The Running Grave, page 19
‘Aye,’ said Barclay, leaning forwards to point. ‘The two cameras either side are fixed tae trees, an’ they’re a wee bit too far apart. They’ve noticed it’s nae properly covered, because they’ve fortified it. Extra barbed wire. The ground inside the fence was covered in nettles an’ brambles, as well.’
‘“Was”?’ said Robin.
‘Aye. I’ve cut a path through it. That’s how I confirmed they can’t see anything there: naebody came to tell me to get oot an’ I was there a couple of hours. I got in over the barbed wire, nearly fuckin’ castrated meself – ye’re welcome – an’ cut it all back. There’s a wee clearing there now, hard by the road. If I hadnae done it,’ Barclay told Robin, ‘ye’d have had to explain why you keep gettin’ covered in stings and lacerations.’
‘Bloody good going,’ said Strike.
‘Thanks, Sam,’ said Robin, warmly.
‘Last thing we did was check what happens when they do see someone coming in over the perimeter fence, on the security camera,’ said Midge, pointing to a circled blue cross. ‘I climbed over the fence here. Five minutes later, I had a guy running towards me holding a scythe. I acted dumb. A rambler who thought the farm might have a nice shop. He believed me. The farm’s up a track off a local walk, Lion’s Mouth. Beauty spot.’
‘OK,’ said Strike, now lifting a realistic-looking plastic rock off a chair onto the desk, ‘this is going to be at the blind spot, right by the perimeter fence.’
He opened it to show Robin the contents.
‘Pencil torch and pen and paper, just in case they don’t give you any inside. You write us a note, put it back in the rock and place it in the spot where the cameras can’t see you. We collect it every Thursday evening at nine, put in a return message you can read on the spot, then tear up.
‘If you skip a Thursday letter, one of us stays in the vicinity and keeps checking the rock. If we haven’t heard from you by Saturday evening, we come in the front.’
‘Too soon,’ said Robin. ‘Make it Sunday.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if I’m worried about hitting every Thursday deadline, I’m at risk of messing up. I just want a bigger margin.’
‘What instructions have they given you?’ Midge asked Robin.
‘No phones or any electronic devices. They say you can check them in when—’
‘Don’t take them,’ said Midge and Barclay simultaneously.
‘No, you definitely don’t want the UHC having possession of your phone,’ agreed Strike. ‘Leave it here, in the office safe. House keys, as well. Take nothing in there that ties you to your real life.’
‘And I’m to bring a waterproof coat,’ said Robin, ‘three changes of underwear, and that’s it. You’re given tracksuits to wear when you arrive, and you leave your daywear in a locker. No alcohol, sugar, cigarettes or drugs, prescription or otherwise—’
‘They make you leave medication?’ said Barclay.
‘The body will heal itself if the spirit is pure enough,’ said Robin, straight-faced.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ muttered Barclay.
‘Face it, the UHC doesn’t want people who need medication,’ said Strike. ‘No diabetic’s going to stand up to that starvation regime for long.’
‘And no toiletries. Those are all provided,’ said Robin.
‘You can’t even take your own deodorant?’ said Midge indignantly.
‘They don’t want you reminded of your life outside,’ said Robin. ‘They don’t want you thinking of yourself as an individual.’
A few seconds’ silence followed this remark.
‘You’re gonnae be all right, are ye?’ said Barclay.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. But if anything goes wrong, I’ve got you lot, haven’t I? And my trusty rock.’
‘Dev’s going to drive up there tonight and put the rock in position,’ said Strike. ‘You might have to feel around a bit to find it. We want to make it look like it’s been there forever.’
‘Right,’ said Barclay, slapping his thighs before getting to his feet, ‘I’m off tae take over from Littlejohn. Frank One should be ready for a bit o’ light stalking once he’s had his lunch.’
‘Yeah, I should go relieve Dev,’ said Midge, checking her watch. ‘See what Bigfoot’s up to.’
‘Has he met anyone yet?’ said Robin, who’d been buried so deep in her preparation for Chapman Farm, and research on ex-UHC members, that she hadn’t had time to read the Bigfoot file.
