The Running Grave, page 47
‘As I said on the phone,’ said Strike, drawing out his notebook, ‘I’m after information on the Universal Humanitarian Church.’
Reaney folded his arms across his chest, and placed both hands beneath his armpits.
‘How old were you when you joined?’ asked Strike.
‘Seven’een.’
‘What made you join?’
‘Needed somewhere to kip.’
‘Bit out of your way, Norfolk. You grew up in Tower Hamlets, right?’
Reaney looked unhappy that Strike knew this.
‘I was on’y in Tower ’Amlets from when I was twelve.’
‘Where were you before that?’
‘Wiv me mum, in Norfolk.’ Reaney swallowed, and his prominent Adam’s apple caused the tiger tattooed on his throat to ripple. ‘After she died I ’ad to go to London, live wiv me old man. Then I was in care, then I was ’omeless for a bit, then I went to Chapman Farm.’
‘Born in Norfolk, then?’
‘Yeah.’
This explained how a young man of Reaney’s background had ended up in deep countryside. Strike’s experience of Reaney’s type was that they rarely, if ever, broke free of the gravitational pull of the capital.
‘Did you have family there?’
‘Nah. Jus’ fancied a change.’
‘Police after you?’
‘They usually were,’ said Reaney, unsmiling.
‘How did you hear about Chapman Farm?’
‘Me an’ anuvver kid was sleeping rough in Norwich an’ we met a couple of girls collecting for the UHC. They got us into it.’
‘Was the other kid Paul Draper?’
‘Yeah,’ said Reaney, again with displeasure that Strike knew so much.
‘What d’you think made the girls from the UHC so keen to recruit two men sleeping rough?’
‘Needed people to do the ’eavy stuff on the farm.’
‘You had to join the church, as a condition of living there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How long did you stay?’
‘Free years.’
‘Long time, at that age,’ said Strike.
‘I liked the animals,’ said Reaney.
‘But not the pigs, as we’ve already established.’
Reaney ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, blinked hard, then said,
‘No. They stink.’
‘Thought they were supposed to be clean?’
‘You fort wrong.’
‘D’you often have bad dreams about things, because they stink?’
‘I jus’ don’ like pigs.’
‘Nothing to do with the pig “acting in the abysmal”?’
‘Wha’?’ said Reaney.
‘I’ve been told the pig has a particular significance in the I Ching.’
‘In the wha’?’
‘The book where you got the hexagram tattooed on the back of your left hand. Can I have a look?’
Reaney complied, though unwillingly, pulling his hand out from under his armpit and extending it towards Strike.
‘Which hexagram’s that?’ asked Strike.
Reaney looked as though he’d rather not answer, but finally said,
‘Fifty-six.’
‘What does it mean?’
Reaney blinked hard twice before muttering.
‘The wanderer.’
‘Why the wanderer?’
‘“’E ’oo ’as few friends: this is the wanderer.” I was a kid when I done it,’ he muttered, shoving his hand back under his armpit.
‘Made a believer of you, did they?’
Reaney said nothing.
‘No opinion on the UHC’s religion?’
Reaney cast another glance towards the large prisoner at the next table, who wasn’t talking to his visitor, but glaring at Reaney. With an irritable movement of his shoulders, Reaney muttered unwillingly,
‘I seen fings.’
‘Like what?’
‘Jus’ fings what they could do.’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘Them. That Jonafun an’… is she still alive?’ asked Reaney. ‘Mazu?’
‘Why wouldn’t she be?’
Reaney didn’t answer.
‘What things did you see the Waces do?’
‘Jus’… makin’ stuff disappear. An’… spirits an’ stuff.’
‘Spirits?’
‘I seen ’er make a spirit appear.’
‘What did the spirit look like?’ asked Strike.
‘Like a ghost,’ said Reaney, his expression daring Strike to find this funny. ‘In temple. I seen it. Like… transparent.’
Reaney gave another hard blink, then said,
‘You talked to anyone else ’oo was in there?’
