The Running Grave, page 94
Robin’s phone went dead.
‘Shit.’
She hurried on towards the bus stop. She was supposed to be meeting Murphy at a bar in the middle of town at seven, but was now keen to find a way of speaking to Strike again, who’d sounded strangely keyed up before he got cut off. Unfortunately, she had no idea where he was. Speeding up, she tried to remember the rota: if he was at the office, or in his flat, she might have time to see him before going on to the West End.
The hour’s journey back towards Denmark Street seemed interminable. Robin kept shuffling through different scenarios in her mind, trying to see possible routes to their murderer in the light of Mills’ evidence, which confirmed Strike’s theory and would add substance to whatever other testimony they could get. However, she still saw pitfalls ahead, especially if the plastic-wrapped objects in the office safe yielded nothing useable.
She and Strike had concluded during the sleepless night they’d spent at the office that there were four people, aside from Isaac Mills, whose combined testimony might reveal exactly what happened to Daiyu, even if the originator of the plan denied it. However, all had strong reasons for not talking, and two of them probably didn’t realise that what they knew was significant. It was by no means certain they’d be able to take an axe to the roots of Jonathan Wace’s dangerous and seductive religion.
A little over an hour later, Robin arrived in Denmark Street, sweaty and dishevelled from haste, but on reaching the second landing her heart sank: the office door was locked and the lights were out. Then she heard movement above her.
‘What the fuck happened?’ said Strike, descending the stairs.
‘What d’you mean?’ said Robin, taken aback.
‘I’ve been worried fucking sick, I thought someone had grabbed you off the fucking street!’
‘My phone died!’ said Robin, who didn’t much appreciate this welcome, having just jogged up the street to see her partner. ‘And I was in Wandsworth in broad daylight – don’t start about guns,’ she said, correctly anticipating Strike’s next sentence. ‘You’d have heard the bang, wouldn’t you?’
As this was precisely what he’d been telling himself for the last sixty minutes, Strike bit back a retort. Nevertheless, finding it hard to shift gears immediately from acute anxiety to a normal conversational tone, he said angrily,
‘You need a new fucking phone.’
‘Thanks,’ said Robin, now almost equally cross, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
A reluctant grin replaced Strike’s scowl, though Robin wasn’t that easily appeased.
‘You were asking me if I’d seen something when I got cut off,’ she said coolly. ‘I haven’t got long, I’m supposed to be meeting Ryan.’
Strike supposed he deserved that.
‘Come up here,’ he said, pointing towards his flat. ‘They raided Chapman Farm at six this morning.’
‘What?’ gasped Robin, climbing the stairs to the attic behind him.
‘A dozen coppers, Met and local force. Wardle’s with them. He called me at two. Couldn’t talk long, because they’re still interviewing people. They’ve already released a severely dehydrated and traumatised Emily Pirbright from a locked wooden box in the farmhouse basement.’
‘Oh no.’
‘She’ll be OK. They’ve taken her to hospital. It gets better,’ said Strike, as they entered the attic. ‘Shah’s just seen roughly the same number of coppers entering the Birmingham centre. No word on Glasgow yet, but I’m assuming it’s happening there, too.’
He led her through to his bedroom, a spartan place, like the rest of the small flat. The television at the foot of the bed had been paused on Sky News: a female reporter was frozen, open mouthed, in what Robin recognised as Lion’s Mouth. Behind her was the entrance to Chapman Farm, which now had two uniformed officers standing outside it.
‘Someone at the Met’s leaked,’ said Strike, picking up the remote. ‘Said there’d be glory in it, didn’t I?’
He pressed play.
‘… already seen an ambulance leaving,’ said the reporter, gesturing down the lane. ‘Police haven’t yet confirmed the reasons for the investigation, but we do know officers are here in large numbers and a forensic team arrived just over an hour ago.’
‘Jenny, some have called the UHC controversial, haven’t they?’ said a male voice.
‘Cautious,’ said the smirking Strike, as the female reporter nodded, finger pressed to her earpiece.
