was behind the acc—I’ve got to go,’ he said, cutting the call, as the Franks sped through a red light, leaving Strike stuck behind a Hyundai with a large dent in its rear.

‘FUCK,’ bellowed Strike, watching impotently as the Franks sped out of sight.

The unknown number called yet again.

‘Fuck off,’ said Strike, refusing the call and instead ringing Midge, who answered immediately. ‘Where are you?’

‘Tasha’s showering.’

‘OK, well, don’t let her leave the gym until you hear from me. Barclay’s on his way, but the fuckers just ran a red light and I’ve lost them. They might’ve known I was tailing them. Stay where you are until I give the word.’

The Hyundai moved off and Strike, now choosing his own route to Notting Hill, called Barclay.

‘I’m nearly there,’ said the Scot.

‘I’m not, I lost the bastards. They might’ve spotted me.’

‘You sure? They’re bloody thick.’

‘Even morons get it right occasionally.’

‘Think they’ll abort?’

‘Possibly, but we should assume it’s happening. Midge and Mayo are waiting in the gym until I tell them to go. Call me if you spot the van.’

Mercifully, the unknown number that kept pestering Strike appeared to have given up. He drove as fast as he could without incurring a speeding ticket in the direction of Notting Hill, trying to guess where the Franks might attempt to grab Tasha Mayo, and was ten minutes from her house, the sun now setting in earnest, when Barclay called.

‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘Parked in that cul-de-sac two blocks away from the gym. They’ve got their fuckin’ balaclavas on.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Opposite pavement, fifty yards down.’

‘All right, I’m going to call Midge and get back to you.’

‘What’s happening?’ said Midge, answering on the first ring.

‘They’re parked two blocks from the gym in that cul-de-sac on the left as you head towards her house. Are you with Mayo?’

‘Yes,’ said Midge.

‘Put her on.’

He heard Midge say something to the actress, then Tasha’s nervous voice.

‘Hello?’

‘You know what’s happening?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve got a choice. I can pick you up from the gym and take you straight home, but if we do that, they’re going to try it another day, or—’

‘I want it to end tonight,’ said Tasha, but he could hear the tension in her voice.

‘I swear you won’t be in any danger. They’re idiots and we’ll be ready for them.’

‘What d’you want me to do?’

‘When I give the word, you’ll leave the gym alone. I want to get them on film trying to get you into that van. We won’t let it happen, but I can’t guarantee you won’t have an unpleasant few seconds and possibly a bruise or two.’

‘I’m an actress,’ said Tasha, with a shaky little laugh. ‘I’ll just pretend someone’s going to yell “cut”.’

‘That would be me,’ said Strike. ‘All right, hand me back to Midge.’

When Tasha had done so, Strike said,

‘I want you to leave the gym now, alone, walk straight up the cul-de-sac and take up a good vantage point behind their van, but somewhere where they can’t see you until things hot up. I want this on camera in case it doesn’t get picked up on CCTV.’

‘Could Barclay not do that and I’ll—?’

‘What did I just say?’

‘Fine,’ said Midge huffily, and rang off.

Strike turned into the road where Tasha’s gym was, parked, then called Barclay.

‘Move so you’ll be walking towards Tasha when they come at her. I’ll be behind her. I’ll let you know when she’s on her way.’

‘Righto,’ said Barclay.

Strike watched Midge leaving the gym in the gathering darkness. He could just make out Barclay, ambling along on the other side of the road. He waited until both had vanished from view, then got out of the BMW and phoned Tasha.

‘Head for the door but don’t come out until I tell you. You’ll have me right behind you, and Barclay ahead. Pretend to be texting. Midge is already behind their van. They’ve chosen a place where they shouldn’t see either of us coming.’

‘OK,’ said Tasha nervously.

‘Right,’ said Strike, now fifteen yards from the gym entrance, ‘go.’

Tasha emerged from the gym, a bag over her shoulder, head bowed over her phone. Strike followed, keeping a short distance between himself and the actress. His mobile rang again: he pulled it out, refused the call and shoved it back into his pocket.

Tasha was approaching the cul-de-sac. As she passed beneath a street light, Strike heard the van doors open.

The balaclavaed men were running, the foremost with a large mallet in his gloved hand. As he broke into a run, Strike heard Barclay bellow ‘OI!’ and Tasha’s scream.

Barclay’s shout had caused the mallet-holder to check – Strike’s hands closed on Tasha’s shoulders – as he pushed her sideways, the unwieldy weapon missed her by three feet; Strike, too, dodged it, his left hand already in a fist, which hit the wool-covered jaw so hard his victim let out a high-pitched squeak and fell backwards onto the pavement, where he lay momentarily stunned, his arms outstretched like Christ.

‘Stay down,’ snarled Strike, smacking his own victim again as he attempted to scramble to his feet. Barclay’s man was gripping the Scot round the waist in a fruitless attempt to evade the former’s punches, but as Strike watched, Frank Two’s legs gave way.

‘Search the van,’ Strike called to Midge, who’d come running out of her hiding place, her mobile still held up, recording, ‘see if there are restraints – stay fucking down,’ he added, hitting the first brother in the head again.

‘AND YOU,’ yelled Barclay, whose own Frank had just attempted to punch him in the balls and who’d got a boot in the diaphragm in return.

‘Oh my God,’ muttered Tasha, who’d picked up the mallet. She looked from Barclay’s groaning victim, who was lying in the foetal position, to Strike’s motionless one. ‘Is he – have you knocked him out?’

‘No,’ said Strike, because he’d just seen the balaclavaed man readjust his position slightly. ‘He’s faking, silly bastard. It’s called reasonable force, arsehole,’ he added to the prone figure, as Midge came running back with several black plastic security restraints.

‘Might not need tae call the police ourselves,’ said Barclay, glancing across the road at a dogwalker with a cocker spaniel, who stood immobile, transfixed by the scene.

‘All the better,’ said Strike, who was forcing his struggling Frank’s wrists together, the man having stopped pretending to be unconscious. This done, Strike pulled off the balaclava to see the familiar high forehead, squint and thinning hair.

‘Well,’ said Strike, ‘that didn’t go the way you thought it would, did it?’

In an unexpectedly high voice, the man said,

‘I want my social worker!’ which surprised Strike into a loud guffaw.

‘There ye go, dickhead,’ said Barclay, who’d successfully restrained his own man and unmasked him, at which point the younger brother started to cry.

‘I didn’t do nothing. I don’t understand.’

‘Get tae fuck,’ said Barclay, and looking over at Strike he added, ‘Nice footwork. ’Specially fur a bloke who’s only got one o’ them.’

‘Cheers,’ said Strike. ‘Let’s—’ His mobile started to ring again, ‘for fuck’s sake. Somebody keeps – what?’ he said angrily, answering the unknown number.

Barclay, Midge and Tasha watched as Strike’s face became blank.

‘Where?’ he said. ‘All right… I’m on my way now.’

‘What’s happened?’ said Midge, as Strike hung up.

‘That was Robin’s father. She’s been taken in for questioning.’

‘What?’

‘Can you handle these two without me, until the police get here?’

‘Yeah, of course. We’ve got a mallet,’ said Midge, pulling it out of Tasha’s hands.

‘Fair point,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll let you know what’s going on once I find out.’

He turned and set off as fast as his now throbbing right knee would allow.

94

There are secret forces at work, leading together those who belong together. We must yield to this attraction; then we make no mistakes.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

It took Strike an hour to reach the police station to which Robin had been taken. As he slowed down, looking for a place to park, he passed three figures who appeared to be arguing outside the square stone building. Once he’d found a parking space and walked back towards the station, he recognised the threesome as Robin and her parents.

‘Strike,’ said Robin in relief, when she spotted him.

‘Hello,’ said Strike, holding out his hand to Michael Ellacott, a tall man in horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Sorry I didn’t pick up sooner. I was in the middle of something I couldn’t drop.’

‘What’s happened?’ said Robin.

‘The Franks made their move. What’s going—?’

‘We’re about to take Robin home,’ said Linda. ‘She’s been through—’

‘For God’s sake, Mum,’ said Robin, shrugging off the hand Linda had laid on her arm, ‘I need to tell Cormoran what’s just happened.’

‘He can come back to the flat,’ said Linda, as though this was a favour Strike didn’t deserve.

‘I know he can come back to my flat,’ said Robin, who was rapidly reaching breaking point with her mother, ‘but that’s not what’s going to happen. He and I are going for a drink. Take my keys.’

She thrust them into her father’s hands.

‘You can grab a taxi, and Cormoran can drop me off later. Look – there’s a cab now.’

Robin raised her hand, and the black taxi slowed.

‘I’d rather—’ began Linda.

‘I’m going for a drink with Cormoran. I know you’re worried, Mum, but there’s nothing you can do about this. I’ve got to sort it out.’

‘You can’t blame your mum for being worried,’ said Strike, but judging by Linda’s frigid expression, this effort to ingratiate himself was unsuccessful. Once her parents had been successfully bundled into the cab, Robin waited until the vehicle had drawn away before letting out a huge sigh of relief.

‘Un-bloody-believable.’

‘In fairness—’

‘I really, really need a drink.’

‘There’s a pub up there, I just passed it,’ said Strike.

‘Are you limping?’ said Robin, as they set off.

‘It’s fine, I twisted my knee a bit when I punched Frank One.’

‘Oh God, did—?’

‘It’s all good, police will have got them by now, Mayo’s safe – tell me what happened at the station.’

‘I’m going to need alcohol first,’ said Robin.

The pub was crowded, but a small corner table became available a minute after their entrance. Strike’s bulk, always useful in such situations, ensured that other would-be sitters were blocked from taking it before Robin could.

‘What d’you want?’ he asked Robin, as she sank onto a banquette.

‘Something strong – and could you get me some crisps? I was about to eat a pizza when the police arrived. I haven’t had anything since mid-afternoon.’

Strike returned to the table five minutes later with a neat double whisky, half a pint of lager for himself and six packets of salt and vinegar crisps.

‘Thank you,’ said Robin fervently, reaching for her glass.

‘Right, tell me what happened,’ said Strike, lowering himself onto an uncomfortable stool, but Robin had thrown back half the neat whisky so fast she got some in her windpipe and had to cough for a minute before she could talk again.

‘Sorry,’ she gasped, her eyes watering. ‘Well, the Norfolk police have been to the farm. Jonathan and Mazu were completely bemused as to why the police wanted to search the top floor of the farmhouse, but led them up there—’

‘And there was no Jacob,’ guessed Strike.

‘Correct. There was nothing in the end room but some old suitcases. They searched the whole top floor but he wasn’t there, but when the police asked where Jacob was, Jonathan said, oh, you want Jacob, and took them to him… except it wasn’t Jacob.’

‘They showed them a different child?’

‘Exactly. He answered to Jacob and told them a nasty lady called Robin—’

‘He used your real name?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin hopelessly. ‘Vivienne must have talked. I answered accidentally to “Robin” one day – I passed it off as a nickname and I’m sure she believed me at the time, but I s’pose – anyway, the fake Jacob told the police I’d taken him into a bathroom and… and done things to him.’

‘What things?’

‘Asked him to pull his pants down and show me his willy. He claims that when he wouldn’t do it, I hit him round the head.’

‘Shit,’ Strike muttered.

‘That’s not all. They’ve got two adult witnesses saying I was rough with the children at the farm and kept trying to take them off on my own. The police wouldn’t tell me who they are, but I said, if it was Taio or Becca, they had good reason to want me incriminated on a child abuse charge. I explained I was there to investigate the church. I had the feeling Harding – that’s the man – thought I was cocky or something, coming from our agency.’

‘There’s a bit of that about,’ said Strike. ‘Patterson’s an old mate of Carver’s, as I found out from Littlejohn. Were the police recording the interview?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it end?’

‘They told me they’ve got no further questions at the moment,’ said Robin. ‘I think the female officer believed me, but I’m not sure about Harding. He kept going back over the same ground, trying to make me change my story, and he got quite forceful at one point. I asked them whether anyone was going to go back to the farm and find the real Jacob, but obviously, as I’m now a person of suspicion, they weren’t going to tell me that. What the hell have the Waces done with that boy? What if—?’

‘You’ve already done as much for Jacob as you can,’ said Strike. ‘With luck, you’ve worried the police enough to make them do another search. Eat your crisps.’

Robin ripped open one of the packets and did as she was told.

‘I already knew the church must’ve identified us,’ said Strike. ‘Fergus Robertson just called me. Apparently my Wikipedia page has been given a UHC makeover.’

‘Oh no,’ said Robin.

‘It was inevitable. Someone found that plastic rock, and Taio got a good look at me at the perimeter fence before I hit him. Now we’ve just got to try and limit the damage.’

‘Have you read the Wikipedia stuff about you?’

