The Running Grave, page 98
‘And Becca bought all of it. She kept silent when Carrie told her to, she shut her siblings down, she gave them pseudo-mystical explanations, or told them off for being grasses. Which means, ironically, that the myth of the Drowned Prophet began, not with your father or Mazu, but out of a teenager’s imagination, in service of covering up a murder and silencing a kid who was a danger to all of you.
‘And after the inquest was over, Carrie did a flit, changed her name and tried to forget what she’d colluded in and tried to cover up. I suspect it was at that point that the heartbroken Becca went to your father and told him the whole story. If I had to guess,’ said Strike, watching Abigail closely for her reaction, ‘your father took you aside at some point, probably after he’d talked to Becca.’
Abigail’s lips twitched, but she remained silent.
‘Your father must’ve known you should’ve been in the dormitory that night, and he definitely knew you were on early duty that day and saw the truck pass. He might’ve asked what you were burning in the woods. He’ll have already noted the strange coincidence of Daiyu dying exactly where his first wife did, as though someone was trying to rub his face in it, or even cast suspicion on him. Because he should’ve been on his way to Birmingham with a fifteen-year-old girl when Daiyu “drowned”, shouldn’t he? Whether the police brought him in for questioning about taking an underage girl he’d only known a week on a road trip, or about infanticide, it wouldn’t look very good for a church leader, would it?
‘No, I think your father suspected or guessed that you were behind Daiyu’s disappearance, but being who he is – an amoral narcissist – all he really cared about was hushing it up. He’d just been handed the story of Daiyu ascending to heaven through the divine vessel of Carrie Gittins and he definitely didn’t want his daughter banged up on suspicion of murder – very bad for business. Much better to accept the supernatural explanation, to comfort his distraught wife with this mystic bullshit. Bereaved people will clutch at that kind of stuff, or there wouldn’t be any bloody mediums. So your father strings Becca along; he says, yes, he knew all along Carrie wasn’t a bad person, that she was merely helping Daiyu fulfil her destiny, and how clever of Becca, for seeing the truth.
‘Then he, too, does a bit of expert grooming. Perhaps he told Becca that it had been foreseen that she would come to him as a divine messenger. Maybe he told her the spirit of the prophet lived on in her. He flattered her and groomed her exactly as you groomed Daiyu – but without the ending of the pigs and the axe, in the woods at night.
‘You were shunted off to Birmingham to keep you out of sight and out of trouble, and Becca was secreted somewhere safe, somewhere you couldn’t get at her, where your father indoctrinated her so thoroughly into obedience and chastity and unquestioning loyalty that she’s become a very useful tool for the church. I think she’s been kept in a state of virginity for no other reason than that Wace doesn’t want her getting too close to anyone but him, and also because she’s the one woman he doesn’t want Mazu getting jealous of – because Becca’s the keeper of the biggest secrets. Becca’s the one who could testify that the supernatural explanation for Daiyu’s disappearance came from Carrie, not your father, and she could also tell a story of how expertly Wace fed her vanity, to keep her from ever talking. From what Robin found out at Chapman Farm, Becca might well have moments of lucidity, but it doesn’t seem to overly trouble her. I don’t think there’s a more committed believer in the UHC than Becca Pirbright.’
Strike now sat back in his chair, watching Abigail, who now looked back at him with a strange, calculating expression on her pale face.
‘Are you about to say that’s all speculation, too?’ asked Strike.
‘Well, it is,’ said Abigail, her voice slightly hoarse, but defiant, nonetheless.
She dropped her third cigarette to the ground and lit a fourth.
‘Well, then, let’s move on to more provable matters,’ said Strike. ‘Kevin Pirbright, shot through the head a few days after he told someone he was going to meet the bully from the church. A Beretta 9000 firing bullets at my car. A balaclavaed figure, padded out in a man’s black jacket, trying to smash its way into my office with the butt of a gun. Those phone calls, and the resultant suicide attempts. A phone call made to the Delaunays from the same mobile used in the call to Carrie, telling them Daiyu’s still alive, trying to drag them into the frame of suspicion and to derail my investigation.
