The Running Grave полностью

He sat watching the entrance to the facility for twenty minutes, but the brothers didn’t emerge. After a while, knowing he’d hear the van starting up again, he did something he’d so far resisted doing, and Googled ‘Charlotte Campbell funeral’ on his phone.

Since the newspaper-reading public had learned of Charlotte’s death, further details of her suicide had leaked into the papers. Thus Strike knew that Charlotte had taken a cocktail of drink and anti-depressants before slitting her wrists and bleeding out in a bath. The cleaner had found the bathroom door locked at nine o’clock in the morning and, having pounded on it and shouted to no avail, called the police, who’d broken into the room. Much as he’d have preferred it not to, Strike’s imagination insisted on showing him a vivid picture of Charlotte submerged in her own blood, her black hair floating on the clotted surface.

He’d wondered where the family would choose as Charlotte’s final resting place. Her late father’s family had been Scottish, whereas her mother, Tara, had been born and lived in London. When Strike learned from The Times that Charlotte would be buried in Brompton Cemetery, one of the smartest in the capital, he knew Tara must have been given the casting vote. The choice of Brompton also ensured publicity, for which Tara had always had a weakness. Thus Strike was able to scan through photographs of the mourners on the Daily Mail website as he sat in the dark.

Many of the black-clad people who’d left Charlotte’s funeral earlier that day were familiar to him: Viscount Jago Ross, Charlotte’s ex-husband, looking as ever like a dissolute arctic fox; her floppy-haired stepbrother, Valentine Longcaster; Sacha Legard, her handsome half-brother, who was an actor; Madeline Courson-Miles, the jewellery designer Strike had previously dated; Izzy Chiswell, one of Charlotte’s old schoolfriends; Ciara Porter, a model with whom Strike had once had a one-night stand; and even Henry Worthington-Fields, the skinny red-headed man who’d worked at Charlotte’s favourite antiques shop. Unsurprisingly, Landon Dormer was conspicuous by his absence.

Strike hadn’t received an invitation to the funeral, not that this bothered him: as far as he was concerned, he’d said his farewells in the small Norfolk church overlooking Chapman Farm. In any case, given his personal history with some of the people who’d have been his fellow mourners, the funeral would undoubtedly have been one of the most uncomfortable occasions of his life.

The last photograph in the Mail article featured Tara. From what Strike could see through the thick black veil on her hat, her once-beautiful features had been severely distorted by what looked like overuse of cosmetic fillers. She was flanked on one side by her fourth husband and on the other by Charlotte’s only full sibling, Amelia, who was two years older than his ex-fiancée. This was the sister who’d called Strike’s office on the morning after Charlotte’s suicide had been announced to the press and who, on learning from Pat that Strike was unavailable, had simply hung up. Amelia had made no contact with Strike since, nor had he tried to contact her. If the rumour that Charlotte had left a suicide note was true, he was happy to remain in ignorance of what it said.

The noise of a slamming car door made him look up. The Frank brothers had emerged from the facility and were now attempting to make their cold van start. On the fourth attempt, it sputtered into life, and Strike tailed them back to their block of flats. The lights in their flat went out after twenty more minutes and Strike turned back to the news on his phone, to kill time until Shah arrived to take over from him at eight.

The Brexit referendum might be over, but the subject continued to dominate the headlines. Strike scrolled down past these articles without opening them, vaping, until, with misgivings, he saw another familiar face: that of Bijou Watkins.

The picture, which had been taken as she left her flat, showed Bijou wearing a tight peacock blue dress that emphasised her figure. Her dark hair was freshly styled, she was expertly made up as usual and carried a glossy briefcase in her hand. Beside Bijou’s picture was another, of a stout, bare-faced and frizzy-haired woman in an unflattering evening dress of pink satin, who was named as Lady Matilda Honbold in the caption. Above the two photos was the headline: Andrew ‘Honey Badger’ Honbold to Divorce.

Strike skim-read the article below, and in paragraph four found what he’d feared: his own name.