The Running Grave полностью

‘No, I appreciate that,’ said Strike. ‘While I’ve got you, I also wanted to ask—’

‘Did Baz tell you about my nightmare?’ asked Abigail, in a deadened voice.

Strike hesitated.

‘Yes, but that isn’t what I was going to ask about, and let me emphasise, as far as I’m concerned, the fact that you and your friend tried to prevent a whipping says far more—’

‘Don’ do that,’ said Abigail. ‘Don’t fuckin’ – don’t try an’ make – bastards. I’m not even allowed to ’ave private fuckin’ nightmares.’

‘I appreciate—’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Abigail. ‘Just fuck off. You don’t “appreciate”. You don’t know nuffing.’

Strike could tell she was now crying. Between the small noises coming out of the phone and his partner’s stony stare from the seat beside him, he didn’t feel particularly good about himself.

‘Sorry,’ he said, though not very sure what he was apologising for, unless it was letting Barry Saxon into his office. ‘I wasn’t going to mention any of that. I was going to ask you about Alex Graves’ sister, Phillipa.’

‘What about ’er?’ said Abigail, in a thickened voice.

‘You told me your father had her eating out of his hand, when we met.’

‘’E did,’ said Abigail.

‘She hung around the farm a bit, then, did she?’

‘Coming to see ’er bruvver, yeah,’ said Abigail, who was clearly trying to sound natural. ‘Wha’re you doing on the A40?’

‘Going to Thornbury.’

‘Never ’eard of it. OK, well – I’ll let you go.’

And before Strike could say anything else, she hung up.

Strike looked around at Robin.

‘What d’you think?’

‘I think she’s right,’ said Robin. ‘We should go.’

She turned the engine on and, having waited for a break in the traffic, pulled back out onto the road.

They drove on for five minutes without talking to each other. Keen to foster a more congenial atmosphere, Strike finally said,

‘I wasn’t going to bring up her nightmare. I feel bad about that.’

‘And where’s this sensitivity when it comes to Flora Brewster?’ said Robin coldly.

‘Fine,’ said Strike, now nettled, ‘I won’t go near bloody Brewster, but as you’re the one who’s experienced the full bloody horror of Chapman—’

‘I never called it “horror”, I’m not saying I went through war crimes or anything—’

‘Fuck’s sake, I’m not saying you’re exaggerating how bad it was, I’m saying, if there’s a witness to them actually killing someone, I’d have thought—’

‘The fact is,’ said Robin angrily, ‘Abigail Glover’s more your kind of person than Flora Brewster is, so you feel bad for making her choke up, whereas—’

‘What’s that mean, “more my kind of—”?’

‘Pulls herself up by her bootstraps, joins the fire service, pretends none of it ever hap—’

‘If it makes you feel any better, she’s got a borderline drink problem and seems recklessly promiscuous.’

‘Of course it doesn’t make me feel better,’ said Robin furiously, ‘but you’re chippy about rich people! You’re judging Flora because she can afford to see Prudence and she’s “sitting on her arse”, whereas—’

‘No, it’s about Brewster doing art instead of—’

‘What if she was so mentally ill she wasn’t sure what was real or not? You didn’t press Abigail on what these supposed guns looked like, did you?’

‘She’s not bloody drawing them and posting them online with UHC logos attached! I note Brewster’s not so fucking ill she didn’t go to ground the moment I mentioned Deirdre Doherty, thinking, “Shit, that got a bit more attention than I wanted!”’

Robin made no response to this, but stared steely-eyed at the road ahead.

The frosty atmosphere inside the car persisted onto the motorway, each partner consumed by their own uncomfortable thoughts. Strike had had the always unpleasant experience of having his own prejudices exposed. Whatever he might have claimed to Robin, he had formed an unflattering mental picture of the young woman who’d drawn the corpse of Deirdre Doherty, and if he was absolutely honest (which he had no intention of being out loud), he had classed her with the women enjoying reiki sessions at Dr Zhou’s palatial clinic, not to mention those of his father’s children who lived off family wealth, with expensive therapists and private doctors on hand should they need them, cushioned from the harsh realities of working life by their trust funds. Doubtless the Brewster girl had had a bad time of it, but she’d also had years in the Kiwi sunshine to reflect upon what she’d seen at Chapman Farm, and instead of seeking justice for the woman who’d drowned and closure for the children now bereft of a mother, she’d sat in her comfortable Strawberry Hill flat and indulged in a spot of art.