The Running Grave полностью

‘When I give the word, you’ll leave the gym alone. I want to get them on film trying to get you into that van. We won’t let it happen, but I can’t guarantee you won’t have an unpleasant few seconds and possibly a bruise or two.’

‘I’m an actress,’ said Tasha, with a shaky little laugh. ‘I’ll just pretend someone’s going to yell “cut”.’

‘That would be me,’ said Strike. ‘All right, hand me back to Midge.’

When Tasha had done so, Strike said,

‘I want you to leave the gym now, alone, walk straight up the cul-de-sac and take up a good vantage point behind their van, but somewhere where they can’t see you until things hot up. I want this on camera in case it doesn’t get picked up on CCTV.’

‘Could Barclay not do that and I’ll—?’

‘What did I just say?’

‘Fine,’ said Midge huffily, and rang off.

Strike turned into the road where Tasha’s gym was, parked, then called Barclay.

‘Move so you’ll be walking towards Tasha when they come at her. I’ll be behind her. I’ll let you know when she’s on her way.’

‘Righto,’ said Barclay.

Strike watched Midge leaving the gym in the gathering darkness. He could just make out Barclay, ambling along on the other side of the road. He waited until both had vanished from view, then got out of the BMW and phoned Tasha.

‘Head for the door but don’t come out until I tell you. You’ll have me right behind you, and Barclay ahead. Pretend to be texting. Midge is already behind their van. They’ve chosen a place where they shouldn’t see either of us coming.’

‘OK,’ said Tasha nervously.

‘Right,’ said Strike, now fifteen yards from the gym entrance, ‘go.’

Tasha emerged from the gym, a bag over her shoulder, head bowed over her phone. Strike followed, keeping a short distance between himself and the actress. His mobile rang again: he pulled it out, refused the call and shoved it back into his pocket.

Tasha was approaching the cul-de-sac. As she passed beneath a street light, Strike heard the van doors open.

The balaclavaed men were running, the foremost with a large mallet in his gloved hand. As he broke into a run, Strike heard Barclay bellow ‘OI!’ and Tasha’s scream.

Barclay’s shout had caused the mallet-holder to check – Strike’s hands closed on Tasha’s shoulders – as he pushed her sideways, the unwieldy weapon missed her by three feet; Strike, too, dodged it, his left hand already in a fist, which hit the wool-covered jaw so hard his victim let out a high-pitched squeak and fell backwards onto the pavement, where he lay momentarily stunned, his arms outstretched like Christ.

‘Stay down,’ snarled Strike, smacking his own victim again as he attempted to scramble to his feet. Barclay’s man was gripping the Scot round the waist in a fruitless attempt to evade the former’s punches, but as Strike watched, Frank Two’s legs gave way.

‘Search the van,’ Strike called to Midge, who’d come running out of her hiding place, her mobile still held up, recording, ‘see if there are restraints – stay fucking down,’ he added, hitting the first brother in the head again.

‘AND YOU,’ yelled Barclay, whose own Frank had just attempted to punch him in the balls and who’d got a boot in the diaphragm in return.

‘Oh my God,’ muttered Tasha, who’d picked up the mallet. She looked from Barclay’s groaning victim, who was lying in the foetal position, to Strike’s motionless one. ‘Is he – have you knocked him out?’

‘No,’ said Strike, because he’d just seen the balaclavaed man readjust his position slightly. ‘He’s faking, silly bastard. It’s called reasonable force, arsehole,’ he added to the prone figure, as Midge came running back with several black plastic security restraints.

‘Might not need tae call the police ourselves,’ said Barclay, glancing across the road at a dogwalker with a cocker spaniel, who stood immobile, transfixed by the scene.

‘All the better,’ said Strike, who was forcing his struggling Frank’s wrists together, the man having stopped pretending to be unconscious. This done, Strike pulled off the balaclava to see the familiar high forehead, squint and thinning hair.

‘Well,’ said Strike, ‘that didn’t go the way you thought it would, did it?’

In an unexpectedly high voice, the man said,

‘I want my social worker!’ which surprised Strike into a loud guffaw.

‘There ye go, dickhead,’ said Barclay, who’d successfully restrained his own man and unmasked him, at which point the younger brother started to cry.

‘I didn’t do nothing. I don’t understand.’

‘Get tae fuck,’ said Barclay, and looking over at Strike he added, ‘Nice footwork. ’Specially fur a bloke who’s only got one o’ them.’

‘Cheers,’ said Strike. ‘Let’s—’ His mobile started to ring again, ‘for fuck’s sake. Somebody keeps – what?’ he said angrily, answering the unknown number.

Barclay, Midge and Tasha watched as Strike’s face became blank.

‘Where?’ he said. ‘All right… I’m on my way now.’

‘What’s happened?’ said Midge, as Strike hung up.

‘That was Robin’s father. She’s been taken in for questioning.’

‘What?’