‘He’s been to Stringfellows,’ said Midge dismissively, ‘but the wife’s not going to get half his business just because he had a lap dance… not that I’m really arsed about her getting it, snotty cow.’
‘We’re Team Client, even if they’re bastards,’ said Strike.
‘I know, I know,’ said Midge, heading for the outer office, where her leather jacket was hanging up, ‘but you get bored of helping out people who’ve never done a day’s bloody work in their lives.’
‘When I find a starving orphan who can afford to hire us, I’ll pass them straight to you,’ said Strike.
Midge returned a sardonic salute, then said to Robin,
‘If I don’t see you before you go in, good luck.’
‘Thanks, Midge,’ said Robin.
‘Aye, best o’ luck,’ said Barclay. ‘An’ if the worst comes tae the worst, an’ ye’re on the verge of gettin’ brainwashed, take a rusty nail and dig it intae the palm of your hand. Worked for Harry Palmer in the The Ipcress File.’
‘Good advice,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll try and smuggle one in.’
The two subcontractors left the office.
‘I had something else to tell you,’ Robin told Strike, now sitting down on her usual side of the partners’ desk. ‘I think I’ve found Jordan Reaney. The guy who was forced to whip himself across the face with the leather flail? He was using his middle name at Chapman Farm. His real name’s Kurt.’
She typed ‘Kurt Reaney’ and swung the screen of her PC round to face Strike, who was confronted with the mugshot of a heavily tattooed man. An ace of spades was inked onto his left cheek, and a tattooed tiger covered his throat.
‘He was sentenced to ten years for armed robbery and aggravated assault. Kurt Jordan Reaney,’ said Robin, rolling her chair around the desk to contemplate the mugshot alongside Strike. ‘He’ll have been in his late teens when Sheila knew him, which fits. I’ve trawled through all the usual online records, and got as many addresses for him as I can find. There’s a gap in online records from ’93 to ’96, then he reappears in a flat in Canning Town. We know the UHC Jordan was frightened of the police, because Kevin Pirbright said that’s what Mazu was threatening him with, while she was making him whip himself.’
‘Sounds like our guy,’ said Strike, ‘but you can’t just ring up a bloke in jail.’
‘Maybe a letter?’ said Robin, though without much conviction.
‘“Dear Mr Reaney, having seen your mugshot, you strike me as the kind of bloke who’d very much like to help a criminal investigation…”’
Robin laughed.
‘What about next of kin?’ said Strike.
‘Well, there’s a woman with the same surname living at his last address.’
‘I’ll try and get at him through her. What about the other kid who got beaten up?’ said Strike. ‘The one with the low IQ?’
‘Paul Draper? Haven’t found any trace of him yet. Cherie Gittins seems to have vanished off the face of the earth too.’
‘OK, I’ll keep digging on them while you’re at Chapman Farm. I’ve left a message at Abigail Glover’s fire station, as well.’
‘Wace’s daughter?’
‘Exactly.’
Strike now moved to the door separating the inner office from the outer, where Pat sat typing, and closed it.
‘Listen,’ he said.
Robin braced herself, trying not to look exasperated. Murphy had said ‘listen’ in exactly that tone on Friday night, five minutes after ejaculating, and immediately before embarking on his prepared speech about the risks of going under deep cover.
‘I wanted to tell you something, before you go in there.’
He looked serious, but hesitant, and Robin felt a tiny electric shock in the pit of her stomach, just as she had when Prudence said Robin was the most important person in Strike’s life.
‘There’s a slight chance – very slight, actually, but it’s still better you know – that someone in there might say something about me, so I wanted to forewarn you, so you don’t look shocked and give yourself away.’
Now Robin knew what was coming, but said nothing.
‘I was at the Aylmerton Community for six months, with my mum and Lucy, back in 1985. I’m not saying people will remember me, I was just a kid, but my mother was a minor celebrity. Well, she’d been in the papers, anyway.’
For a few seconds, Robin debated what best to say, and decided on honesty.
‘Actually, Sheila Kennett remembered you and your mum. I didn’t want to say anything,’ she added, ‘unless you told me yourself.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Right.’