‘Not yet, I haven’t had time, but Robertson gave me a good idea of what’s on there. I might need a legal letter to get it taken down. Matter of fact, I know just the bloke I can ask for advice.’

‘Who?’

‘Andrew Honbold. He’s a QC. Bijou’s partner.’

‘I thought you and Bijou were—?’

‘Christ, no, she’s a fucking nutter,’ said Strike, forgetting he’d pretended he was still seeing Bijou when he and Robin had been at Felbrigg Lodge. ‘Honbold’s fairly well disposed to me at the moment and as defamation’s his speciality—’

‘He’s well disposed to you?’ said Robin, thoroughly confused. ‘Even though—?’

‘He thinks Bijou and I had nothing more than a couple of drinks and she’s not going to tell him different, not when she’s pregnant with his kid.’

‘Right,’ said Robin, who was finding this onslaught of information dizzying.

‘Murphy booked an early flight yet?’ said Strike, who hoped not.

‘No, he hasn’t managed to get one,’ said Robin. ‘So it’ll be Sunday.’

‘And he’ll be all right with you heading to Thornbury on Monday, will he?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Robin, ripping open a second pack of crisps. ‘He’s back at work himself Monday morning. Mind you, he might ditch me once he finds out I’m facing child abuse charges.’

‘You’re not going to be charged,’ said Strike firmly.

Easy for you to say, thought the shaken Robin, but aloud she said,

‘Well, I hope not, because I found out this afternoon I’m soon going to have another two nieces or nephews. I’d rather not be barred from ever seeing them…’

95

The undertaking requires caution… the dark nature of the present line suggests that it knows how to silence those who would raise the warning.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

To Robin’s enormous relief, her parents left for Yorkshire at midday on Sunday. This enabled her to finally complete the report about Chapman Farm she’d prepared for Strike. He’d now sent her a similar document, giving her all the information he’d found out while she’d been away. Robin was still reading this when Murphy arrived, straight from the airport.

She’d forgotten not only how good looking he was, but how kind. Though Robin had attempted to push her considerable worries aside in an effort to make the reunion a happy one, Ryan’s questions, which were mercifully posed without her mother’s hectoring undertone of accusation and outrage, elicited far more information than Linda had received about her daughter’s long stay at Chapman Farm. Robin also told Murphy what had happened when she was interviewed by PCs Khan and Harding.

‘I’ll find out what’s going on there,’ said Murphy. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

Slightly tipsy – alcohol was affecting her far more strongly after her long period of abstinence and her weight loss – Robin entered the bedroom. She’d bought condoms prior to Ryan’s arrival, having had an enforced break from the contraceptive pill over the last four months. Sex, which at Chapman Farm had been an almost constant danger rather than a pleasure, was as welcome a release as the wine, and temporarily obliterated her anxiety. As she lay in Murphy’s arms afterwards, her brain slightly fuzzy from alcohol and the tiredness she’d felt ever since she’d returned to London, he lowered his mouth to her ear and murmured,

‘I realised something while you were away. I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’

Caught off guard, she’d said the words automatically, as she’d done hundreds of times in the years she’d spent with Matthew. She’d said them even when she’d no longer meant them, because that was what you did when there was a wedding ring on your finger and you were trying to make a marriage work, even though the pieces were falling apart in your hands, and you didn’t know how to put them back together. Unease stirred in her alcohol-blunted brain. Had she just lied, or was she overthinking?

Murphy held her even closer, murmuring endearments, and Robin hugged him back and responded in kind. Even though Robin was dazed with wine and tiredness, she remained awake for half an hour after Murphy fell asleep. Did she love him? Would she have said it unprompted? She’d been truly happy to see him, they’d just had great sex and she was immensely grateful for his sensitivity and tact in the conversation about Chapman Farm, even if she’d left out some of the worst bits. But was what she felt love? Perhaps it was. Still ruminating, she sank into dreams of Chapman Farm, waking with a gasp at five in the morning, believing herself to be back in the box.

Murphy, who hadn’t meant to stay the night because he was due back at work the next day, had to leave the flat at six to return home and change. Robin, who’d arranged to pick Strike up in the Land Rover for their long drive to Thornbury, was dismayed by how relieved she felt not to have much time to talk to her boyfriend.

When she pulled up outside Wembley station, where she’d agreed to meet Strike at eight, she saw him already there, vaping while waiting.

‘Morning,’ he said, getting into the car. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Fine,’ said Robin.

While she looked slightly better rested than she had a week previously, she was still pale and drawn.

‘Murphy get back all right?’

‘Well, his plane didn’t crash, if that’s what you mean,’ said Robin, who really didn’t want to talk about Murphy at the moment.

Though surprised by this slightly caustic response, Strike was perversely encouraged: perhaps Robin and Murphy’s mutual attraction had petered out during four months of enforced separation? With the aim of emphasising that while Murphy might not appreciate her, he certainly did, he said,

‘So, I’ve read your report. Bloody good job. Good work on Fernsby and Huxley, as well.’

Robin’s online research, completed in the interval between her parents leaving and Ryan arriving, had enabled her to send Strike a long list of universities at which Walter had worked, the names of his ex-wife and two children, and the titles of his two out-of-print books.

As for Marion, Robin had discovered that she’d been raised as a Quaker and had been very active in the church until abandoning it for the UHC. Robin had also found the names and addresses of her two daughters.

‘Fernsby seems a restless kind of bloke,’ said Strike.

‘I know,’ said Robin. ‘Academics don’t usually move around that much, do they? But there were no start and finish dates, so it’s hard to know whether there was a period in between jobs he could have spent at the farm.’

‘And Marion deserted the family undertakers,’ said Strike.

‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘She’s a bit pathetic. Utterly besotted with Jonathan Wace, but relegated to the laundry and the kitchen most of the time. I think her dream would be to become a spirit wife, but I don’t think there’s much chance. Bodies aren’t supposed to matter in there, but trust me, Wace isn’t sleeping with any women his own age. Not widows of undertakers, anyway – maybe if another Golden Prophet came along, he would.’

Strike wound down the window so he could continue vaping.

‘I don’t know whether you saw,’ he said, reluctant to introduce the subject but feeling it necessary, ‘but the UHC have been putting in more hours on Wikipedia. You’ve, ah, got your own page now.’

‘I know,’ said Robin. She’d found it the previous afternoon. It alleged she went to bed with any man from whom she wanted to elicit information, and that her husband had divorced her on account of these multiple infidelities. She hadn’t mentioned the existence of the Wikipedia page to Murphy. It might be irrational, but the baseless allegations had still made Robin feel grubby.

‘But I’m on it,’ said Strike. ‘Honbold’s been very helpful. He put me in touch with a lawyer who’s going to fire off some letters. I checked again this morning and Wikipedia’s already flagged both pages as unreliable. Just as well, because the UHC keeps adding more. Did you see the bit that went live last night, saying we team up with grifters and fantasists who’re after pay-offs?’

‘No,’ said Robin. This had evidently been added after Murphy arrived at her flat.

‘There are links to a couple of websites listing all the scumbags who’re helping to attack noble charitable enterprises. Kevin Pirbright, the Graves family, Sheila Kennett and all three Doherty siblings are listed. They say the Graves family neglected and mistreated Alexander, Sheila bullied her husband and that the Dohertys are drunks and layabouts. They also say Kevin Pirbright sexually abused his sisters.’

‘Why would they attack Kevin, now?’

‘Must be worried we talked to him before he died. They haven’t bothered smearing Jordan Reaney; s’pose he’s done a good enough job himself, and they haven’t gone after Abigail Glover, either. Presumably Wace would rather not draw the press’s attention to the fact his own daughter ran away from the church at sixteen – but the odds of press interest in all these ex-members just got a lot higher, so I thought I’d better call and warn them.’

‘How did they take it?’

‘Sheila was upset and I think Niamh’s regretting talking to us now.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Robin sadly.

‘She’s worried about the effect on her brother and sister. Colonel Graves told me he wanted to “let the damned UHC have it with both barrels”, but I told him retaliating through the press will just draw more attention to the online bullshit and that I’m on it, legally. He’s pleased we’re about to interview Cherie-slash-Carrie. And I don’t know how Abigail’s feeling, because she didn’t pick up.’

Strike’s mobile now rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, he saw an unknown number.

‘Hello?’

‘Nicholas Delaunay here,’ said a cool, upper-class voice.

‘Hi,’ said Strike, switching to speakerphone and mouthing ‘Graves’ son-in-law’ at Robin. ‘Apologies for the noise, we’re—’

‘On your way to interview Cherie Gittins,’ said Delaunay. ‘Yes. M’father-in-law told me. Evidently you didn’t listen to a damn word my wife said, at the Hall.’

‘I listened to all your wife’s words.’

‘But you’re still determined to wreak havoc?’

‘No, just determined to do my job.’

‘And bugger the consequences, is that it?’

‘As I can’t predict the consequences—’

‘The consequences, which were entirely predictable, are already on the bloody internet! You think I want my children to see what’s been written about their mother’s family, their family—?’

‘Do your children regularly Google my agency, or the UHC?’

‘You’ve already admitted that, entirely due to you, the press are likely to be on the prowl—’

‘It’s a possibility, not a likelihood.’

‘Every moment those defamatory bloody lies are up, there’s a risk journalists will see them!’

‘Mr Delaunay—’

‘It’s Lieutenant-Colonel Delaunay!’

‘Ah, my apologies, Lieutenant-Colonel, but your parents-in-law—’

‘They might’ve bloody well agreed to all this, but Phillipa and I didn’t!’

‘I’m surprised I have to say this to a man of your rank, but you don’t actually feature in this chain of command, Lieutenant-Colonel.’

‘I’m involved, my family’s involved, and I have a right—’

‘I answer to my client, and my client wants the truth.’

‘Whose truth? Whose truth?’

‘Is there more than one?’ said Strike. ‘Better update my library of philosophy.’

‘You jumped-up bloody monkey,’ shouted Delaunay, and he hung up. Grinning, Strike returned his phone to his pocket.

‘Why did he call you a monkey?’ said Robin, laughing.

‘Slang for military police,’ said Strike. ‘Still better than what we called the navy.’

‘What was that?’

‘Cunts,’ said Strike.

He glanced into the back seat and saw a carrier bag.

‘No biscuits,’ said Robin, ‘because you said you’re still dieting.’

Strike sighed as he hoisted the bag into the front to take out the flask of coffee.

‘Is Delaunay really this angry just because of his children?’ asked Robin.

‘No idea. Maybe. Can’t see why he and his wife haven’t just told them what happened. Lies like that always come back to bite you on the arse.’

They drove on in silence for a couple of minutes, until Robin said,

‘Have you talked to Midge yet, about going undercover in Zhou’s clinic?’

‘No,’ said Strike, who was now pouring himself coffee. ‘I wanted to discuss that with you, in the light of this Wikipedia stuff. I think we’ve got to assume the church will be trying to identify all our operatives, and have you looked at Zhou’s clinic’s website? Seen how much even a three-day stay costs?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin.

‘Well, even if they haven’t yet identified Midge as one of ours, I’m not sure she’d blend in that well. She doesn’t come across as the kind of woman who’s prepared to waste money on crackpot treatments.’

‘Which particular treatments are you calling crackpot?’

‘Reiki,’ said Strike. ‘Know what that is?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, smiling, because she knew her partner’s aversion to anything that smacked of mysticism. ‘The practitioner puts their hands on you, to heal your energy.’

‘Heal your energy,’ scoffed Strike.

‘An old schoolfriend of mine had it done. She said she could feel heat moving all over her body wherever the hands went and felt a real sense of peace afterwards.’

‘Tell her if she slings me five hundred quid, I’ll fill her a hot water bottle and pour her some gin.’

Robin laughed.

‘You’ll be telling me I’m not a Gift-Bearer-Warrior next.’

‘Not a what?’

‘That’s what Zhou told me I was,’ said Robin. ‘You had to fill in a questionnaire and you got typed according to your answers. The categories aligned with the prophets.’

‘Christ’s sake,’ muttered Strike. ‘No, what we need is someone who looks the part, designer clothes and the right moneyed attitude… Prudence would’ve been ideal, come to think of it, but as she’s seriously pissed off at me just now…’

‘Why’s she pissed off?’ said Robin, concerned.

‘Didn’t I—? Shit, I forgot to put Torment Town into your update.’

‘Torment – what?’

‘Torment Town. It’s – or it was – an anonymous account on Pinterest. I was looking for pictures of the Drowned Prophet and found a cache of horror-style drawings, all UHC-themed. A picture of Daiyu caught my eye, because it genuinely looked like her. I complimented the artist, who thanked me, then I said, “You aren’t keen on the UHC, are you?” or words to that effect, and they went quiet.

