‘Jus’ fings what they could do.’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘Them. That Jonafun an’… is she still alive?’ asked Reaney. ‘Mazu?’
‘Why wouldn’t she be?’
Reaney didn’t answer.
‘What things did you see the Waces do?’
‘Jus’… makin’ stuff disappear. An’… spirits an’ stuff.’
‘Spirits?’
‘I seen ’er make a spirit appear.’
‘What did the spirit look like?’ asked Strike.
‘Like a ghost,’ said Reaney, his expression daring Strike to find this funny. ‘In temple. I seen it. Like… transparent.’
Reaney gave another hard blink, then said,
‘You talked to anyone else ’oo was in there?’
‘Did you believe the ghost was real?’ Strike asked, ignoring Reaney’s question.
‘I dunno – yeah, maybe,’ said Reaney. ‘You weren’ fuckin’ there,’ he added, with a slight show of temper, but after a glance over Strike’s head at a hovering warder, he added, with effortful calmness, ‘but maybe it was a trick. I dunno.’
‘I heard Mazu forced you to whip yourself across the face,’ said Strike, watching Reaney closely, and sure enough, a tremor passed over the prisoner’s face. ‘What had you done?’
‘Smacked a bloke called Graves.’
‘Alexander Graves?’
Reaney looked still more uncomfortable at this further evidence Strike had done his homework.
‘Yeah.’
‘Why did you smack him?’
‘’E was a tit.’
‘In what way?’
‘Fuckin’ annoying. Talkin’ fuckin’ gibberish all the time. An’ ’e got in me face a lot. It got on me wick so one night, yeah, I smacked ’im. But we weren’ s’posed to get angry wiv each ovver in there. Bruvverly love,’ said Reaney, ‘an’ all that shit.’
‘You don’t strike me as a man who’d agree to whip himself.’
Reaney said nothing.
‘Is that scar on your face from the whipping?’
Still Reaney didn’t speak.
‘What was she threatening you with, to make you whip yourself?’ asked Strike. ‘The police? Did Mazu Wace know you had a criminal record?’
Again, those bright blue, thickly lashed eyes blinked, hard, but at last Reaney spoke.
‘Yeah.’
‘How did they know?’
‘You ’ad to confess stuff. In front of the group.’
‘And you told them you were on the run from the police?’
‘Said I’d ’ad some trouble. You got… sucked in,’ said Reaney. The tiger rippled again. ‘You can’ unnerstand, unless you was part of it. ’Oo else you spoken to, ’oo was in there?’
‘A few people,’ said Strike.
‘’Oo?’
‘Why d’you want to know?’
‘Wondered, tha’s all.’
‘Who would you say you were closest to, at Chapman Farm?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Because “the wanderer has few friends”?’
Possibly because no other form of retaliation to this mild sarcasm was possible, Reaney freed his right hand to pick his nose. After examining his fingertip, then flicking the result of this operation away onto the floor, he reinserted his hand back under his armpit and glared at Strike.
‘Me an’ Dopey was mates.’
‘
‘Don’ remember that.’
‘Really? It was going to be a whipping, but two girls stole the whip, so church members were instructed to beat him up instead.’
‘Don’ remember that,’ repeated Reaney.
‘My information is, the beating was so severe it might’ve left Draper with brain damage.’
Reaney chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, then repeated,
‘You weren’ fuckin’ there.’
‘I know,’ said Strike, ‘which is why I’m asking you what happened.’
‘Dopey wasn’t all there before ’e got beat up,’ said Reaney, but he looked as though he regretted these words as soon as they’d escaped him and added forcefully, ‘You can’t pin Draper on me. There was a ton of people kicking and punching him. Wha’re you after, anyway?’
‘So you weren’t friendly with anyone except Draper, at Chapman Farm?’ asked Strike, ignoring Reaney’s question.
‘No,’ said Reaney.
‘Did you know Cherie Gittins?’
‘Knew ’er a bit.’
Strike detected unease in Reaney’s tone.
‘Would you happen to know where she went, after she left Chapman Farm?’
‘No idea.’
‘What about Abigail Wace, did you know her?’
‘A bit,’ repeated Reaney, still looking uneasy.
‘What about Kevin Pirbright?’
‘No.’
‘He’d have been a kid when you were there.’
‘I didn’t ’ave nuffing to do with the kids.’
‘Has Kevin Pirbright contacted you lately?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m fucking sure. I know ’oo’s contacted me an’ ’oo ’asn’t.’
‘He was writing a book about the UHC. I’d have expected him to try and find you. He remembered you.’
‘So wha’? ’E never found me.’
‘Pirbright was shot and killed in his flat, last August.’
‘I was in ’ere last August. ’Ow’m I s’posed to ’ave fuckin’ shot ’im?’
‘There was a two-month period when Kevin was alive and writing his book, and you were still at liberty.’
‘So?’ said Reaney again, blinking furiously.
‘Kevin’s laptop was stolen by his killer.’
‘I’ve just told you, I was in ’ere when ’e was shot, so ’ow’m I s’posed to ’ave nicked ’is fucking laptop?’
‘I’m not suggesting you stole it. I’m telling you that whoever’s got that laptop probably knows whether or not you spoke to Pirbright. It’s not difficult to get a password out of someone, if you’re pointing a gun at them.’
‘I dunno what you’re fuckin’ talkin’ about,’ said Reaney. ‘I never spoke to ’im.’