‘Yes, Justin, mainly in regard to its financial activities, though it must be said the church has never been convicted of any wrongdoing.’
‘Give it time,’ said Strike and Robin simultaneously.
‘And, of course, it’s got some very high-profile members,’ said the invisible Justin. ‘Novelist Giles Harmon, actress Noli Seymour – are any of them currently on the grounds, do you know?’
‘No, Justin, we’ve had no confirmation of who’s at the farm right now, although locals estimate there are at least a hundred people living here.’
‘And has there been any official statement from the church?’
‘Nothing as yet—’
Strike paused the news report again.
‘Just thought you’d like to see it,’ he said.
‘You were right,’ said Robin, beaming.
‘Almost enough to make you believe in God, isn’t it? I tipped off Fergus Robertson as soon as I heard from Wardle. I’ve given him a good few pointers as to where to get some scoops. Think it’s time to turn up the heat on Jonathan Wace as high as we can. Got time for a coffee?’
‘A quick one,’ said Robin, checking her watch. ‘Could I borrow a charger?’
This provided, and coffee made, they sat down at the small Formica table.
‘Becca’s still at the Rupert Court Temple,’ said Strike.
‘How d’you know?’
‘She took the service today, which I got Midge to attend, wigged up.’
‘I thought Midge was watching Hampstead?’
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot – she got pictures of him with a bloke on the heath last night.’
‘When you say “pictures”—’
‘I doubt they’ll be featuring on the family Christmas card,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll let the client know on Monday, because he’s home with her and the kids right now.’
‘Go on about Becca.’
‘She didn’t leave at the end of the service. Midge is still watching Rupert Court, minus her wig, obviously. She’s confident Becca’s still in there. Doors locked.’
‘Haven’t the police been?’
‘Presumably they’re more interested in the compounds.’
‘Is Becca alone?’
‘Dunno. She could well be planning to make a break for it – unless she fancies taking the Stolen Prophet’s way out, of course.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said Robin, thinking of Carrie Curtis Woods hanging in the family garage. ‘If we know where she is—’
‘We do nothing – nothing,’ said Strike firmly, ‘until we hear from Barclay.’
‘But—’
‘Did you hear me?’
‘For God’s sake, I’m not a bloody schoolchild!’
‘Sorry,’ said Strike. The residue of his hour’s anxiety hadn’t yet dispersed. ‘Look, I know you think I keep boring on about that gun, but we still don’t know where it is – which is a pain in the arse,’ he added, checking his watch, ‘because we’re on the clock, now the police have gone in. People are going to start arse-covering or making themselves unavailable for interview. They’ll have an excuse for only communicating through lawyers now, as well.’
‘D’you think they’ve got the Waces?’ said Robin, whose thoughts had roved irresistibly back to Chapman Farm. ‘They must have Mazu, at least. She never leaves the place. God, I’d like to be a fly on the wall when they start questioning her…’
Memories of people she’d got to know over her four months at the farm were revolving in her mind as though it was a zoetrope: Emily, Shawna, Amandeep, Kyle, Walter, Vivienne, Louise, Marion, Taio, Jiang… who’d talk? Who’d lie?
‘I had bloody Rosie Fernsby on the phone at lunchtime,’ said Strike.
‘What did she want?’
‘To go to a yoga class this afternoon. The glamour of being a hunted woman’s worn off.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That she’d have to stay put and cleanse her own bloody chakras. She chose to take it as a joke.’
‘Just as well. We do need her to testify.’
‘What she’s got to tell will take three minutes, if this comes to court,’ said Strike. ‘I’m trying to stop her getting bloody shot.’
Robin checked her watch.
‘I’d better go.’
As she got to her feet, Strike’s mobile buzzed.
‘Holy shit.’
‘What?’
‘Barclay’s done it, he’s in.’
Strike, too, rose.
‘I’m going to talk to Abigail Glover about Birmingham.’
‘Then,’ said Robin, as a feeling like fire flamed through her insides, ‘I’m going to talk to Becca.’