‘But there was this one picture Torment Town had drawn, of a woman floating in a dark pool, with Daiyu hovering over her. The woman was blonde, wearing glasses and looked a lot like that old picture of Deirdre Doherty we got from Niamh. Having had no response to my UHC question for days, I thought, fuck it, and asked the artist if they’d ever known a woman called Deirdre Doherty, at which point the whole account disappeared.

‘Fast-forward to the night you were taken in for questioning: I get a phone call from Prudence, accusing me of tracking down her client and threatening her.’

To Strike’s surprise, Robin said nothing at all. Glancing at her, he thought she looked even paler than she had on getting into the car.

‘You all right?’

‘What shape was the pool?’ said Robin.

‘What?’

‘The pool in Torment Town’s drawing. What shape?’

‘Er… a pentagon.’

‘Strike,’ said Robin, whose ears were ringing, ‘I think I know what happened to Deirdre Doherty.’

‘D’you want to pull over?’ Strike asked, because Robin had turned white.

‘No, I – actually,’ said Robin, who was feeling light-headed, ‘yes.’

Robin indicated and pulled over onto the hard shoulder. Once they were stationary, she turned a stricken face to Strike and said,

‘Deirdre drowned in the temple, during the Manifestation of the Drowned Prophet. The pool in the Chapman Farm temple’s five-sided. Deirdre had a weak heart. They must’ve wanted to punish her for what she’d written about Wace raping her, but it went too far. She either drowned, or had a heart attack.’

Strike sat in silence for a moment, considering the probabilities, but could find no flaw in Robin’s reasoning.

‘Shit.’

Robin’s head was swimming. She knew exactly what Deirdre Doherty’s last moments on earth must have felt like, because she’d been through exactly the same thing, in the very same pool. Deirdre, too, would have seen fragments of her life flicker before her – her children, the husband who’d abandoned her, perhaps snapshots of a long-gone childhood – and then the water would have crushed the air from her lungs, and she’d have drunk in fatal quantities, and suffocated in darkness…

‘What?’ she said numbly, because Strike was talking and she hadn’t heard a word.

‘I said: so we’ve got a witness to the church committing manslaughter, and possibly even murder, and they’re on the outside?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, ‘but we don’t know who they are, do we?’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. I know exactly who they are – well,’ Strike corrected himself, ‘I’d be prepared to bet a grand on it, anyway.’

‘How on earth can you know that?’

‘Worked it out. For starters, Prudence doesn’t come cheap. She’s very well regarded in her field and she’s written successful books. You’ve seen the house they live in – she sees clients in a consulting room opposite the sitting room. She’s very discreet and never names names, but I know perfectly well her client list’s full of fucked-up A-listers and wealthy people who’ve had breakdowns, so whoever Torment Town is, they or their family must have money. They’re also likely to be living in or close to London. Prudence let slip that the client’s female, and we know Torment Town must have been at Chapman Farm at the same time as Deirdre Doherty.’

‘So…’

‘It’s Flora Brewster, the housing heiress. She was listed as living at Chapman Farm on the 2001 census. Flora’s friend Henry told me she stayed in the church for five years and Deirdre disappeared in 2003.

‘According to Fergus Robertson, his contact’s family shunted her off to New Zealand after her suicide attempt, but Henry Worthington-Fields says Flora’s back in the country now, though still in poor mental health. He begged me not to go near her, but I know where she’s living, because I looked her up: Strawberry Hill, a five-minute walk from Prudence and Declan’s.’

‘Oh,’ said Robin. ‘But we can’t approach her, can we? Not if she’s that fragile.’

Strike said nothing.

‘Strike, we can’t,’ said Robin.

‘You don’t want justice for Deirdre Doherty?’

‘Of course I do, but—’

‘If Brewster wanted to keep what she witnessed private, why draw it and post it on a public forum?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Robin distractedly. ‘People process things differently. Maybe, for her, that was a way of letting it all out.’

‘She’d have done better to let it out to the bloody police, instead of doing drawings and moaning about how miserable she feels to Prudence.’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Robin heatedly. ‘Speaking as someone who’s experienced what goes on at Chapman Farm—’

‘I don’t see you sitting on your arse feeling sorry for yourself, or deciding you’ll just draw pictures of everything you witnessed—’

‘I was only in for four months, Flora was there five years! You told me she was gay and forced to go with men – that’s five years of corrective rape. You realise that as far as we know, Flora might have had kids in there that she was forced to leave when they chucked her out?’

‘Why didn’t she go back for them?’

‘If she had the full-on mental breakdown Henry described to you, she might have believed they were in the safest place: somewhere they’d grow up with the approval of the Drowned Prophet! Everyone comes out of that place altered, even the ones who seem all right on the surface. D’you think Niamh would have ended up married to a man old enough to be her dad if her family hadn’t been smashed up by the church? She went for safety and a father figure!’

‘But you’re happy for Niamh to never to know what happened to her mother?’

‘Of course I’m not happy,’ said Robin angrily, ‘but I don’t want it on my conscience if we tip Flora Brewster into a second suicide attempt!’

Now regretting his tone, Strike said,

‘Look, I didn’t mean to—’

‘Don’t say you didn’t mean to upset me,’ said Robin through gritted teeth. ‘That’s what men always say when – I’m angry, not sad. You don’t get it. You don’t know what that place does to people. I do, and—’

Strike’s mobile rang again.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Abigail Glover. Better take this.’

Robin looked away at the passing traffic, arms folded. Strike answered the call and switched it to speakerphone, so Robin could listen.

‘Hi.’

‘’I,’ said Abigail. ‘I got your message, about press.’

‘Right,’ said Strike. ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but as I said, I don’t think there’s any immediate—’

‘I wanna ask you somefing,’ said Abigail, cutting across him.

‘Go on.’

‘Did Baz Saxon come an’ see you?’

‘Er – yeah,’ said Strike, deciding honesty was the best policy.

‘That fucker!’

‘Did he tell you himself or…?’

‘Fuckin’ Patrick told me! Me lodger. I’ve ’ad enough. I’ve told Patrick to get the fuck out of my flat. It’s all a fuckin’ game to them, pair of bastards,’ she added, and Strike could hear distress as well as anger now. ‘I’m sick an’ fuckin’ tired of bein’ their fuckin’ reality show!’

‘I think a new lodger’s a good move.’

‘So what did Baz tell you? ’Ow I’ll fuck anyfing that moves except ’im, was it?’

‘He certainly struck me as a man with a grievance,’ said Strike. ‘But since you’re on the line, I wondered whether you could answer a couple more questions?’

‘You don’—’

Her voice was momentarily drowned out, as two articulated lorries roared past the stationary Land Rover.

‘Sorry,’ said Strike, his voice raised. ‘I’m on the A40, I missed most of that.’

‘I said,’ she shouted, ‘you don’ wanna believe anyfing that bastard says abou’ me – except that I freatened ’im. I did freaten ’im. I’d ’ad a coupla drinks, an’ ’e was buttin’ in on me an’ Darryl, this guy from my gym, an’ I lost it.’

‘Understandable,’ said Strike, ‘but when you told Saxon the church had guns, was that to frighten him, or true?’

‘To frighten ’im,’ said Abigail. After a slight hesitation she added, ‘but I migh’ – they migh’ not’ve been real. I dunno. I couldn’t swear to it in court tha’s wha’ I saw.’

‘So you did see a gun, or guns?’

‘Yeah. Well – that’s what they looked like.’

Robin now turned her head to look at the phone in Strike’s hand.

‘Where were these guns?’ Strike asked.

‘Mazu ’ad ’em. I wen’ in ’er study one day to tell ’er sumfing an’ I saw the safe open an’ she slammed the door. It looked like two guns. She’s weird about Chapman Farm, I toldja. It’s ’er private kingdom. She usedta talk about when the police come, when the Crowthers were there. When I saw them guns, I fort, she’s not gonna be caught out again – but I dunno, they might not ’ave been real, I on’y saw ’em for a second.’

‘No, I appreciate that,’ said Strike. ‘While I’ve got you, I also wanted to ask—’

‘Did Baz tell you about my nightmare?’ asked Abigail, in a deadened voice.

Strike hesitated.

‘Yes, but that isn’t what I was going to ask about, and let me emphasise, as far as I’m concerned, the fact that you and your friend tried to prevent a whipping says far more—’

‘Don’ do that,’ said Abigail. ‘Don’t fuckin’ – don’t try an’ make – bastards. I’m not even allowed to ’ave private fuckin’ nightmares.’

‘I appreciate—’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Abigail. ‘Just fuck off. You don’t “appreciate”. You don’t know nuffing.’

Strike could tell she was now crying. Between the small noises coming out of the phone and his partner’s stony stare from the seat beside him, he didn’t feel particularly good about himself.

‘Sorry,’ he said, though not very sure what he was apologising for, unless it was letting Barry Saxon into his office. ‘I wasn’t going to mention any of that. I was going to ask you about Alex Graves’ sister, Phillipa.’

‘What about ’er?’ said Abigail, in a thickened voice.

‘You told me your father had her eating out of his hand, when we met.’

‘’E did,’ said Abigail.

‘She hung around the farm a bit, then, did she?’

‘Coming to see ’er bruvver, yeah,’ said Abigail, who was clearly trying to sound natural. ‘Wha’re you doing on the A40?’

‘Going to Thornbury.’

‘Never ’eard of it. OK, well – I’ll let you go.’

And before Strike could say anything else, she hung up.

Strike looked around at Robin.

‘What d’you think?’

‘I think she’s right,’ said Robin. ‘We should go.’

She turned the engine on and, having waited for a break in the traffic, pulled back out onto the road.

They drove on for five minutes without talking to each other. Keen to foster a more congenial atmosphere, Strike finally said,

‘I wasn’t going to bring up her nightmare. I feel bad about that.’

‘And where’s this sensitivity when it comes to Flora Brewster?’ said Robin coldly.

‘Fine,’ said Strike, now nettled, ‘I won’t go near bloody Brewster, but as you’re the one who’s experienced the full bloody horror of Chapman—’

‘I never called it “horror”, I’m not saying I went through war crimes or anything—’

‘Fuck’s sake, I’m not saying you’re exaggerating how bad it was, I’m saying, if there’s a witness to them actually killing someone, I’d have thought—’

‘The fact is,’ said Robin angrily, ‘Abigail Glover’s more your kind of person than Flora Brewster is, so you feel bad for making her choke up, whereas—’

‘What’s that mean, “more my kind of—”?’

‘Pulls herself up by her bootstraps, joins the fire service, pretends none of it ever hap—’

‘If it makes you feel any better, she’s got a borderline drink problem and seems recklessly promiscuous.’

‘Of course it doesn’t make me feel better,’ said Robin furiously, ‘but you’re chippy about rich people! You’re judging Flora because she can afford to see Prudence and she’s “sitting on her arse”, whereas—’

‘No, it’s about Brewster doing art instead of—’

‘What if she was so mentally ill she wasn’t sure what was real or not? You didn’t press Abigail on what these supposed guns looked like, did you?’

‘She’s not bloody drawing them and posting them online with UHC logos attached! I note Brewster’s not so fucking ill she didn’t go to ground the moment I mentioned Deirdre Doherty, thinking, “Shit, that got a bit more attention than I wanted!”’

Robin made no response to this, but stared steely-eyed at the road ahead.

The frosty atmosphere inside the car persisted onto the motorway, each partner consumed by their own uncomfortable thoughts. Strike had had the always unpleasant experience of having his own prejudices exposed. Whatever he might have claimed to Robin, he had formed an unflattering mental picture of the young woman who’d drawn the corpse of Deirdre Doherty, and if he was absolutely honest (which he had no intention of being out loud), he had classed her with the women enjoying reiki sessions at Dr Zhou’s palatial clinic, not to mention those of his father’s children who lived off family wealth, with expensive therapists and private doctors on hand should they need them, cushioned from the harsh realities of working life by their trust funds. Doubtless the Brewster girl had had a bad time of it, but she’d also had years in the Kiwi sunshine to reflect upon what she’d seen at Chapman Farm, and instead of seeking justice for the woman who’d drowned and closure for the children now bereft of a mother, she’d sat in her comfortable Strawberry Hill flat and indulged in a spot of art.

Robin’s inner reverie was disturbing in a different way. While she stood by what she’d just said to her partner, she was uncomfortably aware (not that she intended to admit this) that she’d subconsciously wanted to force an argument. A small part of her had sought to disrupt the pleasure and ease she’d felt on finding herself back in the Land Rover with Strike, because she’d just told Murphy she loved him, and shouldn’t be feeling unalloyed pleasure at the prospect of hours on the road with somebody else. Nor should she be thinking about the man she supposedly loved with guilt and discomfort…

The silence in the car lasted a full half an hour, until Robin, resenting the fact that she was the one to have to break the ice, but ashamed of the hidden motive that had led her to become so heated, said,

‘Look, I’m sorry I got shirty. I’m just – I’m probably more on Flora’s side than you are because—’

‘I get it,’ said Strike, relieved that she’d spoken. ‘No, I don’t mean – I know I haven’t been in the Retreat Rooms.’

