The Running Grave полностью

In a column on the left-hand side were pictures of people Strike was still trying to locate. At the top were the pictures of the girl who’d variously called herself Carine, Cherie and Cherry, and a printout of the Facebook profile of Carrie Curtis Woods, who he hoped might prove to be the same person.

Beneath Cherie’s pictures was a photo of dark-haired and tanned Jacob Messenger, who stood posing on a beach in his swimming shorts, tensing his abdominal muscles and beaming at the camera. Strike now knew Messenger’s brief flicker of fame had peaked when he came third on a reality show, for which this was a publicity picture. Jacob’s trial and imprisonment for driving under the influence had put his name back in the papers, and his last press appearance had featured photos of him at a UHC addiction services clinic, wearing a tight white T-shirt with the UHC’s logo on it, and announcing how much he’d gained from joining the church. Since then, he’d disappeared from public view.

Strike got to his feet, tore out the page with Jacob Messenger Germany? written on it and pinned it beside the young man’s photo, before picking up Robin’s letter again and re-reading the lines about Jacob. Shawna also said something about Jacob being the reason Papa J won’t have kids with Becca. I didn’t understand that, will try and find out more. She says Jacob’s [illegible] by the devil. Frowning slightly, Strike looked from the letter to the picture of beaming Jacob, with his tropical print swimming trunks and bright white teeth, wondering whether Messenger was indeed the Jacob lying ill at Chapman Farm, and if so, how this fact could possibly relate to Jonathan Wace’s lack of interest in having children with Becca Pirbright.

His gaze moved to the next picture in the left-hand column: the faded photo of bespectacled Deirdre Doherty. In spite of Strike’s best efforts, he still hadn’t found any trace of Deirdre online or off.

The bottom picture on the left-hand side of the board was a drawing: Torment Town’s strange depiction of a fair-haired woman in glasses floating in a dark pool. Strike was still trying to find the true identity of Torment Town, who’d finally responded to his online message.

To Strike’s comment, Amazing pictures. Do you draw from imagination? the anonymous artist had written:

Thanks. Kind of.

Strike had replied:

You’re really talented. You should do a comic book. Horror.

To which Torment Town had responded,

Nobody would want to read that lol

Strike had then said,

You really don’t like the UHC, do you?

But to this, Torment Town had made no reply. Strike was afraid he’d come to the point too quickly and regretted, not for the first time, that he couldn’t set Robin to work on extracting confidences out of whoever had drawn these pictures. Robin was good at building trust online, as she’d proven when she’d persuaded a teenager to give her vital information in one of their previous cases.

Strike closed Pinterest and opened Facebook instead. Carrie Curtis Woods still hadn’t accepted his follower request.

With a sigh, he pushed himself reluctantly up from his chair, and carried his mug of tea and vape pen into the outer office, where Pat sat typing, e-cigarette clamped between her teeth as usual.

‘All right,’ Strike said, sitting down on the red sofa opposite Pat’s desk, ‘let’s hear these threats.’

Pat pressed a button on her desk phone, and Charlotte’s voice, slurred with drink as Strike had expected, filled the room.

‘’S me, pick up, you fucking coward. Pick up…’

A few moments’ silence, then Charlotte’s voice came almost in a shout.

‘OK, then, I’ll leave a fucking message for your precious fucking Robin to hear when she picks up your messages, before giving you your morning blow job. I was there when your leg got blown off, even though we were split up, I stayed with you an’ I visit’d you ev’ry single day, an’ I gave you a place to stay when your whole shitty family gave up on you, and ev’ryone around me saying, “You know he’s on the make” an’ “What’re you doing, he’s an abusive shit?” an’ I wouldn’t listen, even after ev’rything you’d done to me, I was there for you, an’ now when I need a friend you can’t even fucking meet me fr’a coffee when I’ve got fucking cancer, you fucking leech, you user, an’ I’m still protecting you to the fucking press even though I could tell them things that’d fucking finish you, I could finish you if I told them, and why should I be fucking loyal wh—’

A loud beep cut the message off. Pat’s expression was impassive. There was a click, then a second message began.