The Running Grave полностью

Abigail dashed angry tears out of her eyes. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes until, abruptly, Abigail threw back the last of her fourth glass of wine and said,

‘Come ou’side wiv me, I wanna fag.’

They left the pub together, Abigail’s gym bag and coat slung over her shoulder. It was cold outside, with a stiff breeze blowing. Abigail drew her coat more closely around herself, leaned up against the brick wall, lit a Marlboro Light, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke up at the stars. She seemed to regain her composure as she smoked. When Strike said,

‘I had you figured as a keep-fit buff,’ she answered dreamily, eyes on the sky,

‘I am. When I’m workin’ ou’, I’m workin’ out. An’ when I’m partyin’, I’m partyin’ ’ard. An’ when I’m workin’, I’m fuckin’ good at it… There isn’ enough time in the world,’ she said, looking sideways at him, ‘to not be at Chapman Farm. Y’know what I mean?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I think I do.’

She looked at him, a little blearily, and she was so tall they were almost eye to eye.

‘You’re kinda sexy.’

‘And you’re definitely drunk.’

She laughed and pushed herself off the wall.

‘Should’ve eaten after the gym… shoulda drunk some water. See ya, Crameron – Cormarion – wha’ever your fucking name is.’

And with a gesture of farewell, she walked away.

Thus in all his transactions the superior man

Carefully considers the beginning.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Strike arrived back in Denmark Street a little after ten, having done some food shopping on the way. After a joyless dinner of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables, he decided to move down into the deserted office to pursue the train of thought engendered by his interview with Abigail Glover. He told himself this was because it was easier to work at the PC than at his laptop, but was dimly aware of a desire to sit at the partners’ desk, where he and Robin often faced each other.

The familiar sounds of traffic grumbling past on Charing Cross Road mingled with occasional shouts and laughter from passers-by as Strike opened the folder on his computer in which he’d already saved the account of Daiyu Wace’s drowning he’d found in the British Library archives, which gave him access to decades’ worth of press reports, including those in local papers.

The child’s death had merited only brief mentions in the nationals, though not all of them had carried the story. However, north Norfolk papers the Lynn Advertiser and the Diss Express had printed fuller reports. Strike now re-read them.

Daiyu Wace had drowned early in the morning of 29 July 1995, during what was described as an impromptu swim with a seventeen-year-old girl described as her babysitter.

The Lynne Advertiser’s article carried pictures of the two girls. Even allowing for the blurry effect of newsprint, Daiyu was distinctly rabbity in appearance, with an overbite emphasised by a missing tooth, dark, narrow eyes and long, shining hair. Cherie Gittins’ picture showed a teenaged girl with crimped blonde curls and what looked like an affected smile.

The facts given in both papers were identical. Cherie and Daiyu had decided to take a swim, Daiyu had got into difficulties, Cherie had tried to reach her, but the child had been pulled out of reach by a powerful current. Cherie had then exited the water and tried to raise the alarm. She’d hailed passers-by Mr and Mrs Heaton of Garden Street, Cromer, and Mr Heaton had hurried off to alert the coastguard while Mrs Heaton remained with Cherie. Mr Heaton was quoted as saying that he and his wife had seen ‘a hysterical young woman running towards us in her underwear’ and that they’d realised something was very amiss upon spotting the pile of discarded child’s clothing lying on the pebbles a short distance away.

Strike, who was Cornish-born, with an uncle in the coastguard, knew more about tides and drowning than the average person. A rip current such as Daiyu appeared to have swum into could have carried away a seven-year-old child with ease, especially as she’d have had neither the strength nor, presumably, the knowledge that she should swim parallel to the shore to escape the danger, rather than trying to fight a force that would challenge even a powerful and experienced sea bather. The article in the Diss Express concluded by quoting a lifeguard who gave precisely that advice to those unlucky enough to find themselves in a similar situation. Strike also knew that the gases that cause bodies to rise to the surface form far more slowly in cold water. Even in late July, the early morning North Sea would have been very chilly, and if the small body had been dragged out into deep water and sank to the sea bed, it might soon have been stripped by crustaceans, fish and sea lice. Strike had heard such stories as a child from his uncle.