‘No, you’re fucking not,’ said Strike, pausing where he stood. ‘Midge doesn’t know who else might be in the temple.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Robin, already heading for her phone. ‘You realise she could be planning to head for San Francisco or Munich? Ryan, hi… no, listen, something’s come up… I know, I’ve seen on the news, but I can’t do dinner. Sorry… no… it’s just a witness who might get away unless I see her now,’ Robin said, meeting Strike’s frown with a frosty look of her own. ‘Yes… OK. I’ll ring you later.’
Robin hung up.
‘I’m doing it,’ she told Strike, before he could speak. ‘She’s not wriggling out of this. Not bloody Becca.’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘but you go in with Midge, all right? Not alone.’
‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘Give me your skeleton keys in case she doesn’t open up when I knock. I think this is going to be what they call closure.’
126
In the royal hunts of ancient China it was customary to drive up the game from three sides, but on the fourth the animals had a chance to run off.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Robin parted from Strike in Tottenham Court Road, and arrived in Wardour Street ten minutes later. It was swarming with Saturday evening visitors to Chinatown, but she couldn’t see Midge. Her phone now charged sufficiently for at least one call, Robin called the subcontractor’s number.
‘Where are you? Strike told me you were watching the Rupert Court Temple.’
‘I was,’ said Midge, ‘but Becca’s left. I’m following her.’
‘Shit,’ said Robin, for the second time in as many hours. ‘No, I mean, it’s good that you’re still on her, but – is she alone? She hasn’t got a bag or anything, has she? Does she look as though she’s going on a trip?’
‘She’s alone, and there’s no bag,’ said Midge. ‘She might just be buying food. She’s looking at her phone a lot.’
‘I’ll bet she is,’ said Robin. ‘Will you keep me posted on where you are? I’m in the vicinity of the temple. Let me know if she’s on her way back.’
‘Will do,’ said Midge, and she rang off.
Deprived in the short term of her prey, frustrated and tense, Robin moved out of the way of a group of drunken men. Fiddling with the skeleton keys in her pocket, she contemplated the red and gold creatures over the door of the temple: the dragon, the pheasant, the sheep, the horse, the cow, the dog, the rooster, and, of course, the pig.
127
Heaven has the same direction of movement as fire, yet it is different from fire…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
It took Strike forty-five minutes to reach the fire station where Abigail was working that evening. It was a large, Art Deco building of grey stone, with the usual large, square openings below for the fire trucks.
Upon entering, Strike found a man in his forties scribbling a note at a desk in an otherwise deserted reception area. When Strike enquired whether Abigail Glover was currently on the premises, he said yes, she was upstairs. When Strike said his business was urgent, the fireman called upstairs on a wall-mounted phone, his expression amused. Strike wondered whether he had, again, been mistaken for one of Abigail’s boyfriends.
She descended the stairs a few minutes later, looked disconcerted and irritable, for which Strike couldn’t blame her; he, too, preferred not to be disturbed at work. She was wearing the regulation firemen’s overalls, though without the jacket. Her black top was tight-fitting, and he assumed she’d been mid-way through changing when he’d interrupted her.
‘Why’re you ’ere?’
‘I need your help,’ said Strike.
‘People norm’lly dial 999,’ said Abigail, to a snigger from her colleague.
‘It’s about Birmingham,’ said Strike.
‘Birmingham?’ Abigail repeated, frowning.
‘Yeah. Shouldn’t take long, but I think you’re the only person who can clarify a couple of points.’
Abigail cast a look behind her.
‘Earwiggin’, Richard?’
‘No,’ said the man. He disappeared upstairs perhaps a little faster than he’d have done otherwise.
‘All right,’ Abigail said, turning back to Strike, ‘but you’re gonna ’ave to ’urry up, ’cause my shift’s ended and I’ve got a date.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Strike.
She led him through a door to the right, which was evidently used for talks and meetings, because a number of steel-legged plastic chairs were stacked in corners. Abigail proceeded to a small table near a whiteboard at the far end, lifting down a chair for herself on the way.
‘It’s you, innit?’ she said to Strike, over her shoulder. ‘’Oo’s caused the shitstorm at Chapman Farm?’