‘Did you believe the ghost was real?’ Strike asked, ignoring Reaney’s question.
‘I dunno – yeah, maybe,’ said Reaney. ‘You weren’ fuckin’ there,’ he added, with a slight show of temper, but after a glance over Strike’s head at a hovering warder, he added, with effortful calmness, ‘but maybe it was a trick. I dunno.’
‘I heard Mazu forced you to whip yourself across the face,’ said Strike, watching Reaney closely, and sure enough, a tremor passed over the prisoner’s face. ‘What had you done?’
‘Smacked a bloke called Graves.’
‘Alexander Graves?’
Reaney looked still more uncomfortable at this further evidence Strike had done his homework.
‘Yeah.’
‘Why did you smack him?’
‘’E was a tit.’
‘In what way?’
‘Fuckin’ annoying. Talkin’ fuckin’ gibberish all the time. An’ ’e got in me face a lot. It got on me wick so one night, yeah, I smacked ’im. But we weren’ s’posed to get angry wiv each ovver in there. Bruvverly love,’ said Reaney, ‘an’ all that shit.’
‘You don’t strike me as a man who’d agree to whip himself.’
Reaney said nothing.
‘Is that scar on your face from the whipping?’
Still Reaney didn’t speak.
‘What was she threatening you with, to make you whip yourself?’ asked Strike. ‘The police? Did Mazu Wace know you had a criminal record?’
Again, those bright blue, thickly lashed eyes blinked, hard, but at last Reaney spoke.
‘Yeah.’
‘How did they know?’
‘You ’ad to confess stuff. In front of the group.’
‘And you told them you were on the run from the police?’
‘Said I’d ’ad some trouble. You got… sucked in,’ said Reaney. The tiger rippled again. ‘You can’ unnerstand, unless you was part of it. ’Oo else you spoken to, ’oo was in there?’
‘A few people,’ said Strike.
‘’Oo?’
‘Why d’you want to know?’
‘Wondered, tha’s all.’
‘Who would you say you were closest to, at Chapman Farm?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Because “the wanderer has few friends”?’
Possibly because no other form of retaliation to this mild sarcasm was possible, Reaney freed his right hand to pick his nose. After examining his fingertip, then flicking the result of this operation away onto the floor, he reinserted his hand back under his armpit and glared at Strike.
‘Me an’ Dopey was mates.’
‘He had a bad experience with some pigs, I heard. Let some out accidentally and got beaten for it.’
‘Don’ remember that.’
‘Really? It was going to be a whipping, but two girls stole the whip, so church members were instructed to beat him up instead.’
‘Don’ remember that,’ repeated Reaney.
‘My information is, the beating was so severe it might’ve left Draper with brain damage.’
Reaney chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, then repeated,
‘You weren’ fuckin’ there.’
‘I know,’ said Strike, ‘which is why I’m asking you what happened.’
‘Dopey wasn’t all there before ’e got beat up,’ said Reaney, but he looked as though he regretted these words as soon as they’d escaped him and added forcefully, ‘You can’t pin Draper on me. There was a ton of people kicking and punching him. Wha’re you after, anyway?’
‘So you weren’t friendly with anyone except Draper, at Chapman Farm?’ asked Strike, ignoring Reaney’s question.
‘No,’ said Reaney.
‘Did you know Cherie Gittins?’
‘Knew ’er a bit.’
Strike detected unease in Reaney’s tone.
‘Would you happen to know where she went, after she left Chapman Farm?’
‘No idea.’
‘What about Abigail Wace, did you know her?’
‘A bit,’ repeated Reaney, still looking uneasy.
‘What about Kevin Pirbright?’
‘No.’
‘He’d have been a kid when you were there.’
‘I didn’t ’ave nuffing to do with the kids.’
‘Has Kevin Pirbright contacted you lately?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m fucking sure. I know ’oo’s contacted me an’ ’oo ’asn’t.’
‘He was writing a book about the UHC. I’d have expected him to try and find you. He remembered you.’