‘No, I can’t see Taio wanting to spirit bond with you,’ said Robin, but the mental image of Taio trying to lead Strike, who was considerably larger, towards one of the wooden cabins made her laugh.

‘No need to be offensive,’ said Strike, reaching for the coffee again. ‘We might’ve had a beautiful thing together if I hadn’t brained him with those wire cutters.’

96

Punishment is never an end in itself but serves merely to restore order.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

‘Shit,’ said Strike.

A little over two hours after he and Robin had resolved their argument, they’d arrived in Oakleaze Road, Thornbury, to find Carrie Curtis Woods’ residence empty. The modest but well-maintained semi-detached house, which shared a patch of unfenced lawn with its Siamese twin, was almost indistinguishable from every other house within view, except for slight variations in the style of front door.

‘And no car,’ said Strike, looking at the empty drive. ‘But they’re definitely back from holiday, I checked her Facebook page before I left this morning. She documents virtually every movement the family makes.’

‘Maybe she’s gone grocery shopping, if they’re just back from abroad?’

‘Maybe,’ said Strike, ‘but I think we might make ourselves a bit conspicuous if we hang around here for too long. Bit open plan. You won’t get away with much in a place like this.’

There were windows everywhere he looked, and the flat lawns in front of all the houses offered no hint of cover. The ancient Land Rover also looked conspicuous, among all the family cars.

‘What d’you say we go and get something to eat and come back in an hour or so?’

So they returned to the car and set off again.

The town was small, and they reached the High Street in minutes. There was less uniformity here, with shops and pubs of varying sizes, some of them painted in pastel colours or bearing old-fashioned awnings. Robin finally parked outside the Malthouse pub. The interior proved to be roomy, modern and white-walled, with grey checked carpet and chairs.

‘Too early for lunch,’ said Strike gloomily, returning from the bar with two packets of peanuts, a zero-alcohol beer for himself and a tomato juice for Robin, who was sitting in a bay window overlooking the high street.

‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘check your phone. Barclay’s just texted us.’

Strike sat down and took out his mobile. Their subcontractor had sent everyone at the agency a one-word message: SHAFTED, with a link to a news story, which Strike opened.

Robin started laughing again as she saw her partner’s expression change to one of pure glee. The news story, which was brief, was headed: BREAKING: TABLOID’S FAVOURITE PRIVATE EYE ARRESTED.

Mitchell Patterson, who was cleared of wrongdoing in the News International phone hacking scandal of 2011, has been arrested on a charge of illegally bugging the office of a prominent barrister.

Strike let out a laugh so loud that heads turned.

‘Fucking excellent,’ he said. ‘Now I can sack Littlejohn.’

‘Not in here,’ said Robin.

‘No,’ agreed Strike, glancing around, ‘not very discreet. There’s a beer garden, let’s do it there.’

‘Is my presence necessary?’ said Robin, smiling, but she was already gathering up her glass, peanuts and bag.

‘Killjoy,’ said Strike, as they set off through the pub. ‘Barclay would’ve paid good money to hear this.’

Once seated on benches at a brown painted table, Strike called Littlejohn and switched his mobile to speakerphone again.

‘Hi, boss,’ said Littlejohn, on answering. He’d taken to calling Strike ‘boss’ ever since Strike had revealed he knew Littlejohn was a plant. The jauntiness of Littlejohn’s tone suggested his duplicitous subcontractor didn’t yet realise Patterson had been arrested, and Strike’s pleasurable anticipation increased.

‘Where are you right now?’ asked Strike.

‘Following Toy Boy,’ said Littlejohn. ‘We’re on Pall Mall.’

‘Heard from Mitch this morning?’

‘No,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Why?’

‘He’s been arrested,’ said Strike.

No sound of human speech issued from Strike’s phone, though this time they could hear the background rumble of London traffic.

‘Still there?’ said Strike, a malicious smile on his face.

‘Yeah,’ said Littlejohn hoarsely.

‘So, you’re fired.’

‘You – what? You can’t – you said you’d keep me on—’

‘I said I’d think about it,’ said Strike. ‘I did, and I’ve decided you can fuck off.’

‘You cunt,’ said Littlejohn. ‘You fucking—’

‘I’m doing you a favour, when you think about it,’ said Strike. ‘You’re going to need a lot more time on your hands, what with the police wanting you to help them with their enquiries.’

‘You fucking – you bastard – I was going to – I had stuff for you on that church case – new stuff—’

‘Sure you did,’ said Strike. ‘Bye, Littlejohn.’

He hung up, reached for his beer, took a long draught, wishing it wasn’t alcohol-free, then set down his glass. Robin was laughing, but shaking her head.

‘What?’ said Strike, grinning.

‘It’s lucky we haven’t got an HR department.’

‘He’s a subcontractor, all I owe him is cash – not that he’s getting any cash.’

‘He could sue you for it.’

‘And I could tell the court he posted a snake through Tasha Mayo’s door.’

They ate their peanuts and drank their drinks beneath hanging baskets and a bright August sun.

‘You don’t think he really had something for us, on the UHC?’ said Robin after a while.

‘Nah, he’s bullshitting,’ said Strike, setting down his empty glass.

‘What if he goes to the office while we’re away and—?’

‘Tries to photograph case files again? Don’t worry about that. I’ve taken precautions, I had Pat do it last week. If the fucker tries using a skeleton key again, he’ll get his comeuppance – which reminds me,’ said Strike, pulling a new set of office keys out of his pocket. ‘You’ll need those… Right, let’s go and see whether Cherie/Carrie’s home yet.’

97

K’an represents the pig slaughtered in the small sacrifice.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

They’d been sitting in the Land Rover, which was parked a few doors down from Carrie Curtis Woods’ still empty house, for forty minutes when a silver Kia Picanto passed them.

‘Strike,’ said Robin, having caught a glimpse of a blonde female driver.

The car turned into the Woods family’s drive. The driver got out. She had short, blonde, curly hair, and was wearing a pair of unflatteringly tight jeans, which caused a roll of fat under her white T-shirt to spill over the waistband. She was tanned, wore a lot of spiky mascara, and her eyebrows were thinner than was currently fashionable, giving her a surprised look. A polyester shopper was slung over her shoulder.

‘Let’s go,’ said Strike.

Carrie Curtis Woods was halfway to her front door when she heard the footsteps behind her and turned, keys in hand.

‘Afternoon,’ said Strike. ‘My name’s Cormoran Strike and this is Robin Ellacott. We’re private detectives. We believe you lived at Chapman Farm in the mid-nineties, under the name Cherie Gittins? We’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.’

Twice before, while working at the agency, Robin had thought a female interviewee might faint. Carrie’s face lost all healthy colour, leaving the surface tan patchy and yellow and her lips pale. Robin braced, ready to run forwards and break the woman’s fall onto hard concrete.

‘We just want to hear your side of the story, Carrie,’ said Strike.

The woman’s eyes darted to the opposite neighbour’s windows, and back to Strike. He was interested in the fact that she wasn’t asking them to repeat their names, as people often did, whether out of confusion, or to play for time. He had the feeling their appearance wasn’t entirely a surprise, that she’d been dreading something of this kind. Perhaps the UHC had a Facebook page, and she’d seen attacks on him and Robin there, or perhaps she’d been dreading this reckoning for years.

The seconds ticked past and Carrie remained frozen, and it was already too late to credibly deny that she didn’t know what they were talking about, or that she’d ever been Cherie Gittins.

‘All righ’,’ she said at last, her voice barely audible.

She turned and walked towards the front door. Strike and Robin followed.

The interior of the small house smelled of Pledge. The only thing out of place in the hall was a small, pink doll’s pushchair, which Carrie moved aside so that Strike and Robin could enter the combination sitting and dining room, which had pale blue wallpaper and a blue three-piece suite bearing stripy mauve cushions, all of which were balanced on their points.

Enlarged family photographs in pewter-coloured frames covered the wall behind the sofa. Carrie Curtis Woods’ two little girls, familiar to Strike from his perusal of her Facebook page, were pictured over and over again, sometimes with one or other of their parents. Both daughters were blonde, dimpled and always beaming. The younger child had several missing teeth.

‘Your daughters are lovely,’ said Robin, turning to smile at Carrie. ‘They’re not here?’

‘No,’ said Carrie, in a croak.

‘Play date?’ asked Robin, who was trying to quieten the woman’s nerves.

‘No. I jus’ took them over to their nana’s. They wan’ed to give her the presents they got her, in Spain. We’ve been on holiday.’

There was barely a trace of London in her voice now: she spoke with a Bristol drawl, the vowels elongated, consonants at the end of words cut off. She dropped into an armchair, setting her shopper onto the floor beside her feet.

‘You can siddown,’ she said weakly. Strike and Robin did so, on the sofa.

‘How long have you lived in Thornbury, Carrie?’ Robin asked.

‘Ten – ’leven years?’

‘What made you move here?’

‘I met my husband,’ she said. ‘Nate.’

‘Right,’ said Robin, smiling.

‘He wuz on a stag weekend. I wuz workin’ in the pub when they all come in.’

‘Ah.’

‘So I moved, ’cause he lived here.’

Further small talk revealed that Carrie had moved to Thornbury a mere two weeks after meeting Nathan in Manchester. She’d got herself a waitressing job in Thornbury, she and Nate had found themselves a rented flat, and married just ten months later.

The speed with which she’d relocated to be with a man she’d only just met and her chameleon-like transformation into what might have been a Thornbury native made Strike think Carrie was of a type he’d met before. Such people clung to more dominant personalities, training themselves like mistletoe on a tree, absorbing their opinions, their mannerisms and mirroring their style. Carrie, who’d once ringed her eyes in black liner before driving her knife-toting boyfriend to rob a pharmacy and stab an innocent bystander, was now telling Robin in her adopted accent that the local schools were very good and talked with something like reverence about her husband: what long hours he worked, and how he had no truck with people who didn’t, because he was like that, he’d always been a grafter. Her nerves seemed to dissipate slightly during the banal conversation. She seemed glad of the opportunity to set out the little stall of her life for the detectives’ consideration. Whatever she’d once been, she was blameless now.

‘So,’ said Strike, when a convenient pause presented itself, ‘we’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right. We’ve been hired to look into the Universal Humanitarian Church and we’re particularly interested in what happened to Daiyu Wace.’

Carrie gave a little twitch, as though some invisible entity had tugged her strings.

‘We hoped you might be able to fill in a few details about her,’ said Strike.

‘All righ’,’ said Carrie.

‘Is it all right if I take notes?’

‘Yeah,’ said Carrie, watching Strike draw out his pen.

‘You confirm you’re the woman who was living at Chapman Farm in 1995, under the name Cherie Gittins?’

Carrie nodded.

‘When did you first join the church?’ asked Robin.

‘Ninety… three,’ she said. ‘I think. Yeah, ninety-three.’

‘What made you join?’

‘I wen’ along to a meetin’. In London.’

‘What attracted you to the UHC?’ asked Strike.

‘Nothin’,’ said Carrie baldly. ‘The buildin’ wuz warm, tha’s all. I’d run off… run away from home. I wuz sleepin’ in a hostel… I didn’t get on with my mum. She drank. She had a new boyfriend and… yeah.’

‘How soon after that meeting did you go to Chapman Farm?’ asked Strike.

‘I wen’ right after the meetin’ finished… they had a minibus outside.’

Her hands were clutching each other, the knuckles white. There was a henna tattoo drawn onto the back of one of them, doubtless done in Spain. Perhaps, Robin thought, her small daughters had also had flowers and curlicues drawn onto their hands.

‘What did you think of Chapman Farm, when you got there?’ asked Strike.

There was a long pause.

‘Well, it wuz… weird, wuzn’ it?’

‘Weird?’

‘Yeah… I liked some of it though. I liked bein’ with the kids.’

‘They liked you, too,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve heard some very nice things about you from a woman called Emily. She’d have been around seven or eight when you knew her. D’you remember her? Emily Pirbright?’

‘Emily?’ said Carrie distractedly. ‘Um – maybe. I’m not sure.’

‘She had a sister, Becca.’

‘Oh… yeah,’ said Carrie. ‘Have you – where’s Becca, now?’

‘Still in the church,’ said Robin. ‘Both sisters are. Emily told me she really loved you – that both of them did. She said all the kids felt that way about you.’

Carrie’s mouth made a tragi-comic downwards arc and she began to cry, noisily.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ said Robin hastily, as Carrie bent down to the shopper at her feet and extracted a packet of tissues from its interior. She mopped her eyes and blew her nose, saying through her sobs,

‘Sorry, sorry…’

‘No problem,’ said Strike. ‘We understand this must be difficult.’

