The following morning, Strike’s bathroom scales informed him that he was now a mere eight pounds off his target weight. This boost to his morale enabled him to resist the temptation of stopping for a doughnut at the service station en route to HMP Bedford.
The prison was an ugly building of red and yellow brick. After queuing to present his visiting permit, he and the rest of the families and friends were shown into a visitors’ hall that resembled a white and green gym, with square tables set at evenly spaced intervals. Strike recognised Reaney, who was already seated, from across the room.
The prisoner, who was wearing jeans and a grey sweatshirt, looked what he undoubtedly was: a dangerous man. Over six feet tall, thin but broad-shouldered, his head was shaven and his teeth a yellowish brown. Almost every visible inch of his skin was tattooed, including his throat, which was covered by a tiger’s face, and part of his gaunt face, where an ace of spades adorned most of his left cheek.
As Strike sat down opposite him, Reaney glanced towards a large black prisoner watching him in silence from a table away, and in those few seconds Strike noticed a series of tattooed lines, three broken, three solid, on the back of Reaney’s left hand, and also saw that the ace of spades tattoo was partially concealing what looked like an old facial scar.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ said Strike, as the prisoner turned to look at him.
Reaney grunted. He blinked, Strike noticed, in an exaggerated fashion, keeping his eyes closed a fraction longer than was usual. The effect was strange, as though his large, thick-lashed, bright blue eyes were surprised to find themselves in such a face.
‘As I said on the phone,’ said Strike, drawing out his notebook, ‘I’m after information on the Universal Humanitarian Church.’
Reaney folded his arms across his chest, and placed both hands beneath his armpits.
‘How old were you when you joined?’ asked Strike.
‘Seven’een.’
‘What made you join?’
‘Needed somewhere to kip.’
‘Bit out of your way, Norfolk. You grew up in Tower Hamlets, right?’
Reaney looked unhappy that Strike knew this.
‘I was on’y in Tower ’Amlets from when I was twelve.’
‘Where were you before that?’
‘Wiv me mum, in Norfolk.’ Reaney swallowed, and his prominent Adam’s apple caused the tiger tattooed on his throat to ripple. ‘After she died I ’ad to go to London, live wiv me old man. Then I was in care, then I was ’omeless for a bit, then I went to Chapman Farm.’
‘Born in Norfolk, then?’
‘Yeah.’
This explained how a young man of Reaney’s background had ended up in deep countryside. Strike’s experience of Reaney’s type was that they rarely, if ever, broke free of the gravitational pull of the capital.
‘Did you have family there?’
‘Nah. Jus’ fancied a change.’
‘Police after you?’
‘They usually were,’ said Reaney, unsmiling.
‘How did you hear about Chapman Farm?’
‘Me an’ anuvver kid was sleeping rough in Norwich an’ we met a couple of girls collecting for the UHC. They got us into it.’
‘Was the other kid Paul Draper?’
‘Yeah,’ said Reaney, again with displeasure that Strike knew so much.
‘What d’you think made the girls from the UHC so keen to recruit two men sleeping rough?’
‘Needed people to do the ’eavy stuff on the farm.’
‘You had to join the church, as a condition of living there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How long did you stay?’
‘Free years.’
‘Long time, at that age,’ said Strike.
‘I liked the animals,’ said Reaney.
‘But not the pigs, as we’ve already established.’
Reaney ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, blinked hard, then said,
‘No. They stink.’
‘Thought they were supposed to be clean?’
‘You fort wrong.’
‘D’you often have bad dreams about things, because they stink?’
‘I jus’ don’ like pigs.’
‘Nothing to do with the pig “acting in the abysmal”?’
‘Wha’?’ said Reaney.
‘I’ve been told the pig has a particular significance in the I Ching.’
‘In the wha’?’
‘The book where you got the hexagram tattooed on the back of your left hand. Can I have a look?’
Reaney complied, though unwillingly, pulling his hand out from under his armpit and extending it towards Strike.
‘Which hexagram’s that?’ asked Strike.
Reaney looked as though he’d rather not answer, but finally said,
‘Fifty-six.’
‘What does it mean?’
Reaney blinked hard twice before muttering.
‘The wanderer.’
‘Why the wanderer?’
‘Made a believer of you, did they?’
Reaney said nothing.
‘No opinion on the UHC’s religion?’
Reaney cast another glance towards the large prisoner at the next table, who wasn’t talking to his visitor, but glaring at Reaney. With an irritable movement of his shoulders, Reaney muttered unwillingly,
‘I seen fings.’
‘Like what?’
