The Running Grave, page 41
A sudden thought now occurred to Strike.
‘How old’s your wife?’
‘Wad?’ said Shah, looking up.
‘I’ve been trying to track down a thirty-eight-year-old woman, for the UHC case,’ said Strike. ‘She’s used at least three aliases that I know of. Where do women that age hang out online, d’you know?’
‘Bubsned, probably,’ said Shah.
‘What?’
‘Bub – fuggit – Mumsnet,’ said Dev, enunciating with difficulty. ‘Aisha’d alwayd on dere. Or Fadeboog.’
‘Mumsnet and Facebook,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah, good thinking. I’ll try them.’
He arrived back at the office half an hour later to find Pat there alone, restocking the fridge with milk, the radio playing hits of the sixties.
‘Dev’s just got punched in the face by Bigfoot,’ said Strike, hanging up his coat.
‘What?’ croaked Pat, glaring at Strike as though he was personally responsible.
‘He’s fine,’ Strike added, moving past her to the kettle. ‘Going home to ice his nose. Who’s next on the waiting list?’
‘That weirdo with the mother.’
‘They all have mothers, don’t they?’ said Strike, dropping a teabag into a mug.
‘This one wants his mother watched,’ said Pat. ‘Thinks she’s frittering away his inheritance on a toyboy.’
‘Ah, right. If you pull the file for me, I’ll give him a ring. Has Littlejohn showed his face in here today?’
‘No,’ said Pat, stiffening.
‘Has he called?’
‘No.’
‘Let me know if he does either. I’ll be through here. Don’t worry about interrupting me, I’ll just be trying to find a needle in a haystack on Facebook and Mumsnet.’
Once settled at his desk, Strike made his two phone calls. Bigfoot’s wife was gratifyingly ecstatic to see concrete evidence of her wealthy husband’s infidelity. The man who wanted his mother’s movement’s watched, and who had an upper-class accent so pronounced Strike found it hard to believe he wasn’t putting it on, was also delighted to hear from the detective.
‘Ay was thinkin’ of gettin’ in touch with Patters’ns if I didn’t hyar from yeh soon.’
‘You don’t want to use them, they’re shit,’ said Strike, and was rewarded with a surprised guffaw.
Having asked Pat to email the newest client a contract, Strike returned to his desk, opened the notebook in which he’d written every possible combination of the first names and surnames he knew Cherie Gittins had used in youth, logged into Facebook using a fake profile, and began his methodical search.
As he’d expected, the problem wasn’t too few results, but too many. There were multiple results for every name he tried, not only in Britain, but also in Australia, New Zealand and America. Wishing he could hire people to do this donkey work for him, rather than pay two of Shanker’s criminal mates to watch Littlejohn, he followed – or, in the case of private accounts, sent follower requests to – every woman whose photo might plausibly be that of a thirty-eight-year-old Cherie Gittins.
Two and a half hours, three mugs of tea and a sandwich later, Strike came across a Facebook account set to private with the name Carrie Curtis Woods. He’d included ‘Carrie’ in his search as a shortened version of ‘Carine’. As the double surname was unhyphenated, he suspected the account owner would be American rather than English, but the photograph had caught his attention. The smiling woman had the same curly blonde hair and insipid prettiness of the first picture of Cherie he’d found. In the picture, she was cuddling two young girls Strike supposed were her daughters.
Strike had just sent a follow request to Curtis Woods when the music in the outer office ceased abruptly. He heard a male voice. After a moment or two, the phone on Strike’s desk rang.
‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a Barry Saxon here to see you.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Strike.
‘He says he’s met you. Says he knows an Abigail Glover.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike, closing Facebook, as the memory of a glowering, bearded man presented itself: Baz, of the Forester pub. ‘OK. Give me a minute, then send him in.’
49
Nine in the third place means…
A goat butts against a hedge
And gets its horns entangled.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Strike rose and went to the noticeboard on the wall, where he’d pinned various items relating to the UHC case, and folded the wooden wings to conceal the Polaroids of teenagers in pig masks and the photo of Kevin Pirbright’s bedroom. He’d just sat down when the door opened, and Barry Saxon entered.
