The Running Grave, page 93
‘You’re the one who wants to speed things up,’ said Strike.
And nobody made you start seeing that prick Murphy.
123
Strength in the face of danger does not plunge ahead but bides its time, whereas weakness in the face of danger grows agitated and has not the patience to wait.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
For the next fortnight, everyone at the agency was very busy, their efforts directed almost exclusively to proving Strike’s theory about the fate of the Drowned Prophet.
Midge, who’d accepted with alacrity the possibly dangerous job of trying to get forensic evidence from the woods at Chapman Farm, returned safely and triumphantly from Norfolk. Given that the agency had no access to a forensics lab, the only hope of having her findings analysed would be in the context of a police investigation that hadn’t yet started, if, indeed, it ever did. Everything she’d carried out of the woods at Chapman Farm was now wrapped carefully in plastic in the office safe.
After a week of hanging around various likely haunts, Barclay had successfully located the man whom Strike was so keen to have befriended, and was cautiously optimistic, given his target’s fondness for drink and military anecdotes, that a few more free pints might see himself invited round to the man’s home.
‘Don’t rush it,’ warned Strike. ‘One false move could set off alarm bells.’
Shah remained in Birmingham, where some of the activities he’d undertaken were illegal. In consequence, Strike didn’t intend to share any of Dev’s findings at the meeting with his and Robin’s four best police contacts, which finally took place two weeks and a day after Strike and Robin had been shot at, on a Tuesday evening, in the useful downstairs room at the Flying Horse. Strike – who felt he was becoming increasingly profligate with Sir Colin Edensor’s money – was paying for the room and dinner out of his own pocket, with the promise of burgers and chips to sweeten their contacts’ sacrifice of a few hours of their free time.
Unfortunately for Strike, he was late for his own meeting. He’d driven to Norfolk and back that day in a hired automatic Audi A1. The interview he’d conducted there had taken longer than he’d expected, the unfamiliar car’s pedals had been hard on his right leg, he’d hit a lot of traffic on the way back into London, and this, coupled with the stress of checking constantly that he wasn’t being followed, had etched a slight scowl onto his face which he had to discipline into a smile when he reached the downstairs room, where he found Eric Wardle, George Layborn, Vanessa Ekwensi, Ryan Murphy, Robin, Will, Flora and Ilsa.
‘Sorry,’ Strike muttered, spilling some of his pint as he dropped clumsily into the spare seat at the table. ‘Long day.’
‘I’ve ordered for you,’ said Robin, and Strike noted the look of irritation on Murphy’s face as she said it.
Robin was feeling uneasy. Will, she knew, had been cajoled into attending by Pat and Dennis, the latter having told Will firmly that he was caught in a chicken and egg situation and needed to bloody well get himself out of it. Since arriving in the basement of the Flying Horse with Flora and Ilsa, Will, who looked pale and worried, had barely spoken. Meanwhile, it had required all Robin’s cheerful chat and gratitude for her presence to raise the slightest smile from Flora, who was currently twisting her fingers on her lap beneath the table. Robin had already glimpsed a fresh self-harm mark on her neck.
Aside from her worries about how this meeting was likely to affect the two fragile ex-church members, Robin sensed undercurrents between Wardle and Murphy; the latter had become peremptory and curt in manner even before Strike arrived.
After some slightly stilted small talk, Strike introduced the subject of the meeting. The police listened in silence while Strike ran over the main accusations against the church, omitting all mention of the Drowned Prophet. When Strike said Flora and Will were prepared to give statements about what they’d witnessed while members of the church, Robin saw the knuckles of Flora’s hands turn white beneath the table.
Food arrived before the police had had time to ask any questions. Once the waitress had left, the CID officers began to speak up. They were, as Strike had expected, starting from a position, if not of scepticism, then of caution.