‘So wha’? ’E never found me.’
‘Pirbright was shot and killed in his flat, last August.’
‘I was in ’ere last August. ’Ow’m I s’posed to ’ave fuckin’ shot ’im?’
‘There was a two-month period when Kevin was alive and writing his book, and you were still at liberty.’
‘So?’ said Reaney again, blinking furiously.
‘Kevin’s laptop was stolen by his killer.’
‘I’ve just told you, I was in ’ere when ’e was shot, so ’ow’m I s’posed to ’ave nicked ’is fucking laptop?’
‘I’m not suggesting you stole it. I’m telling you that whoever’s got that laptop probably knows whether or not you spoke to Pirbright. It’s not difficult to get a password out of someone, if you’re pointing a gun at them.’
‘I dunno what you’re fuckin’ talkin’ about,’ said Reaney. ‘I never spoke to ’im.’
But there was sweat on Reaney’s upper lip.
‘Can you imagine the Waces killing in defence of the church?’
‘No,’ said Reaney automatically. Then, ‘I dunno. ’Ow the fuck would I know?’
Strike turned a page in his notebook.
‘Did you ever see guns when you were at Chapman Farm?’
‘No.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yeah, ’course I’m fucking sure.’
‘You didn’t take guns there?’
‘No I fucking didn’t. ’Oo says I did?’
‘Were livestock slaughtered at the farm?’
‘Wha’?’
‘Did church members personally wring chickens’ necks? Slaughter pigs?’
‘Chickens, yeah,’ said Reaney. ‘Not the pigs. They wen’ to the abattoir.’
‘Did you ever witness anyone killing an animal with a hatchet?’
‘No.’
‘Ever hide a hatchet in a tree in the woods?’
‘The fuck you tryin’ to pin on me?’ snarled Reaney, now openly aggressive. ‘Wha’re you up to?’
‘I’m trying to find out why there was a hatchet hidden in a tree.’
‘I don’ fuckin’ know. Why would I know? Give a dog a bad name, is it? First guns and now you’re tryna pin a fuckin’ hatchet on me? I never killed nobody at Chapman Farm, if that’s what you’re fuckin’—’
Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw the large black prisoner watching Reaney shift in his seat. Reaney appeared to sense the larger man’s scrutiny, because he broke off again, though he found it harder to contain his agitation, fidgeting in his seat, blinking furiously.
‘You seem upset,’ said Strike, watching him.
‘Fuckin’ upset?’ snarled Reaney. ‘You come in ’ere sayin’ I fuckin’ killed—’
‘I never mentioned killing anyone. I asked about livestock being slaughtered.’
‘I never fuckin’ – stuff at that farm – you weren’ there. You don’ fuckin’ know what went on.’
‘The point of this interview is to find out what went on.’
‘What ’appened in there, what you were made to do, it plays on your fuckin’ mind, that’s why I still ’ave fuckin’ nightmares, but I never killed nobody, all right? An’ I don’ know nuffin’ about no fuckin’ hatchet,’ Reaney added, although he looked away from Strike as he said it, those hard-blinking eyes roaming over the visitors’ room as though seeking safe haven.
‘What d’you mean by “what you were made to do”?’
Reaney was chewing the inside of his cheek again. Finally he looked back at Strike and said forcefully,
‘Ev’ryone ’ad to do stuff we didn’ wanna do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like all of it.’
‘Give me examples.’
‘Doin’ stuff that – jus’ to ’umiliate people. Shovellin’ shit an’ cleanin’ up after them.’
‘Who’s “them”?’
‘Them. The family, the Waces.’
‘Any particular things you had to do that keep playing on your mind?’
‘All of it,’ said Reaney.
‘What d’you mean by “cleaning up” after the Waces?’
‘Jus’ – you unnerstand fuckin’ English – cleanin’ the bogs an’ stuff.’
‘Sure that’s all it was?’
‘Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.’