‘My conclusions are as follows,’ said Strike. ‘The person behind all of this has access to a motley selection of men to do her bidding. She’s either sleeping with them, or stringing them along so they think she will. I doubt any of them know what they’re doing it for: possibly I’m a jealous ex-boyfriend who needs watching. They can’t keep my agency under surveillance all the time, and nor can the woman giving the orders, because they’ve all got jobs.
‘I further conclude that the person directing operations is themselves fit, strong and addicted to adrenalin – the escape from Kevin Pirbright’s bedsit, the attempted break-in of my office, the tailing of my BMW by the blue Ford Focus, the shooting. That person is more efficient than any of her underlings and doesn’t mind narrow escapes.
‘I think this person is clever and capable of hard work when it’s in her interests. She kept tabs on Paul Draper, Carrie Curtis Woods and Jordan Reaney – although possibly me telling you Reaney was in the nick put you onto his current whereabouts.
‘But I don’t think Reaney told you about the Polaroids. I thought he must have done, initially, but I was wrong. Reaney knew he’d fucked up, though. His reaction had told me those Polaroids were even more significant than they looked. You threatened to turn him in for Daiyu’s murder if anything he’d said or done led to you, and he panicked, and overdosed. Reaney’s got more of a conscience than you’d think from his CV. Like you, he still has nightmares about chopping up that child and feeding her to the pigs in the dark.
‘The reason I know Reaney didn’t tell you about the pictures is Carrie wasn’t expecting them. The killer hadn’t been able to forewarn her, which meant she had to come up with a story on the spot. She knew she mustn’t identify you or Reaney, the two killers, so she pulled two names out of thin air. I note, too, that it was only after Carrie blabbed to you about the Polaroids that the masked gunman turned up at my office and tried to break in. You weren’t after the UHC file. You were after the pictures. Trouble is, in tracing Carrie, you missed a boyfriend and a name change between Chapman Farm and Thornbury. Isaac Mills is still with us, and he’s prepared to testify about what Carrie confessed to him when drunk.’
A sneer twisted Abigail’s mouth again.
‘It’s all hearsay an’ specker—’
‘Speculation? You really think so?’
‘You’ve got fuck all. It’s all fuckin’ fantasy.’
‘I’ve got the axe Jordan Reaney hid in a tree, an axe that’s been the subject of a lot of rumours among the kids at Chapman Farm. Your half-brother thought it had something to do with Daiyu. What had he overheard, that made him think that? Forensics have moved on a lot since the mid-nineties. It won’t be hard to pick up even a speck of human blood on that axe. I’ve also got a sample of earth from the middle of those broken posts. All a lab will need is a few bone fragments, even very small ones, and Mazu’s DNA will confirm their identity.
‘Now, you might well say, “even if Daiyu was murdered in the woods, how d’you prove it was me?” Well, one of my detectives has been at your flat with your lodger tonight. You’d have done better to kick Patrick out when you said you would. A useful dogsbody, I’m sure, but thick and mouthy. My detective found Kevin Pirbright’s laptop hidden inside a chair cushion in your bedroom. He found the bulky black men’s jacket you borrowed from Patrick to murder Kevin Pirbright and to try and break into my office. Most importantly, he’s found a Beretta 9000 stinking of smoke, sewn up inside a cushion on your bed. Strange, the things a firefighter might find in a burning flat, when they’ve finished dragging junkies out of harm’s way.’
Abigail’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She remained frozen, with the cigarette between her fingers, as Strike heard a car pulling up outside the fire station and watched the driver get out. Evidently, Robin had acted on his instructions.
‘This,’ he said, turning back to Abigail, ‘is Detective Inspector Ryan Murphy of the Metropolitan Police. I wouldn’t make too much trouble when he arrests you. He was supposed to be having dinner with his girlfriend tonight, so he’ll be in a bad mood already.’
EPILOGUE
T’ai/Peace
No plain not followed by a slope.