Strike judged him to be around forty. He had very small, deep-set hazel eyes with large pouches beneath them, and his hair and beard looked as though their owner spent a lot of time caring for them. He came to a halt before Strike, with his hands in his jeans pockets, feet planted wide apart.
‘You weren’ Terry, then,’ he said, squinting at the detective.
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘How did you find that out?’
‘Ab told Patrick, an’ ’e told me.’
With an effort, Strike recalled that Patrick was Abigail Glover’s lodger.
‘Does Abigail know you’re here?’
‘Not bloody likely,’ said Saxon, with a slight snort.
‘D’you want to sit down?’
Saxon cast a suspicious look at the chair where Robin usually sat, before taking his hands out of his pockets and doing as invited.
He and Saxon might only have been in direct contact for less than two minutes, but Strike thought he knew what kind of man was sitting opposite him. Saxon’s attempt to scupper what he’d thought was Abigail’s date with ‘Terry’, coupled with his present attitude of smouldering resentment, reminded Strike of an estranged husband who was one of the few clients he’d ever turned down. In that case, Strike had been convinced that if he located the man’s ex-wife, who he claimed was unreasonably resisting all contact in spite of the fact that there were unspecified things that needed ‘sorting out’, he’d have been enabling an act of revenge, and possibly violence. While that particular man had worn a Savile Row suit as opposed to a tight red checked shirt with buttons that strained across his torso, Strike thought he recognised in Saxon the same barely veiled thirst for vengeance.
‘How can I help?’ asked Strike.
‘I don’ wan’ help,’ said Saxon. ‘I’ve got fings to tell ya. You’re investigatin’ that church, incha? The one wiv Ab’s farver?’
‘I don’t discuss open investigations, I’m afraid,’ said Strike.
Saxon shifted irritably in the chair.
‘She covered fings up when she talked to you. She didn’t tell the troof. A man called Kevin somefing got shot, din’ ’e?’
As this information was in the public domain, Strike saw no reason to deny it.
‘An’ ’e was tryna expose the church, wannee?’
‘He was an ex-member,’ said Strike non-committally.
‘All righ’, well – Ab knows the church shot ’im. She knows the church ’ad ’im killed. An’ she killed someone ’erself, when she was in there! Never told you that, did she? An’ she’s freatened me. She’s tole me I’m next!’
Strike wasn’t quite as impressed by these dramatic statements as Saxon evidently wished him to be. Nevertheless, he drew his notebook towards him.
‘Shall we start at the beginning?’
Saxon’s expression became a degree less dissatisfied.
‘What d’you do for a living, Barry?’
‘Wha’ d’you wanna know tha’ for?’
‘Standard question,’ said Strike, ‘but you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
‘’M’a Tube driver. Same as Patrick,’ he added, as though there were safety in numbers.
‘How long have you known Abigail?’
‘Two years, so I know a lotta stuff about ’er.’
‘Met her through Patrick, did you?’
‘Yeah, a bunch of us wen’ ou’ drinkin’. She’s always go’ men around ’er, I soon found that out.’
‘And you and she went out together subsequently, alone?’ asked Strike.
‘Tol’ you tha’, did she?’ said Saxon, and it was hard to tell whether he was more aggrieved or gratified.
‘Yeah, after you came over to our table in the pub,’ said Strike.
‘Whaddid she say? ’Cause I bet she ain’ told you the troof.’
‘Just that you and she had been out for drinks together.’
‘It was more’n drinks, a lot more. She’s up for anyfing. Then I realised ’ow many other blokes she’s got on the go. I’m lucky I never caugh’ nuffing,’ said Saxon, with a little upwards jerk of his chin.
Familiar with the commonplace male disdain for women who enjoyed an adventurous sex life that either excluded or no longer included them, Strike continued asking questions that were designed purely to assess how much credence should be given to any information Saxon had to offer. He had a feeling the answer might be zero.
‘So you ended the relationship, did you?’
‘Yeah, I ain’ puttin’ up wiv that,’ said Saxon, with another little jerk of the chin, ‘but then she gets pissy abou’ me goin’ up the gym an’ the Forester’s an’ goin’ round ’er flat to see Patrick. Accuses me of fuckin’ stalkin’ ’er. Don’ flatter yourself, sweet’eart. I know a lotta stuff abou’ ’er,’ repeated Saxon. ‘So she shouldn’ be fuckin’ freatenin’ me!’