‘Can I get you anything, Carrie?’ said Robin. ‘A glass of water?’

‘Y–y–yes please,’ wept Carrie.

Robin left the room for the kitchen, which lay off the dining area. Strike let Carrie cry without offering words of comfort. He judged her distress to be genuine, but it would set a bad precedent to make her think tears were the way to soften up her interviewers.

Robin, who was filling a glass with tap water in the small but spotless kitchen, noticed Carrie’s daughters’ paintings on the fridge door, all of which were signed either Poppy or Daisy. One was captioned Me and Mummy and showed two blonde figures hand in hand, both wearing princess dresses and crowns.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Carrie when Robin returned to the sitting room and handed her the glass. She took a sip, then looked up at Strike again.

‘OK to continue?’ he asked formally. Carrie nodded, her eyes now reddened and swollen, the mascara washed away onto her cheeks, leaving them grey. Strike thought she looked like a piglet, but Robin was reminded of the teenaged girls keeping vigil before the Manifestation of the Drowned Prophet.

‘So you met Daiyu for the first time at the farm?’ asked Strike.

Carrie nodded.

‘What did you think of her?’

‘Thought she wuz lovely,’ said Carrie.

‘Really? Because a few people have told us she was spoiled.’

‘Well… maybe a bit. She wuz still sweet.’

‘We’ve heard you spent a lot of time with her.’

‘Yeah,’ said Carrie, after another brief pause, ‘I s’pose I did.’

‘Emily told me,’ said Robin, ‘that Daiyu used to boast you and she were going to go away and set up house together. Is that true?’

‘No!’ said Carrie, sounding shocked.

‘Daiyu made that up, did she?’ said Strike.

‘If – if she said it, yeah.’

‘Why d’you think she’d claim she was going to leave to live with you?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Maybe to make the other children jealous?’ suggested Robin.

‘Maybe,’ agreed Carrie, ‘yeah.’

‘How did you like the Waces?’ asked Strike.

‘I… thought the same as everyone else.’

‘What d’you mean by that?’

‘Well, they wuz… they could be strict,’ said Carrie, ‘but it wuz for a good cause, I s’pose.’

‘You thought that, did you?’ said Strike. ‘That the church’s cause was good?’

‘It did good things. Some good things.’

‘Did you have any particular friends at Chapman Farm?’

‘No,’ said Carrie. ‘You weren’ supposed to have special friends.’

She was holding her water tightly. Its surface was shivering.

‘All right, let’s talk about the morning you took Daiyu to Cromer,’ said Strike. ‘How did that come about?’

Carrie cleared her throat.

‘She jus’ wan’ed to go with me to the beach.’

‘Had you ever taken any other children to the beach?’

‘No.’

‘But you said yes to Daiyu?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Well – ’cause she wan’ed to go, and – she kept goin’ on about it – so I agreed.’

‘Weren’t you worried about what her parents would say?’ asked Robin.

‘A bit,’ said Carrie, ‘but I thought we’d get back before they wuz awake.’

‘Walk us through what happened,’ said Strike. ‘How did you wake yourself up so early? There aren’t clocks at Chapman Farm, are there?’

Cherie looked unhappy that he knew this, and he was reminded of Jordan Reaney’s clear displeasure that Strike had so much information.

‘If you wuz on the vegetable run, they gave you a little clock to wake yourself.’

‘You were sleeping in the children’s dormitory the night before the trip to the beach, right?’

‘Yeah,’ she said uneasily, ‘I wuz on child duty.’

‘And who was going to be looking after the kids, once you’d left on the vegetable run?’

After yet another pause, Carrie said,

‘Well… there’d still be someone there, after I’d gone. There wuz always two grown-ups or teenagers in with the children overnight.’

‘Who was the other person on duty that night?’

‘I… can’ remember.’

‘Are you sure someone else was there, Carrie?’ asked Robin. ‘Emily told me that there were usually two adults in the room, but that that night it was only you.’

‘She’s wrong,’ said Carrie. ‘There wuz always two.’

‘But you can’t remember who the other person was?’ said Strike.

Carrie shook her head.

‘So you were woken up by your alarm clock. Then what happened?’

‘Well, I – I woke Daiyu up, di’n’ I?’

‘Had Jordan Reaney been given an alarm clock, too?’

‘Wha’?’

‘He was supposed to be on the vegetable run, too, wasn’t he?’

Another pause.

‘He overslept.’

‘You wouldn’t have had room for Daiyu if he hadn’t overslept, would you?’

‘I can’ remember all the details now. I jus’ know I woke up Daiyu and we got dressed and went to the van.’

‘Did you have to load vegetables onto the truck?’ asked Strike.

‘No. Everythin’ was already in it. From the night before.’

‘So you and Daiyu got in, taking towels for your swim?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I ask something?’ said Robin. ‘Why was Daiyu wearing a dress, instead of a tracksuit, Carrie? Or didn’t church members wear tracksuits, in the nineties?’

‘No, we wore ’em… but she wan’ed to wear her dress.’

‘Were the other children allowed normal clothes?’ asked Strike.

‘No.’

‘Did Daiyu got special treatment, because she was the Waces’ child?’

‘I s’pose – a bit,’ said Carrie.

‘So you drove out of the farm. Did you pass anyone?’

‘Yeah,’ said Carrie. ‘The people on early duty.’

‘Can you remember who they were?’

‘Yeah… what’s-his-name Kennett. And a bloke called Paul, and a girl called Abigail.’

‘Where did you go, after you’d left the farm?’

‘To the two grocers.’

‘What grocers?’

‘There wuz one in Aylmerton and one in Cromer we used to sell to.’

‘Did Daiyu get out of the van at either of the grocers?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well – why would she?’ said Carrie, and for the very first time, Strike heard a trace of defiance. ‘People came out from the shops to unload the boxes. I on’y got out to make sure they took what they’d ordered. She stayed in the van.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘We wen’ to the beach,’ said Carrie, her voice noticeably stronger now.

‘How did you get down to the beach?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Did you walk, run—?’

‘We walked. I carried Daiyu.’

‘Why?’

‘She wan’ed me to.’

‘Did anyone see this?’

‘Yeah… an old woman in the café.’

‘Did you see her watching you at the time?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Were you parked very near her café?’

‘No. We wuz a bit along.’

Strangely, Strike thought, she seemed more confident now they were discussing the events that were presumably among the most traumatic of her memories than she’d seemed talking about Chapman Farm.

‘What happened when you got to the beach?’

‘We got undressed.’

‘So you were intending to swim, rather than to paddle?’

‘No, jus’ to paddle.’

‘So why take off all your outer clothing?’

‘I didn’ want Daiyu gettin’ her dress soakin’ wet. I told her she’d be uncomfortable on the way back. Daiyu said she wouldn’ take off her dress if I didn’ take off my tracksuit, so I did.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘We wen’ into the sea,’ said Carrie. ‘We paddled a bit and she wanted to go deeper. I knew she would. She wuz like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Brave,’ said Carrie. ‘Adventurous.’

These were exactly the words she’d used at the inquest, Strike remembered.

‘So she went in deeper?’

‘Yeah. An’ I wen’ after her. An’ then she sort of – launched herself forwards, like she wuz goin’ to swim, but I knew she couldn’. I called to her to come back. She wuz laughin’. Her feet could still touch the bottom. She wuz wadin’ out, tryin’ to get me to chase her. And then – she wuz gone. She just went under.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘Swam out to try an’ get her, obviously,’ said Carrie.

‘You’re a strong swimmer, right?’ said Strike. ‘You give lessons, don’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ said Carrie.

‘Did you hit the rip current as well?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I got pulled into it, but I knew what to do. I got out, but I couldn’ get to Daiyu, an’ I couldn’ see ’er any more, so I wen’ back to the beach, to get the coastguard.’

‘Which is when you met the Heatons, walking their dog?’

‘Yeah, exactly,’ said Carrie.

‘And the coastguard went out, and the police came?’

‘Yeah,’ said Carrie. Robin had the sense she relaxed slightly as she said it, as though she’d come to the end of an ordeal. Strike turned a page in the notebook in which he’d been writing.

‘Mrs Heaton says you ran off up the beach when the police came, and started poking at some seaweed.’

‘No, I didn’,’ said Carrie quickly.

‘She remembered that quite clearly.’

‘It didn’ happen,’ said Carrie, the defiance now pronounced.

‘So the police arrived,’ said Strike, ‘and walked you back up to the van, right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Carrie.

‘Then what happened?’

‘I can’ remember exactly,’ said Carrie, but she immediately contradicted herself. ‘They took me to the station and I told them what had happened and then they took me back to the farm.’

‘And informed Daiyu’s parents what had happened?’

‘On’y Mazu, because Papa J wuzn’ – no, he wuz there,’ she corrected herself, ‘he wuzn’ supposed to be, but he wuz. I saw Mazu first, but Papa J called me to see him after a bit, to talk to me.’

‘Jonathan Wace wasn’t supposed to be at the farm that morning?’ said Strike.

‘No. I mean, yeah, he wuz. I can’ remember. I thought he wuz goin’ away that mornin’, but he didn’ go. And I didn’ see him the moment I got back, so I thought he’d gone, but he wuz there. It’s a long time ago, now,’ she said. ‘It all gets jumbled up.’

‘Where was Wace supposed to be that morning?’

‘I don’ know, I can’ remember,’ said Carrie, a little desperately. ‘I made a mistake: he wuz there when I got back, I just didn’ see him. He wuz there,’ she repeated.

‘Were you punished, for taking Daiyu to the beach without permission?’ said Robin.

‘Yeah,’ said Carrie.

‘What punishment were you given?’ asked Robin.

‘I don’ wanna talk about that,’ said Carrie, her voice strained. ‘They wuz angry. They had every right to be. If somebody had taken one of my little—’

Carrie emitted something between a gasp and a cough and began to cry again. She rocked backwards and forwards, sobbing into her hands for a couple of minutes. When Robin silently mimed to Strike an offer of comfort to Carrie, Strike shook his head. Doubtless he’d be accused of heartlessness again on the return journey, but he wanted to hear Carrie’s own words, not her response to somebody else’s sympathy or ire.

‘I’ve regretted it all my life, all my life,’ Carrie sobbed, raising her swollen-eyed face, tears still coursing down her cheeks. ‘I felt like I didn’ deserve Poppy and Daisy, when I had ’em! I shouldn’ of agreed… why did I do it? Why? I’ve asked myself that over ’n’ over, but I swear I never wan’ed – I wuz young, I knew it wuz wrong, I never wan’ed it to happen, oh God, and then she wuz dead and it wuz real, it wuz real…’

‘What d’you mean by that?’ said Strike. ‘What d’you mean by “it was real”?’

‘It wuzn’ a joke, it wuzn’ pretend – when you’re young, you don’ think stuff like that happens – but it wuz real, she wuzn’ comin’ back…’

‘The inquest must have been difficult for you,’ said Strike.

‘Of course it wuz,’ said Carrie, her face wet, her breathing still laboured, but with a trace of anger.

‘Mr Heaton says you spoke to him outside, after it was over.’

‘I can’ remember that.’

‘He remembers. He particularly remembers you saying to him, “I could have stopped it.”’

‘I never said that.’

‘You’re denying saying “I could have stopped it” to Mr Heaton?’

‘Yeah. No. I don’… maybe I said somethin’ like, “I could’ve stopped her goin’ in so deep.” That’s wha’ I meant.’

‘So you remember saying it now?’

‘No, but if I said it… that’s what I meant.’

‘It’s just a strange form of words,’ said Strike. ‘“I could have stopped it”, rather than, “I could have stopped her.” Were you aware there was a custody battle going on for Daiyu, at the time you took her to the beach?’

‘No.’

‘You hadn’t heard any talk about the Graves family wanting Daiyu to go and live with them?’

‘I heard… I heard somethin’ about how there wuz people who wanted to take Daiyu off her mum.’

‘That’s the Graveses,’ said Strike.

‘Oh. I thought it wuz social workers,’ said Carrie, and she said a little wildly, ‘they have too much power.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘A friend of mine’s fosterin’. She has a terrible time with the social workers. Power mad, some of them.’

‘Can we go back to the night before you and Daiyu went swimming?’ said Strike.

‘I’ve already told you everythin’. I’ve said it all.’

‘We’ve heard you gave the children special drinks that night.’

‘No, I didn’!’ said Carrie, now turning pink.

‘The Pirbright children remember differently.’

‘Well, they’re wrong! Maybe someone else gave ’em drinks and they’re confusin’ it with that night. I never gave them any.’

‘So you didn’t give the younger children anything that might have made them fall asleep more quickly?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Were there any medicines like that at the farm? Any sleeping pills or liquids?’

‘No, never. Stuff like tha’ wuzn’ allowed.’

