The kindly sheep-faced man had reappeared. As he made his way back down the aisle, he paused uncertainly beside Strike.
‘I hope you’ve found what you needed.’
‘I have,’ said Strike. ‘Thank you.’
As Strike saw no reason to inform Robin either of Charlotte’s suicide or his detour to St John the Baptist in his next letter, she only knew that he’d been to Cromer to interview the Heatons. Learning that her partner passed within a mile of Chapman Farm on his way to the coast made Robin feel even lonelier. She, too, thought back to the two seaside towns they’d visited together in the course of previous investigations, especially the dinner in Whitstable: the white coral on the mantelpieces set against slate-coloured walls, and the sight of Strike laughing opposite her, framed against a window through which she watched the sea turning indigo in the fading light. Luckily, Robin’s tiredness curtailed a tendency to dwell on or analyse the feelings these memories evoked.
She read his account of his interview with the Heatons three times by torchlight, wanting to be absolutely sure she remembered all of it before tearing it up. Now even more determined to find out as much as she could about Daiyu’s death, Robin resolved to renew her efforts to befriend Emily Pirbright, a task far easier planned than accomplished. Over the next few days, she tried and failed to place herself within Emily’s vicinity until, a week after receiving Strike’s last letter, an unexpected opportunity arose.
Robin was approached at breakfast by the young man with short dreadlocks, who informed her she’d be joining a group going into Norwich that morning to collect money for the church.
‘Tidy yourself up,’ he told her. ‘There’ll be a clean tracksuit on your bed. The minibus leaves in half an hour.’
Robin had become used to casual mention of lengths of time that were impossible to measure for ordinary church members, and had learned it was safest to assume the instruction meant ‘do it as quickly as possible’. In consequence, she gulped down the rest of her porridge rather than trying, as she usually did, to make it last.
When she entered the dormitory she saw fresh tracksuits laid out on their beds, which were no longer scarlet but white. From this, Robin deduced that the church had now moved into the season of the Drowned Prophet. Then she spotted Emily, who was pulling off her red top.
‘Oh, you’re coming too, Emily?’ said Vivienne in surprise, when she entered the dormitory a couple of minutes after Robin. Emily threw Vivienne an unfriendly look as she turned away, tugging on a clean sweatshirt.
Robin deliberately left the dormitory alongside the silent Emily, hoping to sit beside her on the minibus, but they’d gone only a few yards when Robin heard a male voice calling, ‘Rowena!’
Robin turned and her spirits plummeted: Taio had returned to the farm. He, too, was wearing a clean white tracksuit, and appeared to have washed his hair for once.
‘Hello,’ Robin said, trying to look happy to see him, as Emily walked on, head down, arms folded.
‘I chose you to come out with the fundraising group today,’ Taio said, beckoning her to walk with him across the courtyard, ‘because I’ve been thinking about you while I was away, thinking you should be given a few more opportunities to demonstrate a change in thinking. I hear you donated to the church, incidentally. Very generous.’
‘No,’ said Robin, who wasn’t going to fall into the kind of trap the church elders regularly set for the unwary, ‘it wasn’t generous. You were right, I should have done it earlier.’
‘Good girl,’ said Taio, reaching out and massaging the back of her neck, causing gooseflesh to rise on Robin’s back and arms again. ‘On the other matter,’ he said in a lower voice, his hand still resting on her neck, ‘I’m going to wait for you to come to me, and ask for spirit bonding. That will show a real change of attitude, a real abandonment of egomotivity.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, unable to look at him. She saw Emily glance back at the pair of them, her face expressionless.
