All of this should have been gratifying to Robin, and she was indeed deeply relieved that the so-called church appeared to have been dealt a mortal blow, but she found the endless news coverage far more traumatising than she’d expected. She’d rather not have been reminded about the Retreat Rooms, where cult members demonstrated their spiritual purity by having unprotected sex with anyone who wanted it; she’d have liked to expunge from her mind all memories of the five-sided Temple where she’d been almost drowned; she’d have been delighted never again to see the pictures of the dark woods that kept being shown in the papers.
And, of course, it was impossible to completely extinguish all trace of the agency’s role in bringing down the cult. While there were enough sordid details of what had gone on at Chapman Farm to keep journalists busy for months, and nobody except those very closest to the investigation knew the specifics of what Robin had gone through, there’d been press calls to the agency’s office, and her name, and that of the agency, had been mentioned in some of the coverage. An enterprising young tabloid reporter had tried to badger Robin into comment as she came and went from Denmark Street, until he was literally chased off by one of the agency’s subcontractors, Midge, who advised the man ‘get the fook out of it, she’s got nothing to fookin’ tell you, you fookin’ prick’.
Robin worked steadily through all of this, determined not to admit to anyone how fragile she felt about it all. By her own choice, there’d only been a one-week break to decompress after those months of non-stop, high-stress work, but she hadn’t wanted to add extra hormones to what she privately acknowledged to herself was a very shaky state of mind. So her pills had remained in her dressing table drawer for the time being, although she’d looked up the efficacy of condoms before deciding to rely on them for a while (she hadn’t left everything to chance) and they were ninety-eight per cent effective, if used correctly.
If used correctly.
Robin’s mobile rang again. She stretched out a hand, picked it up and saw Strike’s number. Glancing towards the glass panel in the door, in case another medic was about to walk in, and glad of a chance to think about something other than her fallopian tubes, she decided to risk it, and answered.
‘Hi,’ said Strike. ‘How’s the throat? Can you talk? If not, I’ll email you later.’
‘I can talk,’ said Robin. Her voice was slightly hoarse, because the hospital room was so warm, which was helpful to her cover story. ‘I’m really sorry I couldn’t drive you. Where are you?’
‘Parked outside a pub called the Fox,’ said Strike, watching the rain splattering on his windscreen. ‘I’ve just left Decima Mullins.’
‘How was she?’
‘There’s no single-word answer for that,’ said Strike. ‘I want your opinion.’
He described the interview he’d just had, outlining Decima’s theory that her boyfriend had been the body found in the vault of a silver shop in Holborn.
‘Oh God,’ said Robin, when Strike had finished speaking. ‘Poor woman. So we’re supposed to track down Rupert Fleetwood for her?’
‘Nope,’ said Strike.
‘What?’
‘She’s very clear about the fact that she doesn’t want him found alive. Any time I came close to hinting he might just have buggered off because of all the trouble he’d got himself into, she had another meltdown. We’re in proper Gateshead territory. It’s identify that body, or nothing.’
‘Tell me about this murder at the silver shop,’ Robin said. She’d been undercover at the cult without access to news in June, and this was the first she’d heard of it.
‘Salesman calling himself William Wright was hired to work at Ramsay Silver, which he did until he was found dead in the vault two weeks later. Police theory is, he went back with accomplices by night to rob the place, but a fight broke out and he was killed. I remember thinking the story was a bit off when I read it—’
‘How was it off?’ asked Robin.