‘Ah, you’ve seen,’ said Strike.
‘It’s all over the fuckin’ news, ’course I ’ave.’
‘I’d like to take credit,’ said Strike, also picking up a chair and taking it to the table, ‘but that’s mostly down to my detective partner.’
‘Did she get your client’s relative out, before she torched the place?’ asked Abigail, as both sat down.
‘She did, yeah,’ said Strike.
‘Blimey. You don’ wanna let ’er go in an ’urry.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ said Strike.
‘It’s gonna mean the press coming for me, though, innit?’ said Abigail, looking tense as she pulled a pack of nicotine gum out of her pocket and put a piece in her mouth.
‘Probably,’ said Strike. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘When Dick called just now, I fort, “This is it. A journalist’s come”… go on, then. What about Birmingham?’
‘We’ve found out your father was supposed to be taking Rosie Fernsby up to Birmingham the morning Daiyu disappeared, but he changed his plans.’
‘Rosie ’oo?’
She wasn’t at the farm long,’ said Strike. ‘Pretty girl. Dark, curvy – she was there with her father and twin brother.’
‘Oh, yeah… twins. Yeah, I remember them,’ said Abigail. ‘I’d never met twins before. I didn’t know you could have boy and girl ones… no fuckin’ education,’ she added bitterly. ‘Like I told you before.’
‘When we interviewed Cherie Gittins, she tied herself up in knots a bit about your father’s whereabouts.’
‘Found Cherie, didja? Bloody ’ell.’
‘Yeah, she was married and living in the West Country. Anyway, she seemed to attach a lot of significance to the question of whether or not your father was at the farm when Daiyu disappeared.’
‘Well, I dunno why she was confused. ’E was definitely there when the police come to say Daiyu ’ad drowned. I remember Mazu screaming and collapsin’ and ’im ’olding ’er up.’
‘When were you sent up to Birmingham, exactly?’ asked Strike.
‘Exactly? Dunno. After Daiyu’s inquest.’
‘Had there been any question of you going to Birmingham before Daiyu disappeared?’
‘They prob’lly discussed it when I wasn’ around,’ said Abigail, with a slight shrug. ‘Mazu wanted shot of me for years, and Daiyu dyin’ gave ’er an excuse to do it. I din’t give a shit, personally. I fort it’d probably be easier to escape from one of the other places, din’t fink eiver of ’em would be as ’ard to get in an’ out of as Chapman Farm, an’ I was right.’
‘Yeah, one of my operatives got into Birmingham without too much difficulty, on an out-of-date police ID.’
‘Find anyfing interesting?’
‘A lot of babies,’ said Strike.
‘’Spect there is a lot, now,’ said Abigail. ‘No birf control.’
‘How long were you at the farm, between Daiyu’s disappearance and leaving for Birmingham?’
‘Dunno. Week or two. Somefing like that.’
‘And when you were transferred to Birmingham, did anyone from Chapman Farm go with you?’
‘Yeah, bloke called Joe. ’E was older’n me an’ ’e was one of my farver and Mazu’s favourites. ’E wasn’ going up there ’cos ’e was being punished, though, ’e was gonna be second in command in the Birmingham Centre.’
‘And it was just you and Joe who were transferred that day, was it?’
‘Yeah, ’s far as I can remember.’
Strike turned a page in his notebook.
‘You remember Alex Graves’ family? Father, mother and sister?’
‘Yeah, I told you I did,’ said Abigail, frowning.
‘Well, Graves’ father thinks your father ordered Cherie Gittins to kill Daiyu.’
Abigail chewed her gum for a few seconds in silence, then said,
‘Well, that’s the sort of stupid fing people say, innit? When they’re angry. Why’s my farver s’posed to ’ave killed ’er?’
‘To get his hands on the quarter of a million pounds Graves left Daiyu in his will.’
‘You’re shittin’ me. She ’ad a qua’er of a million?’
‘If she’d lived, she’d also have inherited the Graves family home, which is probably worth ten times that.’