They looked at each other.
‘Fucking terrible place,’ said Strike bluntly, ‘but nothing happened to me in there.’
He’d unintentionally placed a slight emphasis on the word ‘me’.
‘I’ve got another reason for telling you this,’ said Strike. ‘That Mazu woman. Don’t trust her.’
‘I won’t, she sounds really—’
‘No, I mean, don’t assume there’s any sense of – ’ he groped for the right word ‘– you know – sisterhood there. Not when it comes to spirit bonding. If she wants to take you to some bloke—’
There came a knock on the door.
‘What?’ called Strike, with a trace of impatience.
Pat’s monkeyish face appeared, scowling. She said to Strike, in her deep, gravelly voice,
‘There’s a woman on the phone, wanting to talk to you. Name of Niamh Doherty.’
‘Put her through,’ said Strike at once.
He moved around to his side of the desk, and the phone began to ring within seconds.
‘Cormoran Strike.’
‘Hello,’ said a tentative woman’s voice. ‘Er – my name’s Niamh Doherty? You left a message with my husband, asking whether I’d answer some questions about the Universal Humanitarian Church?’
‘I did, yes,’ said Strike. ‘Thanks very much for getting back to me.’
‘That’s all right. Can I ask why you want to talk to me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Strike, eyes on Robin’s. ‘My agency’s been hired to investigate claims about the church made by an ex-member. We’re after corroboration, if we can get it.’
‘Oh,’ said Niamh. ‘Right.’
‘This would be an off-the-record chat,’ Strike assured her. ‘Just for background. I understand you were pretty young when you were there?’
‘Yes, I was there from ages eight to eleven.’
There was a pause.
‘Have you tried my father?’ Niamh asked.
‘Yes,’ said Strike, ‘but he declined to talk.’
‘He would… I understand if you can’t say, but why are you trying to corroborate these claims? Are you working for a newspaper, or—?’
‘No, not a newspaper. Our client’s got a relative inside the church.’
‘Oh,’ said Niamh, ‘I see.’
Strike waited.
‘All right,’ said Niamh at last, ‘I don’t mind talking to you. Actually, if you could manage tomorrow, or Friday—’
‘Tomorrow would be no problem,’ said Strike, who had his own reasons for favouring Thursday.
‘Thank you, that’d be great, because I’m off work – we’ve just moved house. And, it’s a bit cheeky to ask this, but would you mind coming to me? I’m not far from London. Chalfont St Giles.’
‘No problem whatsoever,’ said Strike, reaching for a pen to take down her address.
When he’d hung up, Strike turned to Robin.
‘Fancy a trip to Chalfont St Giles with me tomorrow?’
‘She’s agreed to talk?’
‘Yep. Be good if you heard what she’s got to say, before you go in.’
‘Definitely,’ said Robin, getting to her feet. ‘Would you mind if I go home now, then? I’ve got a few things to sort out before I leave for Chapman Farm.’
‘Yeah, no problem.’
Once Robin had left, Strike sat down at his computer, his spirits rather higher than they’d been on waking up. He’d just scuppered the possibility of Robin spending the whole of her last free day before going undercover with Ryan Murphy. If his actions recalled, however faintly, Charlotte Ross’s machinations with regard to himself, his conscience remained surprisingly untroubled as he Googled pleasant places to have lunch in Chalfont St Giles.
21
The danger of heaven lies in the fact that one cannot climb it… The effects of the time of danger are truly great.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
The village Strike and Robin entered the following morning, which lay an hour from London, had a sleepy English prettiness. As they drove past half-timbered buildings overlooking a village green, Strike, who’d accepted Robin’s offer to drive his BMW, looked out at the stone grey Norman tower of the parish church, and spotted a sign proclaiming that they were in Buckinghamshire’s best kept village.
‘None of this will come cheap,’ he commented, as they turned off the High Street into Bowstridge Lane.
‘We’re here,’ said Robin, coming to a halt beside a square, detached house of tawny brick. ‘We’re ten minutes early, should we wait or—?’