‘Emily says she didn’t like her drink, and poured it away,’ said Robin. ‘And she told me that after everyone else was asleep, you helped Daiyu out of the dormitory window.’

‘That didn’ happen. That never happened. That’s a lie,’ said Carrie. ‘I never, never put her out of a window.’

She seemed far more distressed about this allegation than she’d been while discussing the drowning.

‘So Emily’s making that up?’

‘Or she dreamed it. She could of dreamed it.’

‘Emily says Daiyu did quite a bit of sneaking around at the farm,’ said Robin. ‘She claimed to be doing magic with older children in the woods and the barns.’

‘Well, I never saw her sneakin’ around.’

‘Emily also told me Daiyu sometimes had forbidden food and small toys, things the other children weren’t allowed. Did you get those for her?’

‘No, of course not! I couldn’ve done, even if I’d wan’ed. You weren’ allowed money. I never went to the shops. Nobody did. It wuzn’ allowed.’

A short silence followed these words. Carrie watched Strike taking his mobile out of his pocket. Colour was coming and going in her face, and the hand with the henna tattoo was now frantically twisting her wedding and engagement rings.

Strike had deliberately left the Polaroids of the naked youths in pig masks at the office today. Since Reaney had knocked them to the floor during his interview, Strike had rethought the advisability of handing these original pieces of evidence to angry or frightened interviewees.

‘I’d like you to look at these photos,’ he told Carrie. ‘There are six of them. You can swipe right to see the others.’

He stood up to hand his mobile to Carrie. She began to visibly shake again as she looked down at the screen.

‘We know the blonde is you,’ said Strike.

Carrie opened her mouth, but no sound came out at first. Then she whispered,

‘It’s not me.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you,’ said Strike. ‘I think that’s you, and the man with the skull tattoo is Jordan Reaney—’

‘It’s not.’

‘Who is he, then?’

There was a long pause. Then Carrie whispered,

‘Joe.’

‘What’s his surname?’

‘I can’ remember.’

‘Was Joe still at the farm when you left it?’

She nodded.

‘And who’s the smaller man?’ (who in the second photograph was penetrating the blonde from behind).

‘Paul,’ whispered Carrie.

‘Paul Draper?’

She nodded again.

‘And the girl with the long hair?’

Another long pause.

‘Rose.’

‘What’s her surname?’

‘I can’ remember.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Who’s taking the pictures?’

Again, Carrie opened her mouth and closed it again.

‘Who’s taking the pictures?’ Strike repeated.

‘I dunno,’ she whispered again.

‘How can you not know?’

Carrie didn’t answer.

‘Was this a punishment?’ Strike asked.

Carrie’s head jerked again.

‘Is that a yes? Somebody forced you to do this?’

She nodded.

‘Carrie,’ said Robin, ‘was the person taking the pictures masked too?’

Carrie raised her head to stare at Robin. It looked as though the woman had vacated her body: Robin had never seen anybody who so resembled a somnambulist, every muscle in her face slack, her eyes blank.

Then, making both Carrie and Robin jump, a song began to play from inside the shopper at Carrie’s feet.

I like to party, mm-mm, everybody does

Make love and listen to the music

You’ve got to let yourself go-go, go-go, oh-oh…

Carrie bent down automatically, rummaged in the shopper, pulled out her mobile and answered it, cutting the song off.

‘Hi Nate,’ she whispered. ‘Yeah… no, I took them over to your mum’s… yeah… no, I’m fine. Can I call you back?… no, I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ll call you back.’

Having hung up, Carrie looked from Robin to Strike, then said, in a flat voice,

‘You need to go now. You need to go.’

‘All right,’ said Strike, who could tell there was no point trying to press her further. He pulled one of his business cards out of his wallet. ‘If there’s anything else you’d like to tell us, Mrs Woods—’

‘You need to go.’

‘If you wanted to tell us anything else about Daiyu’s death—’

‘You need to go,’ Carrie said, yet again.

‘I realise this is very difficult,’ said Strike, ‘but if you were made to do anything you now regret—’

‘GO!’ shouted Carrie Curtis Woods.

98

K’an means something deeply mysterious…

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Strike and Robin returned to the Land Rover in silence.

‘Want some lunch?’ said Strike, as he put on his seat belt.

‘Seriously, that’s your first—?’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘OK, but let’s not go back to the Malthouse. It’ll be crowded by now.’

‘You don’t want to discuss Mrs Woods’ dark past somewhere her neighbours might hear?’

‘No,’ said Robin, ‘not really. This is a small place.’

‘Felt sorry for her, did you?’

Robin glanced back at Carrie Curtis Woods’ house, then said,

‘I just don’t feel comfortable hanging around here. Shall we buy some food and eat in the car? We can pull over once we’re out of Thornbury.’

‘OK, as long as there’s plenty of food.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Robin, switching on the engine, ‘I remember your theory that nothing eaten on a car journey contains calories.’

‘Exactly. Got to make the most of these opportunities.’

So they purchased food on the High Street, got back into the Land Rover and headed out of Thornbury. After five minutes, Strike said,

‘This’ll do. Pull in by that church.’

Robin turned up Greenhill Road and parked beside the graveyard.

‘You got pork pies?’ said Robin, looking into the bag.

‘Problem?’

‘Not at all. Just wishing I’d brought biscuits in the first place.’

Strike took a few satisfying bites of his first pie before saying,

‘So: Carrie.’

‘Well,’ said Robin, who was eating a cheese sandwich, ‘there’s something off, isn’t there? Very off.’

‘Where d’you want to start?’

‘The dormitory,’ said Robin. ‘She was very worried talking about all of that: Daiyu going out of the window, the fact that there should have been two adults in the room, the special drinks. Whereas when she got to the drowning—’

‘Yeah, that all came out very fluently. ’Course, she’s told that story multiple times; practice makes perfect…’

The pair sat in silence for a moment or two, before Strike said,

‘“The night before”.’

‘What?’

‘Kevin Pirbright wrote it on his bedroom wall: the night before.’

‘Oh… well, yes. Why did all this stuff happen, the night before?’

‘And you know what else needs explaining? Reaney oversleeping. There’s something very fishy there. How did Carrie know he wasn’t going to turn up?’

‘Maybe she gave him a special drink, too? Or special food?’

‘Very good point,’ said Strike, reaching for his notebook.

‘But where did she get stuff in enough quantities to drug all these people, when she never went shopping and didn’t have access to cash?’

‘Someone must’ve been going out shopping, unless the church farms its own bog rolls and washing powder,’ Strike pointed out. ‘Delivery services weren’t nearly as common in ninety-five.’

‘True, but – oh, hang on,’ said Robin, struck by a sudden idea. ‘She might not have needed to buy drugs. What if whatever she used was grown there?’

‘Herbs, you mean?’

‘Valerian’s a sleep aid, isn’t it?’

‘You’d need a bit of expertise if you’re messing around with plants.’

‘True,’ said Robin, remembering the blood in the bathroom, and Lin’s rash.

There was another brief silence, both of them thinking.

‘Carrie was defensive about Daiyu not getting out of the van at those two different grocers, as well,’ said Strike.

‘Daiyu might not have wanted to get out. There’s no reason she should have.’

‘What if Carrie gave Daiyu a “special drink” somewhere between waving goodbye to the early duty lot and carrying her down to the sea? Maybe Daiyu was too sleepy to get out of the van, even if she’d wanted to.’

‘So you think Carrie killed her?’

‘Don’t you?’

Robin ate more sandwich before answering.

‘I can’t see it,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t imagine her doing it.’

She waited for Strike’s agreement, but none came.

‘D’you honestly think the woman we just met could hold that child underwater until she was dead?’ Robin asked him. ‘Or drag her out into the deep, knowing she couldn’t swim?’

‘I think,’ said Strike, ‘the proportion of people who could be persuaded to commit terrible acts, given the right circumstances, is higher than most of us would like to think. You know the Milgram experiment?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘Participants were instructed to administer increasingly strong electric shocks to another person, every time that person answered a question wrongly. And sixty-five per cent continued turning up the dial until they were administering what they thought was a dangerously high level of electricity.’

‘Exactly,’ said Strike. ‘Sixty-five per cent.’

‘All the participants in that experiment were male.’

‘You don’t think women would have complied?’

‘Just pointing it out,’ said Robin.

‘Because if you don’t think young women are capable of committing atrocities, I’d refer you to Patricia Krenwinkel, Susan Atkins and – whatever the others were called.’

‘Who?’ said Robin, perplexed.

‘I’m talking about the Manson Family, which differed from the UHC only in laying slightly more emphasis on murder and a lot less on generating revenue, although by all accounts Charles Manson would’ve been happy to get cash as well. They committed nine murders in all, one of them of a pregnant actress, and those young women were right in the thick of the action, ignoring the victims’ pleas for mercy, dipping their fingers in the victims’ blood to scrawl – Jesus,’ said Strike, with a startled laugh, as he remembered a detail he’d forgotten, ‘they wrote “pigs” on the wall as well. In blood.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Yeah. “Death to pigs”.’

Having finished two pork pies, Strike rummaged in the bag for a Yorkie bar, and the apple he’d bought as an afterthought.

‘How’re we feeling about “Joe” and “Rose”?’ he asked, as he unwrapped the chocolate.

‘You sound sceptical.’

‘Can’t help thinking “Rose” might’ve been a name she thought of on the spur of the moment, given that she named her kids Poppy and Daisy.’

‘If she was going to lie, wouldn’t she deny her own involvement?’

‘It would’ve been too late. Her reaction when she saw the pictures gave her away.’

‘We know Paul Draper was real, though.’

‘Yeah, but he’s dead, isn’t he? He can’t testify.’

‘But… in a way, he still can.’

‘You about to whip out a Ouija board?’

‘Ha ha. No. I’m saying, if Carrie knows Paul’s dead, she must also know how he died: kept as a slave and beaten to death.’

‘So?’

‘What happened to Draper at Chapman Farm makes those Polaroids more incriminating, not less. He’d been groomed to accept abuse in the church, and that made him vulnerable to that pair of sociopaths who killed him.’

‘Not sure Carrie’s bright enough to think that through,’ said Strike.

Both sat for a minute, eating and following their own trains of thought, until Strike said,

‘You didn’t see any pig masks while you were in there, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm,’ said Strike. ‘Maybe they got bored of them once they discovered the virtues of the box. Or maybe what’s on those Polaroids was a secret, even from most people inside the church. Somebody was enjoying their fetish in private, knowing full well it couldn’t be given any kind of spiritual interpretation.’

‘And that person had the authority to compel the teenagers to do what they were told, and keep quiet about it afterwards.’

‘Pigs seem to have been Mazu’s particular preoccupation. Can you imagine Mazu telling teenagers to strip and abuse each other?’

Robin considered the question before saying slowly,

‘If you’d asked me before I went in there whether a woman could make kids do that, I’d have said it was impossible, but she’s not normal. I think she’s a true sadist.’

‘And Jonathan Wace?’

Robin felt as though Wace’s hands touched her again when Strike spoke his name. Gooseflesh rose once more over her torso.

‘I don’t know. Possibly.’

Strike pulled out his phone and brought up the photographs of the Polaroids again. Robin, who felt she’d looked at them quite enough, turned to look out of the window at the graveyard.

‘Well, we know one thing about Rose, if that’s her real name,’ said Strike, eyes on the chubby girl with the long black hair. ‘She hadn’t been at Chapman Farm very long before this happened. She’s too well nourished. All the others are very skinny. I could’ve sworn,’ said Strike, his gaze moving to the youth with the skull tattoo, ‘that guy was Reaney. His reaction when I showed him the – oh, shit. Hang on. Joe.’

Robin looked round again.

‘Henry Worthington-Fields,’ said Strike, ‘told me a man called Joe recruited him into the church, in a gay bar.’

‘Oh…’

‘So if that really is Joe, “Rose” looks much more credible as the name of the dark girl. Of course,’ said Strike thoughtfully, ‘there’s one person who’s got more to fear from these pictures than anyone in them.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘The photographer.’

‘Precisely. Judges don’t tend to look very kindly on people who photograph other people being raped.’

‘The photographer and the abuser must have been one and the same, surely?’

‘I wonder,’ said Strike.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Maybe the price of not having to whip himself across the face again was for Reaney to take dirty pictures? What if he was forced to take them, by the ringmaster?’

‘Well, it’d explain Carrie’s insistence she didn’t know who the photographer was,’ said Robin. ‘I doubt many people would welcome Jordan Reaney having a grudge against them or their families.’

‘Too true.’

Having eaten the last of the Yorkie bar, Strike picked up his pen again and began making a ‘to do’ list.

‘OK, so we need to try and trace Joe and Rose. I’d also like to clarify whether Wace was absent from the farm that morning, because Carrie tied herself up in knots there, didn’t she?’