‘You said she killed someone, while in the church,’ said Strike, his pen poised.
‘Yeah – well – good as,’ said Saxon. ‘Because, right, Patrick ’eard ’er ’aving a nightmare, an’ she’s yelling “Cut it up smaller, cut it up smaller!” An’ ’e goes an’ bangs on ’er door – he said she was makin’ fuckin’ ’orrible noises – this is after she met you. She told Patrick it brought stuff up for ’er, what you two talked about.’
Strike was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Abigail and her upbringing were a source of prurient interest for her lodger and his friend that amounted almost to an unhealthy hobby. Aloud, he said,
‘How did she kill this person?’
‘I’m tellin’ ya. She told Patrick there was this kid at the farm ’oo was, you know,’ Saxon tapped his temple, ‘bit simple an’ ’e’d done somefing wrong an’ ’e was gonna be whipped. So she an’ this ovver girl, they felt sorry for ’im, so they runs off an’ ’gets the whip an’ ’ides it.
‘So then, when ’er stepmuvver can’t find it, she tells a group of ’em to beat the shit out of the kid instead, an’ Ab joined in, kickin’ and punchin’ ’im. An’ after the stepmuvver decides the kid’s ’ad enough, she says she’s gonna search the farm for the whip an’ ’ooever’s taken it’s gonna be in trouble. So Ab an’ ’er friend goes runnin’ off to the kitchen where they ’id it an’ they was tryna cut it up wiv scissors when the stepmuvver comes in an’ finds ’em, an’ then they was whipped wiv it themselves.’
There was a faint trace of salacious pleasure in Saxon’s voice as he said this.
‘An’ the simple kid died,’ he concluded.
‘After the beating?’
‘No,’ said Saxon, ‘few years later, after ’e left the farm. But it was ’er fault, ’er and the rest of ’em beating ’im up, ’cause she told Patrick’e was never right after they all kicked the shit out of ’im, like maybe brain damage or somefing. An’ she saw in the paper ’e’d died, an’ she reckoned it was ’cause of what they’d done to ’im.’
‘Why was his death in the paper?’
‘’Cause ’e got ’imself into a bad situation, which he wouldna done if ’e ‘adn’t ’ad brain damage, so she killed ’im, good as. She said it ’erself. Beatin’ an’ kickin’ him. She did that.’
‘She was forced to do it,’ Strike corrected Saxon.
‘Still GBH,’ said Saxon. ‘She still done it.’
‘She was a child, or a teenager, in a very abusive envi—’
‘Ah, righ’, you fallen for the act as well, ’ave ya?’ said Saxon with a sneer. ‘Got you twisted round ’er little finger? You ain’ never seen ’er pissed an’ angry. Little church girl? She’s got a scary fuckin’ temper on ’er—’
‘If that was a crime, I’d be inside myself,’ said Strike. ‘What did she say about Kevin Pirbright?’
‘Well, this is when she freatened me,’ said Saxon, rallying again.
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago, in the Grosvenor—’
‘What’s that, a bar?’
‘Pub. Yeah, so, she wen’ off on one ’cause I was in there. It’s a free fuckin’ country. Not up to ’er where I drink. She was wiv some dick from the gym. All I done was give ’im a friendly warnin’—’
‘Like the one you gave me?’
‘Yeah,’ said Saxon, with another little upwards jerk of the chin, ‘’cause men need to know wha’ she’s like. I come out the bog an’ she’s waitin’ for me. She’d ’ad a few, she drinks like a fuckin’ fish, an’ she’s tellin’ me to stop followin’ ’er round, an’ I says, “You fink you’re your fuckin’ farver dontcha? Tellin’ everyone where they’re allowed to fuckin’ go,” an’ she says, “You wanna bring my farver into this, I could ’ave you taken out, I’ll tell ’im you go walkin’ round slaggin’ off the church, you don’ know ’oo you’re messin’ wiv,” an’ I told ’er she was talkin’ bollocks an’ she started fuckin’ jabbin’ me on the shoulder,’ Saxon unconsciously raised his hand to touch the spot where Abigail had presumably hit him, ‘an’ she says, “They got guns—”’
‘She said the church has got guns?’
