‘There are nappies in there,’ whispered Louise, tears still leaking out of her eyes as she pointed at one of the cardboard boxes, ‘and wipes over there. He won’t need food… give him water in a sippy cup.’ She pointed to one on the window sill. ‘Leave the newspaper down… he sometimes vomits. He has… he has fits sometimes, as well. Try and stop him banging himself on the bars. And there’s a bathroom opposite if you need it.’
Louise dragged herself to her feet and stood for a moment, looking down at the dying child. To Robin’s surprise, she pressed her fingers to her mouth, kissed them, then placed them gently on Jacob’s forehead. Then, in silence, she left the room.
Robin moved slowly towards the hard wooden chair Louise had vacated, her eyes on Jacob, and sat down.
The boy was clearly on the brink of death. This was the most monstrous thing she’d yet seen at Chapman Farm, and she didn’t understand why today, of all days, she’d been sent to care for him. Why order somebody in here who’d lied and broken church rules, and who’d admitted questioning their allegiance to the church?
Exhausted though she was, Robin thought she knew the answer. She was being made complicit in Jacob’s fate. Perhaps the Waces knew, in some long-repressed part of themselves, that hiding this child away, starving him and giving him no access to medical care except the ‘spirit work’ provided by Zhou would be considered criminal in the outside world. Those sent to watch over his steady decline, and who didn’t seek help for him, would surely be considered guilty by the authorities beyond Chapman Farm, if they ever found out what had happened. Robin was being further enfolded in self-silencing, damned by virtue of being in this room, and not seeking help for the child. He might die while she was watching over him, in which case the Waces would have something over her, forever. They’d say it was her fault, no matter the truth.
Quietly and completely unconsciously, Robin began to whisper.
‘
With an effort, she stopped herself.
Knowing he couldn’t remain in the vicinity of Chapman Farm by daylight without getting his car caught on camera, and certain Robin wouldn’t be able to reach the perimeter until night fell again, Strike had checked himself into one of the guest cabins of nearby Felbrigg Lodge, the only hotel for miles around. He’d intended to catch a few hours’ sleep, yet he, who was usually able to nap on any surface, including floors, found himself far too tightly wound to relax even when lying on the four-poster bed. It felt too incongruous to be lying in a comfortable, genteel room with leaf-patterned cream wallpaper, tartan curtains, a plethora of cushions and a ceramic stag head over the mantelpiece, when his thoughts were this agitated.
He’d talked blithely of ‘coming in the front’ if Robin was out of contact this long, but the absence of the plastic rock made him fear that she’d been identified as a private detective and had now been taken hostage. Taking out his phone, he looked up satellite pictures of Chapman Farm. There were a lot of buildings there, and Strike thought it odds on that some of them had basements or hidden rooms.
He could, of course, contact the police, but Robin had voluntarily entered the church and he might have to jump through a lot of procedural hoops to persuade them it was worth getting a warrant. Strike hadn’t forgotten that there were also UHC centres in Birmingham and Glasgow to which his partner might have been relocated. What if she became the new Deirdre Doherty, of whom no trace could be found, even though the church claimed she’d left thirteen years previously?
Strike’s mobile rang: Barclay.
‘What’s happening?’
‘She didn’t show up last night, either.’
‘Fuck,’ said Barclay. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘I’ll give it tonight, but if she doesn’t show, I’ll call the police.’
‘Aye,’ said Barclay, ‘ye’d better.’
When Barclay had hung up, Strike lay for a while, still telling himself he should sleep while he could, but after twenty minutes he gave up. Having made himself a cup of tea with the kettle provided, he stood for a few minutes looking out of one of the windows, through which he could see a wooden hot tub belonging to his cabin.
His mobile rang again: Shanker.
‘What’s up?’
‘You owe me a monkey.’
‘You’ve got intel on Reaney’s phone call?’
‘Yeah. It was made from a number wiv area code 01263. Woman contacted the prison, said she was ’is wife and it was urgent—’
‘It was definitely a woman?’ said Strike, scribbling down the number.