No going not followed by a return.
He who remains persevering in danger
Is without blame.
Do not complain about this truth;
Enjoy the good fortune you still possess.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
134
Evil can indeed be held in check but not permanently abolished. It always returns. This conviction might induce melancholy, but it should not; it ought only to keep us from falling into illusion when good fortune comes to us.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
The long lawn sloping down to the Thames behind Sir Colin Edensor’s house had gained a number of brightly coloured objects since the last time Strike and Robin had seen it. There was a red and yellow car large enough for a small child to sit in and propel themselves along with their feet, a miniature goalpost, a blow-up paddling pool decorated with tropical fish and a quantity of smaller objects, one of which was a battery-powered bubble machine. It was this that was attracting the delighted attention of the white-haired toddler who was now answering to the name Sally rather than Qing, and two dark-haired little boys of around the same age. Their shrieks, shouts and laughter carried into the kitchen as they attempted to catch and pop the stream of bubbles issuing from the purple box on the grass.
Four adults were supervising the toddlers, to make sure they didn’t stray too close to the river at the foot of the garden: James and Will Edensor, James’ wife Kate and Lin Doherty. Inside the kitchen, watching the group on the lawn, sat Sir Colin Edensor, Strike, Robin, Pat and her husband Dennis.
‘I can never,’ said Sir Colin, for the third time, ‘thank you enough. Any of you,’ he added, including the Chaunceys in his glance around the table.
‘Nice to see them getting on,’ said Pat in her baritone, watching the re-christened Qing chasing bubbles.
‘What happened when James and Will met for the first time?’ asked Robin, who didn’t want to seem too nosy, but was very interested in the answer.
‘Well, James shouted a lot,’ said Sir Colin, smiling. ‘Told Will what he thought of him, in about fifteen different ways. Funnily enough, I think Will actually welcomed it.’
Robin wasn’t surprised. Will Edensor had wanted to atone for his sins, and with immunity from prosecution guaranteed, and the Drowned Prophet proven to be a mirage, where else was he to get the punishment he craved, but from his older brother?
‘He agreed with every word James said. He cried about his mother, said he knew nothing could ever make right what he’d done, said James was justified in hating him, that he understood if James never wanted to have anything to do with him again. That rather took the wind out of James’s sails,’ said Sir Colin.
‘And they’re going to live here with you?’ asked Strike.
‘Yes, at least until we can sort out proper accommodation for Lin and little Sally. With the press milling around and so on, I think it’s best they’re here.’
‘She’ll need support,’ croaked Pat. ‘She’s never been in charge of the kid all by herself. Never run her own house. Sixteen, it’s a lot of responsibility. If you found her something round my way, I could keep an eye on ’em. My daughter and granddaughters would muck in. She needs other mothers round her, teach her the ropes. Get together and moan about the kids. That’s what she needs.’
‘You’ve done so much already, Mrs Chauncey,’ said Sir Colin.
‘I was her age, near enough, when I had my first,’ said Pat unemotionally. ‘I know what it takes. Anyway,’ she took a drag on her e-cigarette, ‘I like ’em. You brought Will up very well. Good manners.’
‘Yeah, he’s a nice lad,’ said Dennis. ‘We all did stupid things when we were young, didn’t we?’
Sir Colin now took his eyes off the group on the lawn to turn to Robin.
‘I see they’ve found more bodies at Chapman Farm.’
‘I think they’re going to be finding them for weeks to come,’ said Robin.
‘And none of the deaths were registered?’
‘None except the prophets’.’
‘You don’t want coroners involved, if you’ve been refusing people medical help,’ said Strike. ‘Our police contact says they’ve got three skeletons of babies, presumably stillbirths, out of the field so far. There’ll probably be more. They’ve been on that land since the eighties.’
‘I doubt they’ll be able to identify all the remains,’ said Robin. ‘They were recruiting runaways and the homeless as well as wealthy people. It’s going to be a big job tracing all the babies who were sold, as well.’