‘Wait,’ said Strike, who had no desire to hurry through the interview. The longer it took, the more likely Robin would want something to eat before returning to London. ‘You all packed and ready for tomorrow?’
‘I’ve put my waterproof coat and underwear in a holdall, if you can call that packing,’ said Robin.
What she didn’t tell Strike was that she’d realised for the first time yesterday that she wouldn’t be able to take contraceptive pills with her into Chapman Farm. Having checked the small print on the pamphlet she’d been given, they were specifically listed as banned medications. Nor was she about to tell Strike that she and Murphy had had something close to an argument the previous evening, when Murphy had announced that he’d taken the day off to spend it with her, as a surprise, and she’d told him she was driving off to Buckinghamshire with Strike.
Strike’s mobile rang. Caller ID was withheld.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said a female voice. ‘This is Abigail Glover.’
Strike mouthed ‘Jonathan Wace’s daughter’ at Robin before turning his mobile to speakerphone so that she could hear what was going on.
‘Ah, great,’ he said. ‘You got the message I left at the station?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Woss this about?’
‘About the Universal Humanitarian Church,’ said Strike.
Absolute silence followed these words.
‘Are you still there?’ asked Strike.
‘Yeah.’
‘I was wondering whether you might be willing to talk to me,’ said Strike.
More silence: Strike and Robin were looking at each other. At last a single monosyllable issued from the phone.
‘Why?’
‘I’m a private—’
‘I know ’oo you are.’
Unlike her father’s, Abigail’s accent was pure working-class London.
‘Well, I’m trying to investigate some claims made about the church.’
‘’Oose claims?’
‘A man called Kevin Pirbright,’ said Strike, ‘who’s now dead, unfortunately. Did he ever make contact with you? He was writing a book.’
There was another silence, the longest yet.
‘You working for a newspaper?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, for a private client. I wondered whether you’d be happy to talk to me. It can be off the record,’ Strike added.
Yet another lengthy silence followed.
‘Hello?’
‘I dunno,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll need to fink about it. I’ll call you back if I… I’ll call you later.’
The line went dead.
Robin, who realised she’d been holding her breath, exhaled.
‘Well… I can’t say I’m surprised. If I were Wace’s daughter, I wouldn’t want to be reminded of it, either.’
‘No,’ agreed Strike, ‘but she’d be very useful, if she was happy to talk… I left a message for Jordan Reaney’s wife yesterday, after you left, by the way. Tracked her down to her place of work. She’s a manicurist at a place called Kuti-cles with a K.’
He checked the time on the dashboard.
‘We should probably go in.’
When Strike pressed the doorbell they heard a dog barking, and when the door opened, a wire-haired fox terrier came flying out of the house so fast he flew right past Strike and Robin, skidded on the paved area in the front of the house, turned, ran back and began jumping up and down on its hind legs, barking hysterically.
‘Calm down, Basil!’ shouted Niamh. Robin was taken aback by her youth: she was in her mid-twenties, and for the second time lately, Robin found herself comparing her own flat to somebody else’s house. Niamh was short and plump, with shoulder-length black hair and very bright blue eyes, and was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a quotation by Charlotte Brontë printed on the front: I would always rather be happy than dignified.
‘Sorry,’ Niamh said to Strike and Robin, before saying, ‘Basil, for God’s sake,’ seizing the dog by its collar and dragging it back inside. ‘Come in. Sorry,’ she repeated over her shoulder, as she dragged the overexcited dog along the wooden floorboards towards a kitchen at the end of the hall, ‘we moved in last Sunday and he’s been hyper ever since… get out,’ she added, forcibly pushing the dog out into the garden through a back door, which she closed firmly on him.
The kitchen was farmhouse style, with a purple Aga and plates displayed on a dresser. A scrubbed wooden table was surrounded by purple-painted chairs, and the fridge door was covered in a child’s paintings, mostly blobs of paint and squiggles, which were held up with magnets. There was also – and this, Robin thought, explained how a twenty-five-year-old came to find herself living in such an expensive house – a picture of Niamh in a bikini, arm in arm with a man in swimming trunks, who looked at least forty. A smell of baking was making Strike salivate.