He’d expected their muted response to the child trafficking allegations, given that neither Will nor Flora had ever been to the Birmingham centre which was supposed to be its hub. Nobody was disposed to challenge out loud Flora’s statement, delivered in a quaking voice while staring at the table in front of her, that she’d been repeatedly raped, but it angered Robin that it took her own corroboration about the Retreat Rooms to wipe the doubtful expression from George Layborn’s face. She described, in blunt language, her own close shaves with Taio, and the sight of an underage girl emerging from a Retreat Room with Giles Harmon. The novelist’s name seemed unfamiliar to Layborn, but Wardle and Ekwensi exchanged a look at this, and both got out their notebooks.
As for the allegation that the church was improperly burying bodies without registering deaths, Robin thought that, too, might have been dismissed as an evidence-free claim, but for the unexpected intervention of Will.
‘They do bury them illegally,’ he said, interrupting Layborn, who was pressing a distressed Flora for details. ‘I’ve seen it as well. Right before I left, they buried a kid who was born with – well, I don’t know what was wrong with him. They never got him seen by anyone except Zhou.’
‘Not Jacob?’ said Robin, looking around at Will.
‘Yeah. He died a few hours after you left. They buried him on the far side of the field, by the oak,’ said Will, who hadn’t previously disclosed this. ‘I watched them do it.’
Robin was too distressed by this information to say anything except, ‘Oh.’
‘And,’ said Will, ‘we – I had to help—’
He swallowed and pressed on.
‘—I had to help dig up Kevin. They put him in the field, first, but they moved him to the vegetable patch instead, to punish Louise – his… mother.’
‘What?’ said Vanessa Ekwensi, her pen hovering over her pad.
‘She tried to… she went to plant flowers on him, in the field,’ said Will, turning red. ‘And someone saw her, and reported her to Mazu. So Mazu said, if she wanted to plant stuff on a Deviate, she could. And they dug him up and put him in the vegetable patch and made Louise plant carrots on him.’
The horrified silence that followed these words was broken by Strike’s mobile buzzing. He glanced at the text he’d received, then looked up at Will.
‘We’ve found Lin: she’s been moved to Birmingham.’
Will looked stunned.
‘They’ve let her out to fundraise?’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘She’s in the church compound, helping look after the babies.’
He answered Shah’s text, giving further instructions, then looked up at the police.
‘Look, we’re not stupid: we know you can’t authorise or even guarantee a massive investigation like this, right now, tonight. But you’ve got two people here who are willing to testify to widespread criminality, and we’re sure there’ll be many more, if only you can get into those church centres and start asking questions. Robin’s ready to go to court about everything she saw, too. There’s going to be glory in this, for whoever takes the UHC down,’ said Strike, ‘and I’ve already got a journalist who’s gagging to run an exposé.’
‘That’s not a threat, is it?’ said Murphy.
‘No,’ said Robin, before Strike could say anything, ‘it’s a fact. If we can’t get a police investigation without the press, we’ll let the journalist have it and try and force one that way. If you’d been in there, as I have, you’d understand exactly why every day the UHC is getting away with it counts.’
After that, Strike noticed with satisfaction, Murphy said nothing more.
At ten o’clock, the meeting broke up, with handshakes all round. Vanessa Ekwensi and Eric Wardle, who’d taken most notes, separately promised to get back to Strike and Robin quickly.
Strike determinedly didn’t watch Murphy kissing Robin goodbye and telling her he’d see her the next day, because she was taking over surveillance on Hampstead from Midge in an hour’s time. However, Strike gained some pleasure from Murphy’s clear unhappiness at leaving his girlfriend alone with her partner.
‘Well,’ said Robin, sitting back down at the table, ‘it went about as well as could be expected, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, not bad,’ said Strike.
‘So what happened in Norfolk?’
‘I got an earful, as expected,’ said Strike. ‘They’re definitely rattled. What about Isaac Mills?’
‘No word yet. He might not fancy meeting me at all.’
‘Don’t despair yet. It’s pretty monotonous in the nick.’