‘How’re we supposed to find that out, after all this time?’

‘Christ knows, but can’t hurt to try,’ said Strike.

He started unenthusiastically on his apple. Robin had just finished her sandwich when her phone rang.

‘Hi,’ said Murphy. ‘How’s it going in Thornbury?’

Strike, who thought he recognised Murphy’s voice, feigned interest in the passenger side of the road.

‘Good,’ said Robin. ‘Well – interesting.’

‘If you fancy coming over this evening, I’ve got something you’ll also find interesting.’

‘What?’ asked Robin.

‘The interview tapes of the people who’re accusing you of child abuse.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Needless to say, I shouldn’t have them. Called in a favour.’

The idea of seeing anyone from Chapman Farm again, even on film, gave Robin goosebumps for the second time in ten minutes.

‘OK,’ she said, checking her watch, ‘what time will you be home?’

‘Eightish, probably. I’ve got a lot to catch up on here.’

‘OK, great, I’ll see you then.’

She hung up. Strike, who gathered from what he’d just overheard that Robin and Murphy’s relationship had not, in fact, fallen apart during the separation, said,

‘Everything OK?’

‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘Ryan’s managed to get hold of the interview tapes of the people saying I abused Jacob.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Right.’

He not only resented Murphy being able to access information he couldn’t, he resented Murphy being in a position to inform or assist Robin, when he couldn’t.

Robin was now staring ahead through the windscreen. Her pulse was racing: the child abuse accusation, which she’d tried to relegate to the back of her mind, now seemed to loom over her, blocking out the August sun.

Strike, who suspected what was going through Robin’s mind, said,

‘They’re not going to go through with it. They’ll have to drop it.’

And how can you be so sure? thought Robin, but, well aware that her predicament wasn’t Strike’s fault, she merely said,

‘Well, I hope so.’

‘Any other thoughts on Carrie Curtis Woods?’ said Strike, hoping to distract her.

‘Um…’ said Robin, forcing herself to concentrate, ‘yes, actually. Carrie asking what had happened to Becca was odd. She didn’t seem to remember any of the other kids.’

Strike, who hadn’t particularly registered this point at the time, said,

‘Yeah, now you mention it – remind me how old was Becca, when Daiyu died?’

‘Eleven,’ said Robin. ‘So she wouldn’t have been in the kids’ dormitory that night. Too old. And then we’ve got “It wasn’t a joke, it wasn’t pretend”, haven’t we?’

Yet again, both sat in silence, but this time, their thoughts were running on parallel tracks.

‘I think Carrie knows or believes Daiyu’s dead,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t know… maybe it really was an accidental drowning?’

‘Two drownings, in exactly the same place? No body? Possibly drugged drinks? An escape through a window?’

Strike pulled his seat belt back across himself.

‘No,’ he said, ‘Daiyu was either murdered, or she’s still alive.’

‘Which are very different possibilities,’ said Robin.

‘I know, but if we can prove it either way, the Drowned Prophet – pun intended – is dead in the water.’

99

This line is the representative of the evil that is to be rooted out.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Robin arrived at Murphy’s flat in Wanstead at ten past eight that evening. Like her own, Murphy’s dwelling was cheap, one-bedroomed and came with unsatisfactory neighbours, in his case below, rather than above. It lay in an older and smaller block than Robin’s, with stairs rather than a lift.

Robin climbed the familiar two flights, carrying her overnight bag and a bottle of wine she thought she might need, given that the centrepiece of the night’s entertainment was to be watching videoed interviews accusing her of child abuse. She very much hoped the smell of curry was coming from Murphy’s flat, because she was craving hot food after a day eating sandwiches and peanuts.

‘Oh, wonderful,’ she sighed, when Murphy opened the door and she saw the takeaway cartons laid out on the table.

‘Me or the food?’ asked Murphy, bending to kiss her.

‘You, for getting the food.’

When they’d first started going out together, Robin had found the interior of Murphy’s flat frankly depressing, because except for the fact that there were no cardboard boxes and his clothes were hung up in the wardrobe, it looked as though he’d just moved in. Of course, Strike’s flat was the same, in that there were no decorative objects there at all, except for the school photo of his nephews Lucy never failed to send him, which was updated yearly. However, the fact that Strike lived under the eaves gave his flat a certain character, which was entirely lacking in Murphy’s identikit dwelling. It had taken a couple of visits to Robin’s own flat for Murphy to comment aloud, with an air of faint surprise, that pictures and plants made a surprising difference to a space, which had made Robin laugh. However, she hadn’t made the slightest attempt to change Murphy’s flat: no gifted cushions or posters, no helpful suggestions. She knew such things might be interpreted as a proprietorial statement of intent, and with all its drawbacks, her own flat was dear to her for the independence it gave her.

However, the sitting room was looking less barren than usual tonight. Not only were Robin’s three houseplants, which she’d asked Murphy to keep alive while she was at Chapman Farm, standing on a side table, there was also a single framed print on the wall, and lit candles on the table among the foil trays of food.

‘You’ve decorated,’ she said.

‘D’you like it?’ he said.

‘It’s a map,’ said Robin, moving to look at the picture.

‘An antique map.’

‘Of London.’

‘But it’s antique. Which makes it classy.’

Robin laughed and turned to look at her plants.

‘And you’ve kept these really—’

‘I’m not gonna lie. Two of them died. I bought replacements. That one –’ he pointed at the philodendron which Strike had bought Robin as a housewarming present ‘– must be bloody hard to kill. It’s the sole survivor.’

‘Well, I appreciate the replacements,’ said Robin, ‘and thank you for saving Phyllis.’

‘Did they all have names?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, though this wasn’t actually true. ‘But I won’t be calling the new ones after dead ones. Too morbid.’

She now noticed Murphy’s laptop sitting on the table, beside the curry and plates.

‘Are the videos on there?’

‘Yeah,’ said Murphy.

‘Have you watched them?’

‘Yeah. D’you want to wait until after we’ve had dinner to—?’

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I’d rather get it over with. We can watch while we’re eating.’

So they sat down together at the table. As Murphy poured her a glass of wine and Robin heaped her plate with chicken and rice, he said,

‘Listen, before we watch – what they’re saying is clearly bullshit.’

‘Weirdly, I already know that,’ said Robin, trying to sound light-hearted.

‘No, I mean, it’s clearly bullshit,’ said Murphy. ‘They aren’t convincing – there’s only one who sounds like she might be for real, but then she goes off on a bloody weird tangent.’

‘Who?’

‘Becca some—’

‘Pirbright,’ said Robin. Her pulse had started racing again. ‘Yes, I’m sure Becca’s convincing.’

‘She just speaks more naturally than the others. If she didn’t go off into the batshit stuff at the end, you’d think she was credible. You’ll see what I mean when we watch it.’

‘Who else gave statements?’

‘An older woman called Louise and a younger one called Vivienne.’

‘Louise gave evidence against me?’ said Robin furiously. ‘I’d have expected it of Vivienne, she’s desperate to be a spirit wife, but Louise?’

‘Look, with both of them, it’s like they’re working off a script. I couldn’t get footage of the kid accusing you, my contact wouldn’t hand it over. Can’t really blame him – it’s a seven-year-old. I shouldn’t even have these. But I’m told the kid behaved as though he’d been coached.’

‘OK,’ said Robin, taking a large swig of wine. ‘Show me Becca.’

Murphy clicked on a folder, then on one of the video files inside, and Robin saw a police interview room, viewed from above. The camera was fixed in a corner near the ceiling. A large, solid-looking policeman was visible, back to the camera, so that his tonsure-like bald patch caught the light.

‘I think that’s one of the guys who interviewed me at Felbrigg Lodge,’ said Robin.

Murphy pressed play. A female officer led Becca into the room and gestured her towards an empty chair. Becca’s dark hair was as shiny as ever, her creamy skin unblemished, her smile diffident and humble. In her clean blue tracksuit and very white trainers, she might have been a youth leader at some harmless summer camp.

The male officer told Becca the interview was being recorded and she nodded. He asked for her full name, and then how long she’d lived at Chapman Farm.

‘Since I was eight,’ said Becca.

‘And you look after the children?’

‘I’m not often involved directly in childcare, but I oversee our home-schooling programme,’ said Becca.

‘Oh, please,’ Robin said to the onscreen Becca. ‘What home-schooling programme? “The pure spirit knows acceptance is more important than understanding”.’

‘… involve?’ said the female officer.

‘Making sure we’re complying with all Ofsted—’

‘Total shit,’ Robin said loudly. ‘When do materialist inspectors get into Chapman Farm?’

Murphy paused the video.

‘What?’ said Robin.

‘If you keep talking over her,’ said Murphy mildly, ‘you’re not going to hear it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Robin in frustration. ‘I just – it’s hard, hearing their crap again. Those kids aren’t being educated, they’re being brainwashed. Sorry. Go on. I’ll keep quiet.’

She took a large mouthful of curry and Murphy restarted the video.

‘—requirements. Members with particular skill sets take classes, after being background checked, obviously. We’ve got a couple of fully qualified primary school teachers, but we’ve also got a professor who’s introducing the children to basic philosophical concepts, and a very talented sculptor who leads them in art projects.’ Becca gave a deprecating little laugh. ‘They’re probably getting the best primary-age education in the country! We’ve been so lucky with the people who join us. I remember, last year, I was worried our maths teaching might be a little behind, and then we had a maths postgrad arrive at the farm and he looked over the children’s work and told me he’d seen worse scores at A-Level!’

Robin remembered the Portakabin where those closed-down children sat with their shaven heads, mindlessly colouring pictures of the Stolen Prophet with his noose around his neck. She remembered the dearth of books in the classroom and the spelling on the picture captioned ‘Aks tre’.

Yet Becca’s manner was indeed convincing. She came across as an enthusiastic and diligent educator, a little nervous about speaking to the police, of course, but with nothing at all to hide, and determined to do her duty.

‘It’s just incredibly troubling,’ she said earnestly. ‘We’ve never had anything like this happen before. Actually, we aren’t even certain her name was really Rowena Ellis.’

Robin now saw the real Becca peeping out from behind the careful, innocent façade: her dark eyes were watchful, trying to wheedle information out of the police. From the datestamp on the video, she knew this interview had taken place late on the afternoon following her escape from Chapman Farm: at that point, the church must have been scrambling for information on who Robin had really been.

‘What makes you think she was using a fake name?’ asked the female officer.

‘One of our members heard her answering to “Robin”,’ said Becca, watching the officers for any reaction. ‘Not that that’s necessarily indicative – I mean, we had another woman at the farm once, who used a fake name, but she couldn’t have been more—’

‘Let’s go back to the beginning,’ said the male officer. ‘Where were you when the incident took place?’

‘In the kitchens,’ said Becca, ‘helping prepare dinner.’

Robin, who’d never once seen Becca help prepare dinner or do any of the more menial tasks around the farm, bit back another scathing comment. Doubtless this activity had been selected to present a hard-working, down-to-earth persona.

‘When did you first become aware that something had happened?’

‘Well, Vivienne came into the kitchen, looking for Jacob—’

‘How could Jacob have been walking?’ said Robin angrily. ‘He was dying! Sorry,’ she added quickly, as Murphy’s hand moved towards the mouse. She took a gulp of wine.

‘—and Louise had been supervising some of the children on the vegetable patch, and Jacob hurt himself with a trowel. Apparently Rowena offered to take him into the kitchens to wash the cut and put a sticking plaster on it – we keep a first aid kit in there.

‘When they didn’t come back, Vivienne went to look for them, but of course, they hadn’t come into the kitchen at all. I thought it was strange, but I wasn’t worried at that point. I told Vivienne to return to the other children, and I’d go and look for Rowena and Jacob, which I did. I thought perhaps Jacob had needed the bathroom, so that’s where I looked first. I opened the door and—’

Becca shook her head and closed her dark eyes: a woman shocked and scandalised.

‘I didn’t understand what I was seeing,’ she said quietly, opening her eyes again. ‘Rowena and Jacob were there, he had his pants and trousers down, crying – they weren’t in a cubicle, they were in the sink area. When he saw me, he ran to me and said, “Becca, Becca, she hurt me!”’

‘And what did Rowena do?’

‘Well, she just pushed past me without saying anything. I was obviously much more concerned about Jacob, at the time. I said I was sure Rowena hadn’t hurt him on purpose, but then he told me about how she’d pulled his trousers and pants down and exposed his genitalia, and then she was trying to take a picture—’

‘How?’ exploded Robin. ‘What was I taking a picture with? I wasn’t allowed a bloody phone or a – sorry, don’t pause, don’t pause,’ she added hastily to Murphy.