‘You were at the farm when Daiyu Wace drowned, weren’t you?’
He saw the muscles in Reaney’s jaw tighten.
‘Why?’
‘You were there, right?’
‘I slept froo the ole fuckin’ thing.’
‘Were you supposed to be in the truck that morning? With Cherie?’
‘’Oo’ve you talked to?’
‘Why does that matter?’
When Reaney merely blinked, Strike became more specific.
‘Were you supposed to be on the vegetable run?’
‘Yeah, bu’ I overslept.’
‘When did you wake up?’
‘Why’re you askin’ abou’ this?’
‘I told you, I want information. When did you wake up?’
‘I dunno. When ev’ryone was kickin’ off because the little b—’
Reaney cut himself off.
‘The little—?’ prompted Strike. When Reaney didn’t answer, he said,
‘I take it you didn’t like Daiyu?’
‘Nobody fuckin’ liked ’er. Fuckin’ spoiled fuckin’ rotten. Ask anyone ’oo was there.’
‘So you woke up when everyone was kicking off because Daiyu had disappeared?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you hear the people on early duty telling the Waces they’d seen her leaving on the truck with Cherie?’
‘Why the fuck d’you wanna know tha’?’
‘Did you hear them saying she’d left in the truck?’
‘I’m not gonna talk for them. Ask them what they seen.’
‘I’m asking what you heard, when you woke up.’
Apparently deciding this answer couldn’t incriminate him, Reaney finally muttered,
‘Yeah… they seen ’er leave.’
‘Were Jonathan and Mazu both present at the farm when you woke up?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How soon did you find out Daiyu had drowned?’
‘Can’ remember.’
‘Try.’
The tiger rippled yet again. The blue eyes blinked, over-hard.
‘Later that mornin’. The police come. Wiv Cherie.’
‘Was she distressed about Daiyu drowning?’
‘’Course she fuckin’ was,’ said Reaney.
‘Cherie left the farm for good shortly before you did, right?’
‘Can’ remember.’
‘I think you can.’
Reaney sucked in his hollow cheeks. Strike had a feeling this was a habitual expression prior to violence. He looked steadily back at Reaney, who blinked first, hard.
‘Yeah, she wen’ after the inquiry fing.’
‘The inquest?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And she didn’t tell you where she was going?’
‘Didn’t tell no one. She left in the middle of the night.’
‘And what made you leave?’
‘Jus’ ’ad enough of the place.’
‘Did Draper leave when you did?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you stay in touch?’
‘No.’
‘Did you keep in contact with anyone from the UHC?’
‘No.’
‘You like tattoos,’ said Strike.
‘Wha’?’
‘Tattoos. You’ve got a lot of them.’
‘So?’
‘Anything on your upper right arm?’ said Strike.
‘Why?’
‘Could I have a look?’
‘No, you fuckin’ can’t,’ snarled Reaney.
‘I’ll ask that again,’ said Strike quietly, leaning forwards, ‘this time reminding you what’s likely to happen to you once this interview’s over, when I inform my friend you weren’t cooperative.’
Reaney slowly pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. There was no skull on the bicep, but a large, jet black devil with red eyes.
‘Is that covering anything up?’
‘No,’ said Reaney, tugging his sleeve back down.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
‘I’m asking,’ said Strike, now reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a couple of the Polaroids Robin had found in the barn at Chapman Farm, ‘because I thought you might once have had a skull where that devil is.’
He laid the two photos down on the table, facing Reaney. One showed the tall, skinny man with the skull tattoo penetrating the chubby, dark-haired girl, the other the same man sodomising the smaller man whose short, wispy hair might have been Paul Draper’s.
Reaney’s forehead had started shining in the harsh overhead light.
‘That ain’t me.’
‘You sure?’ said Strike. ‘Because I thought this might explain the pig nightmares better than the smell of pig shit.’
Sweaty and pale, Reaney shoved the photos away from him so violently that one of them fell onto the floor. Strike retrieved it and replaced both in his pocket.