‘It beggars belief that they got away with it for so long,’ said Sir Colin.
‘“Live and let live”, isn’t it?’ said Strike. ‘If nobody wants to speak out, and with the charity work there as a smokescreen, plus all the useful celebrity idiots…’
The previous fortnight had seen a multitude of front pages devoted to the UHC in both broadsheets and tabloids. Fergus Robertson was busy morning and night, sharing inside details nobody else knew. It was he who’d ambushed an outraged Giles Harmon outside his house in Bloomsbury, he who’d first broken the news of the alleged child trafficking and he who’d doorstepped the MP who was a church Principal, who’d been suspended by his party pending investigations into substantial undeclared donations he’d received from the UHC. The packaging multimillionaire, too foolish to have hidden behind his lawyers, had made several injudicious and unintentionally incriminating comments to the press jostling outside his offices. Mazu, Taio, Jiang and Joe Jackson were in custody. Dr Andy Zhou’s arrest had caused a flurry of statements from wealthy women who’d been cupped and hypnotised, massaged and detoxified, all of whom refused to believe the handsome doctor could have done anything wrong. A carefully phrased statement had also been issued by Noli Seymour’s agent, expressing shock and horror at the findings at Chapman Farm, of which Noli had naturally had no suspicion.
Jonathan Wace had been arrested while trying to drive over the border into Mexico. He was smiling in the gentle, self-deprecating way Robin knew so well in the photograph that showed him handcuffed and being led away. Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.
The temple at Chapman Farm had been thoroughly searched by police, and the means by which illusions had been conducted had been leaked to journalists, along with photographs of whips and the box. The various bodily fluids that lingered in the mattresses and bedding of the Retreat Rooms were being tested and the Chapman Farm woods were cordoned off. The axe and soil Midge had stolen had been handed to the police, and Wardle had called Strike with the news that the thigh bone of a young child had been dug up close to the rotting wooden posts. Evidently the pigs hadn’t managed to consume all of Daiyu Wace before Jordan Reaney had to get back to bed, and Abigail Wace reach the yard in time to watch the truck bearing the straw figure pass, in the dark.
Meanwhile ex-church members were coming forward in increasing numbers. Guilt and shame had kept them silent, sometimes for decades, but reassured by the possibility of immunity from prosecution for their own coerced actions, which ranged from administering beatings and helping bury bodies illegally to failing to secure medical assistance for a fourteen-year-old who’d died in childbirth, they were now ready to find catharsis in testifying against the Waces.
But there were still those who saw no evil in anything that had been done. Danny Brockles, the ex-addict who’d travelled the country with Jonathan Wace to extol the merits of the church, had been interviewed. All evidence of wrongdoing, he said, sobbing, had been planted by the agents of the Adversary. The public needed to understand that satanic forces were behind this attempt to destroy Papa J and the church (but the public seemed to understand no such thing, judging by the angry and indignant comments posted online beneath every article on the UHC). And Becca Pirbright, who remained at liberty, had twice appeared on television, composed and personable, calm and charming, disdainful of what she termed lurid, scaremongering and sensational reporting, denying all personal wrongdoing and describing Jonathan and Mazu Wace as two of the best human beings she’d ever known in her life.
Robin, watching Becca at home, found herself again thinking of the church as a virus. She was certain many, if not most, members would be cured by this eruption of revelations, by the evidence that they’d been thoroughly hoodwinked, that Papa J was no hero, but a conman, a rapist and an accessory to murder. Yet so many lives had been destroyed… Robin had heard that Louise Pirbright had tried to hang herself in the hospital to which she’d been taken upon release. Robin could quite see why Louise preferred death than to have to live with the knowledge that her foolish decision to follow Jonathan Wace into his cult twenty-four years previously had led to the death of two of her sons, and total estrangement from both of her daughters. Emily, who’d been found unconscious in the box when police entered the farm, had been sent to the same hospital as Louise, but when offered a meeting with her mother by well-intentioned medics, had informed them she never wanted to see Louise again.