‘D’you think you’ll have to go back to Reaney?’ asked Robin, as the waitress re-entered the room to clear away pint glasses and both detectives got to their feet.
‘Maybe,’ said Strike, ‘but I doubt he’ll talk until he has to.’
They climbed the stairs together, emerging onto Oxford Street, where Strike pulled out his vape pen and took a long-awaited lungful of nicotine.
‘I’m parked up the road. There’s no need to escort me,’ Robin added, correctly guessing what Strike was about to say, ‘it’s still crowded and I definitely wasn’t followed here. I kept checking, all the way.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Strike. ‘Speak tomorrow, then.’
As he set off up the road, Strike’s mobile buzzed again, now with a text from Barclay.
Still no invite
Strike sent two words back.
Keep trying
124
The inferior man is not ashamed of unkindness and does not shrink from injustice. If no advantage beckons he makes no effort.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
The second week of September passed without progress on the UHC case, and no word as to whether the church’s accusation of child abuse against Robin was likely to result in her arrest, which meant she continued to suffer regular stabs of dread every time she thought about it. In slightly better news, both Will and Flora had been invited to give formal statements to the police, and, far more quickly than she’d expected, Robin received word that she’d been put on Isaac Mills’ visitors’ list.
‘S’pose you were right: prison’s boring,’ Robin told Strike, when she called him from outside Hampstead’s office to tell him the good news.
‘Be interesting to know whether he’s got any idea what it’s about,’ said Strike, who was walking away from Chinatown as he spoke.
‘Anyone watching the office today?’
‘No,’ said Strike, ‘but I’ve just followed a friend of yours to the Rupert Court Temple. Saw her from across the street when I was buying vape juice: Becca.’
‘What, out with a collecting tin?’ said Robin. ‘I thought she was too important for that.’
‘No tin. She was just walking along staring at the ground. She unlocked the temple doors and went inside and didn’t come out while I was watching, which was for about half an hour. I had to leave, I’ve got Colin Edensor arriving in twenty minutes; he wants an update on Will. Anyway, very good news on Mills. This Saturday, did you say?’
‘Yes. I’ve never visited a prison before.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. The dress code’s fairly relaxed,’ said Strike, and Robin laughed.
Having seen his 1999 mugshot, Robin hadn’t supposed Isaac Mills would look more attractive or healthy seventeen years later, but she certainly wasn’t expecting the man who shuffled towards her in the Wandsworth visitors’ centre a few days later.
He was, without exception, the most pathetic example of humanity Robin had ever laid eyes on. Though she knew him to be forty-three, he might have been seventy. The small amount of hair he still possessed was dull and grey, and while his skin was bronzed, his hollow face seemed to have collapsed inwards. Most of his teeth were missing, and the few that remained were blackened stumps, while his discoloured fingernails scooped upwards, as if peeling away from his hands. Robin had the macabre thought that she was looking at a man whose proper setting was a coffin, an impression reinforced by the gust of rotten breath that reached her as he sat down.
In the first two minutes of their meeting, Mills told Robin that he never received visits and that he was waiting for a liver transplant. After this, the conversation stalled. When Robin mentioned Carrie – or Cherry, as she’d been when Mills knew her – he informed her that Cherry had been a ‘stupid tart’, then folded his arms and contemplated her with a sneer on his face, his demeanour posing the silent question, What’s in this for me?
Appeals to conscience – ‘Daiyu was only seven when she disappeared. You’ve got children, haven’t you?’ – or to a sense of justice – ‘Kevin’s killer’s still walking around, free, and you could help us catch them’ – elicited nothing at all from the prisoner, though his sunken eyes, with their yellow whites and pinprick pupils, remained fixed on the healthy young woman who sat breathing in his odour of decay.
Uneasily conscious of the time slipping past, Robin tried an appeal to self-interest.
‘If you were to help our investigation, I’m sure it would be taken into account when you come up for parole.’