‘Yeah, an’ she says, “They jus’ killed a guy for talkin’ shit about ’em, so you need to stop fuckin’ pissin’ me off”, an’ I says, “’ow’s the fire service gonna like it when I go to the police abou’ you freatenin’ me?” I got a lotta dirt on ’er, if she wants to play that fuckin’ game,’ said Saxon, barely drawing breath, ‘an’ y’know wha’ they do in tha’ church, do ya? All fuckin’ each other all the time? That’s ’ow she was brung up, but if she di’nt like it, why’s she still fuckin’ a diff’rent guy every night? Two at a time, some—’
‘Did she say she’d seen guns at Chapman Farm?’
‘Yeah, so she’s seen the fuckin’ murder weapon, an’ she’s never reported—’
‘She can’t have seen the gun that killed Kevin Pirbright. He was killed by a model that didn’t exist then.’
Temporarily stymied, Saxon said,
‘She still freatened to ’ave me fuckin’ shot!’
‘Well, if you think that was a credible threat, by all means go to the police. Sounds to me like a woman trying to scare off a guy who can’t take no for an answer, but maybe they’ll see it differently.’
Strike thought he knew what was going on behind Saxon’s tiny hazel eyes. Occasionally, when people in the grip of obsessive resentment were pouring out their ire and grievances, something in them, some small trace of self-awareness, heard themselves as others might, and was surprised to find they didn’t sound quite as blameless, or even as rational, as they’d imagined themselves to be.
‘Maybe I will go the fuckin’ police,’ said Saxon, heaving himself to his feet.
‘Good luck with that,’ said Strike, also getting up. ‘In the meantime, I might ring Abigail and recommend she finds a lodger who doesn’t tell his mate every time she screams in her sleep.’
Perhaps because Strike was six inches taller than him, Saxon contented himself with snarling,
‘If that’s your fuckin’ attitude—’
‘Thanks for coming in,’ said Strike, moving to open the door onto the outer office.
Saxon strode out past Pat and slammed the glass door behind him.
‘I never trust men with those piggy little eyes,’ croaked the office manager.
‘You’d be right not to trust him,’ said Strike, ‘but not because of his piggy little eyes.’
‘What did ’e want?’
‘Revenge,’ said Strike succinctly.
He returned to the inner office, sat back down at the partners’ desk and read the sparse notes he’d made while Saxon was talking.
Paul Draper brain damage? Death in newspaper? Guns at Chapman Farm?
With reluctance, but knowing it was the only sure way to get fast results, he picked up his mobile and pressed Ryan Murphy’s number.
50
Six at the beginning means:
When there is hoarfrost underfoot,
Solid ice is not far off.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Several things had happened lately at Chapman Farm to leave anxiety squirming in Robin’s guts like a parasite.
It had been one thing to tell Strike in the safety of the office that she wasn’t worried about being coerced into unprotected sex with male church members, quite another to sit through a two-hour lecture about spirit bonding in the farmhouse basement and watch all the women around her earnestly nodding as they were told ‘flesh is unimportant, spirit is all-important’ (Robin knew, now, where Penny Brown had got that line).
‘What we stand against,’ Taio said from the stage, ‘is materialist possession. No human being owns another or should create any kind of framework to control or limit them. This is inevitable in carnal relationships – what we call CRs – which are based upon the possession instinct. CRs are inherently materialist. They venerate physical appearance and they inevitably stunt the natures of those in them, yet the bubble world exalts them, especially when they come draped in materialist trappings of property, weddings and the so-called nuclear family.
‘There should be no shame attached to sexual desire. It is a natural, healthy need. We agree with the Hindus that one of the aims of a well-lived life is Kama, or sensual pleasure. Yet the purer the spirit, the less likely it is to crave what is superficially attractive over what is spiritually good and true. Where two spirits are in harmony – when each feels the divine vibration working in and through them – spirit bonding occurs naturally and beautifully. The body, which is subservient to the spirit, physically demonstrates and channels the spiritual connection felt by those who have transcended materialist ties.’