‘—and hit him round the head, when he wouldn’t stand still,’ Becca said. ‘And, I mean, we take child safeguarding incredibly seriously within the church—’

‘Sure you do,’ said Robin furiously, unable to control herself, ‘toddlers wandering around in nappies at night—’

‘—never had any instances of sexual abuse at Chapman Farm—’

‘Strange words,’ shouted Robin, to the onscreen Becca, ‘from a woman who said her brother sexually abused her there!’

Murphy paused the video again.

‘You all right?’ he said gently, putting a hand on Robin’s shoulder.

‘Yes – no – well, obviously, I’m not,’ said Robin, standing up and running her hands through her hair. ‘It’s bullshit, it’s all bullshit, and she—’

She pointed at the onscreen Becca, who was frozen with her mouth open, but Robin couldn’t find words to adequately express her contempt.

‘Shall we watch the rest after—?’ Murphy began.

‘No,’ said Robin, dropping back down into her seat, ‘sorry, I’m just so bloody angry. The boy she’s talking about isn’t Jacob! Where’s the real one? Is he dead? Is he starving away in the b-base—?’

Robin began to cry.

‘Shit,’ said Murphy, moving his chair so he could put his arms around her. ‘Robin, I shouldn’t’ve shown you this crap, I should’ve just told you they’re speaking a load of bollocks and you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ Robin said, pulling herself together. ‘I want to watch it… she might say something useful… the woman with the fake name…’

‘Cherie?’ said Murphy.

Robin pulled free of his hug.

‘She names her?’

‘Yeah, towards the end. That’s where it all goes a bit…’

Robin got up and strode to her bag to fetch her notebook and pen.

‘Cherie’s the woman Strike and I interviewed today.’

‘OK,’ said Murphy uncertainly. ‘Let’s fast-forward, watch the Cherie bit and forget the rest of it.’

‘Fine,’ said Robin, sitting back down with her notebook. ‘Sorry,’ she added, wiping her eyes again, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘Yeah, it’s like you’ve just escaped from a cult or something.’

But Robin couldn’t adequately explain to Murphy how it felt to listen to these naked lies covering up terrible neglect, or the fabricated story of sexual abuse, when all she’d done was to care for and try to save a dying child; the gulf between what the UHC pretended to be, and what it really was, had never been more starkly apparent to her, and a small part of her would have liked to scream and throw Murphy’s laptop across the room, but instead she pressed out the nib of her pen, and waited.

Murphy fast-forwarded, and together they watched Becca gesticulating, shaking her head and nodding at double time.

‘Too far,’ muttered Murphy, ‘she brushed her hair off her face before…’

He rewound and finally pressed play.

‘… other woman with a false name?’ said the female police officer.

‘Oh,’ said Becca, sweeping her shining hair off her face, ‘yes. I mention her because she was an actual instrument of the divine.’

Robin could almost feel the two police officers resisting the urge to look at each other. The male policeman cleared his throat.

‘What d’you mean by that?’

‘Cherie was a messenger of the Blessed Divinity, sent to take Daiyu, our prophet, to the sea. Cherie confided her purpose to me—’

Robin began scribbling in her notebook.

‘—and I trusted her, and I was right to. What seemed wrong was right, you see? Papa J will confirm everything I’m saying,’ Becca continued, in exactly the same earnest and reasonable a tone as she’d used throughout the interview. ‘I’m pure spirit, which means I understand that what might seem devilish may be divine, and vice—’

‘See what I m—?’ began Murphy.

‘Shh,’ said Robin urgently, listening.

‘Cherie came, attained her purpose, and then she left us.’

‘Died, you mean?’ said the male officer.

‘There is no death, in the sense the material world means when it uses the word,’ said Becca, smiling. ‘No, she left the farm. I believe she’ll come back to us one day, and bring her little girls, too.’ Becca gave a small laugh. ‘I can tell this sounds strange to you, but that’s all right. Papa J always says—’

‘“I’d rather face an honest sceptic than a hundred who believe they know God, but are really in thrall to their own piety,”’ said Robin, repeating the words along with Becca.

‘I’m trying to explain,’ continued Becca, onscreen, ‘that my personal connection to the Drowned Prophet, and my relationship with the divine vessel, who suffered and was blameless, means I was very ready to hear Rowena’s explanation of what had happened. I would have extended understanding and compassion… but she didn’t stay to explain,’ said Becca, her smile fading. ‘She ran, and a man was waiting for her on the outskirts of the farm, in a car. He picked her up, and they drove away. So it’s hard not to think that she and this man were plotting something together, isn’t it? Were they hoping to abduct a child? Has she been trying to get pictures of naked children, to send to this man?’

‘The rest is just her crapping on about how fishy it was you ran for it,’ said Murphy, shutting down the video. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin quietly, reaching for her wine. She drank half the glass before saying. ‘I suppose it’s just a shock.’

‘Of course it is, being accused—’

‘No, not that… I suppose I’ve just realised… she believes. She believes in the whole thing and – she genuinely she thinks she’s a good person.’

‘Well,’ said Murphy, ‘I s’pose that’s a cult for you.’

He closed the laptop.

‘Eat your curry.’

But Robin looked down at her notes.

‘I will. I just need to call Strike.’

100

Nine in the second place means:

Dragon appearing in the field.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Strike was walking slowly back up Charing Cross Road from Chinatown, where he’d eaten a solitary evening meal in a restaurant on Wardour Street. Looking down into the darkening street while eating his Singapore noodles, he’d watched a couple of people in blue tracksuits passing at a slow walk, deep in conversation, before turning into Rupert Court. He couldn’t make out their faces, but was ill-natured enough to hope they were fretting about the private detective who’d been undercover at their precious farm for four months.

A familiar faint depression settled over him as he made his way back to the office. The knowledge that Robin was currently at Murphy’s flat watching those interview tapes had formed a dispiriting backdrop to his meal. Vaping morosely as the traffic passed him, he acknowledged to himself that he’d thought Robin might call him after watching the interviews. Of course, Murphy was on hand to offer succour and support now…

His mobile rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, saw Robin’s number and answered.

‘Can you talk?’ she said.

‘Yeah, I’ve been doing it for years.’

‘Very funny. Are you busy?’

‘No. Go on.’

‘I’ve just watched the police interview with Becca Pirbright and she said some odd things about Cherie. Carrie, I mean.’

‘How the hell did Carrie come up?’

‘As an example of how the devilish may sometimes be divine.’

‘I’m going to need footnotes.’

‘She was explaining how she’d have been happy to hear my explanation of what I did to Jacob, because she once knew a divine vessel who did something that seemed awful but was actually – you get the gist. Then she said Carrie “confided her purpose” to her.’

‘Very interesting,’ said Strike.

‘And she knows Carrie’s got daughters. She said, “I believe she’ll come back to us one day, and bring her little girls, too.”’

Strike, who was crossing the road, pondered this for a few moments.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘What d’you think?’

‘I think that’s even more interesting than her “confiding her purpose” to an eleven-year-old.’

As he turned into Denmark Street he said,

‘So the church kept tabs on Cherie after she left? It’ll have taken them a fair bit of work, as I know. I told you Jordan Reaney got a mysterious phone call from Norfolk before trying to top himself, didn’t I?’

‘Yes – why’s that relev—? Oh… you mean the church kept tabs on him, too?’

‘Exactly,’ said Strike. ‘So do they do this to everyone who leaves, or only to people they know are particularly dangerous to them?’

‘They managed to trace Kevin to his rented flat, as well… you know they killed Kevin,’ Robin added, when Strike didn’t say anything.

‘We don’t know it,’ he said, as he unlocked the main door to the office. ‘Not yet. But I’ll accept it as a working hypothesis.’

‘And what about those letters Ralph Doherty kept tearing up after he and the kids left the farm, even after they’d moved to a different town and changed their surname?’

Strike started climbing the stairs.

‘So, what have all those people got in common, other than having been members of the UHC?’

‘They’re all connected to the drownings of Deirdre and Daiyu,’ said Robin.

‘Reaney’s connection’s tenuous,’ said Strike. ‘He overslept; that’s it. Kevin’s connection’s shaky, too. He was, what – six, when Daiyu died? And I doubt the church knows what Emily said to him about her suspicions. Was he old enough to attend the Manifestation where we think Deirdre drowned?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, doing some rapid mental calculations. ‘He’d have been thirteen or fourteen when it happened.’

‘Which is strange,’ said Strike, ‘because he seemed to buy the line about her taking off of her own accord.’

‘OK,’ said Robin, who could hear Strike’s footsteps on the metal stairs, ‘well, I’ll see you tomorrow, anyway. I just wanted to tell you about Cherie.’

‘Yeah, thanks. Definitely something to think about.’

Robin rang off. Strike continued to climb until he reached the office door. He’d gone directly to Chinatown after Robin had dropped him off, which meant this was his first opportunity to examine the lock since Littlejohn had been fired. Strike turned on his phone torch and bent down.

‘I thought so, you fucker,’ he murmured.

The expensive new lock, which was skeleton-key resistant, had gained new scratches since that morning. A tiny fleck of paint had also been chipped away beside it. Somebody, Strike surmised, had made strenuous efforts to force the door.

He now looked up at the second precaution he’d taken against Patterson’s revenge. The tiny camera sat in a dark corner near the ceiling, almost invisible unless you knew what you were looking for.

Strike unlocked the door, turned on the lights and went to sit at Pat’s desk, where he’d be able to view the day’s camera footage. He opened the software, then fast-forwarded past the arrivals of Pat, the postman and Shah, then Pat visiting the bathroom on the landing, Shah departing…

Strike slapped his hand down on pause. A tall, stocky balaclavaed figure was creeping up the stairs, dressed all in black and looking both up and down as it came, checking the coast was clear. As Strike watched, the figure reached the landing, moved to the office door, withdrew a set of skeleton keys and began trying to unlock it. Strike glanced at the timestamp, which showed the footage had been taken shortly after sunset. This suggested the intruder didn’t know Strike lived in the attic – something of which Littlejohn was well aware.

For nearly ten minutes, the black-clad figure continued to try and open the office door, without success. Finally giving up, they backed off, contemplating the glass panel, which Strike had made sure was reinforced when he had it put in. They seemed to be trying to decide whether it was worth attempting to smash the panel when they turned to look at the stairs behind them. Evidently, they knew themselves to be no longer alone.

‘Fuck,’ said Strike quietly, as the figure pulled a gun from somewhere inside their black clothing. They backed very slowly away from the landing, and retreated slowly up the flight that led to Strike’s flat.

A delivery man appeared, holding a pizza. He knocked on the office door and waited. After a minute or two, he made a phone call, presumably learned he was at the wrong address, and left.

Another couple of minutes passed, long enough for the hidden intruder to hear the street door close. Then they crept out of their hiding place to stand contemplating the office door for a full minute, before turning the gun in their hands and trying, with their full force, to shatter the glass with the butt. The glass remained intact.

The balaclavaed figure slid the gun back inside their jacket, descended the stairs and disappeared from sight.

Strike rewound the footage to get stills he could study, poring over every second of film. It was impossible to tell whether or not the gun was real, given the poor lighting on the landing and the fact it hadn’t been fired, but even so, the detective knew he’d have to take this to the police. As he rewatched the recording, Strike found the way the figure had behaved ominous, over and above the fact of an attempted break-in. The careful scrutiny of the stairs ahead and behind them, the stealthy movements, the unflustered retreat when threatened with discovery: all suggested someone who wasn’t a novice.

His mobile rang. He picked it up and answered, eyes still on the screen.

‘Hello?’

‘Are you Cormoran Strike?’ said a deep, breathless male voice.

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

‘Wha’ did you do to my wife?’

Strike looked away from the computer screen, frowning.

‘Who’s this?’

‘WHA’ DID YOU DO TO MY WIFE?’ bellowed the man, so loudly Strike had to remove the phone from his ear. In the background, at the other end of the line, Strike now heard a female voice saying, ‘Mr Woods – Mr Woods, calm down—’ and what sounded like the wails of crying children.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Strike, but some part of his brain did, and a worse sensation than that which had followed Bijou’s announcement that she was pregnant now petrified his guts.

‘MY WIFE – MY WIFE—’

The man was crying as he yelled.

‘Mr Woods,’ said the female voice, louder now, ‘give me the phone. We can take care of this, Mr Woods. Give me the phone. Your daughters need you, Mr Woods.’

Strike heard the sounds of a phone being passed over. A Bristolian female voice now spoke in his ear; he could tell the woman was walking.

‘This is PC Heather Waters, Mr Strike. We believe you might have visited a Mrs Carrie Woods today? We found your card here.’

‘I did,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah.’

‘Can I ask what that was in relation to?’

‘What’s happened?’ said Strike.

‘Can I ask what you were talking to Mrs Woods about, Mr—?’

‘What’s happened?’

He heard a door close. The background noise disappeared.

‘Mrs Woods has hanged herself,’ said the voice. ‘Her husband found her body in the garage this evening, when he came home from work.’