Mills’ only reaction was a low, unpleasant chuckle. He was serving twelve years for manslaughter; they both knew he was unlikely to live long enough to meet a parole board.
‘We’ve got a journalist who’s very interested in this story,’ she said, resorting in desperation to the tactic Strike had used on the police. ‘Finding out what really happened could help us bring down the church, which—’
‘It’s a cult,’ said Isaac Mills unexpectedly, a further gust of halitosis engulfing Robin. ‘Not a fucking church.’
‘I agree. That’s what’s got the journalist interested. Cherry talked to you about the UHC, then, did she?’
Mills’ only response was a loud sniff.
‘Did Cherry ever mention Daiyu, at all?’
Mills glanced at the large clock over the double doors through which he’d emerged.
Robin was forced to the conclusion that she had indeed been invited to Wandsworth to while away an hour of Mills’ tedious, miserable life. He showed no inclination to get up and leave, presumably because he was enjoying the pathetic pleasure of denying her what she’d come for.
For nearly a minute, Robin contemplated him in silence, thinking. She doubted any hospital would ever be brave enough to put Isaac Mills to the top of a waiting list for a liver, because the newspaper-reading public would doubtless feel such a gift should go to a patient who wasn’t an addict or a serial burglar and hadn’t been convicted of several stabbings, one of them fatal. At last, she said,
‘You understand that if you were to help this investigation, it would be publicised. You’d have helped put an end to something huge, and criminal. The fact that you’re ill would be publicised, too. Some of the people trapped inside the cult have wealthy families, people of influence. Let’s be honest – you haven’t got a prayer of a new liver unless something changes.’
He glanced at her, his sneer more pronounced.
‘You’re not gonna get that cult,’ he said, ‘whatever I tell you.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Robin. ‘Just because Cherry didn’t drown Daiyu, doesn’t mean she didn’t do something nearly as bad. None of it could have happened without her collusion.’
By the tiniest tremor at the corner of Mills’ mouth, she could tell he was listening more closely.
‘What you don’t appreciate,’ said Robin, forcing herself to lean forwards, even though it meant getting closer to the source of Mills’ disgusting breath, ‘is that the cult centres around Daiyu’s death. They’ve turned her into a prophet who vanished in the sea, only to come back to life again. They’re pretending she materialises in their temple. Proof that she never really drowned means their religion’s founded on a lie. And if you’re the one who provides that proof, a lot of people, some of them very rich, are going to be deeply invested in you being well enough to testify. You might be their last hope of seeing their family members again.’
She had his full attention now. Mills sat in silence for a few more seconds before saying,
‘She never done it.’
‘Done what?’
‘Killed Dayoo, or whatever her name was.’
‘So what really happened?’ said Robin, taking the top off her pen.
This time, Isaac Mills answered.
125
The way opens; the hindrance has been cleared away.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Forty minutes later, Robin emerged from Wandsworth Prison in a state of elation. Pulling her mobile out of her bag, she noticed with frustration that it was almost out of power: either it hadn’t charged properly at Murphy’s the previous evening or, which she thought more likely given its age, she needed a new phone. Waiting until she was out of the vicinity of the stream of families now exiting the building, she called Strike.
‘You were right,’ said Robin. ‘Carrie confessed nearly all of it to Mills, mostly whenever she got drunk. He says she’d always deny it when she sobered up, but basically, he’s confirmed everything, except—’
‘Who planned it.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Because she was still scared enough of them to kill herself twenty-one years later.’
‘But Mills is very clear it was all a put-up job. Carrie faked the drowning, Daiyu was never on the beach. I know it’s not enough, hearsay from a dead woman—’
‘Still can’t hurt,’ said Strike. ‘Will he testify?’
‘Yes, but only because he’s got hemo-something and thinks he might get a new liver out of it.’
‘A new what?’
‘Liver,’ said Robin loudly, now heading for the bus stop.
‘I’ll get him one out of Aldi. Listen, have you seen the—?’
