The Running Grave полностью

Murphy clicked on a folder, then on one of the video files inside, and Robin saw a police interview room, viewed from above. The camera was fixed in a corner near the ceiling. A large, solid-looking policeman was visible, back to the camera, so that his tonsure-like bald patch caught the light.

‘I think that’s one of the guys who interviewed me at Felbrigg Lodge,’ said Robin.

Murphy pressed play. A female officer led Becca into the room and gestured her towards an empty chair. Becca’s dark hair was as shiny as ever, her creamy skin unblemished, her smile diffident and humble. In her clean blue tracksuit and very white trainers, she might have been a youth leader at some harmless summer camp.

The male officer told Becca the interview was being recorded and she nodded. He asked for her full name, and then how long she’d lived at Chapman Farm.

‘Since I was eight,’ said Becca.

‘And you look after the children?’

‘I’m not often involved directly in childcare, but I oversee our home-schooling programme,’ said Becca.

‘Oh, please,’ Robin said to the onscreen Becca. ‘What home-schooling programme? “The pure spirit knows acceptance is more important than understanding”.’

‘… involve?’ said the female officer.

‘Making sure we’re complying with all Ofsted—’

‘Total shit,’ Robin said loudly. ‘When do materialist inspectors get into Chapman Farm?’

Murphy paused the video.

‘What?’ said Robin.

‘If you keep talking over her,’ said Murphy mildly, ‘you’re not going to hear it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Robin in frustration. ‘I just – it’s hard, hearing their crap again. Those kids aren’t being educated, they’re being brainwashed. Sorry. Go on. I’ll keep quiet.’

She took a large mouthful of curry and Murphy restarted the video.

‘—requirements. Members with particular skill sets take classes, after being background checked, obviously. We’ve got a couple of fully qualified primary school teachers, but we’ve also got a professor who’s introducing the children to basic philosophical concepts, and a very talented sculptor who leads them in art projects.’ Becca gave a deprecating little laugh. ‘They’re probably getting the best primary-age education in the country! We’ve been so lucky with the people who join us. I remember, last year, I was worried our maths teaching might be a little behind, and then we had a maths postgrad arrive at the farm and he looked over the children’s work and told me he’d seen worse scores at A-Level!’

Robin remembered the Portakabin where those closed-down children sat with their shaven heads, mindlessly colouring pictures of the Stolen Prophet with his noose around his neck. She remembered the dearth of books in the classroom and the spelling on the picture captioned ‘Aks tre’.

Yet Becca’s manner was indeed convincing. She came across as an enthusiastic and diligent educator, a little nervous about speaking to the police, of course, but with nothing at all to hide, and determined to do her duty.

‘It’s just incredibly troubling,’ she said earnestly. ‘We’ve never had anything like this happen before. Actually, we aren’t even certain her name was really Rowena Ellis.’

Robin now saw the real Becca peeping out from behind the careful, innocent façade: her dark eyes were watchful, trying to wheedle information out of the police. From the datestamp on the video, she knew this interview had taken place late on the afternoon following her escape from Chapman Farm: at that point, the church must have been scrambling for information on who Robin had really been.

‘What makes you think she was using a fake name?’ asked the female officer.

‘One of our members heard her answering to “Robin”,’ said Becca, watching the officers for any reaction. ‘Not that that’s necessarily indicative – I mean, we had another woman at the farm once, who used a fake name, but she couldn’t have been more—’

‘Let’s go back to the beginning,’ said the male officer. ‘Where were you when the incident took place?’

‘In the kitchens,’ said Becca, ‘helping prepare dinner.’

Robin, who’d never once seen Becca help prepare dinner or do any of the more menial tasks around the farm, bit back another scathing comment. Doubtless this activity had been selected to present a hard-working, down-to-earth persona.

‘When did you first become aware that something had happened?’

‘Well, Vivienne came into the kitchen, looking for Jacob—’

‘How could Jacob have been walking?’ said Robin angrily. ‘He was dying! Sorry,’ she added quickly, as Murphy’s hand moved towards the mouse. She took a gulp of wine.

‘—and Louise had been supervising some of the children on the vegetable patch, and Jacob hurt himself with a trowel. Apparently Rowena offered to take him into the kitchens to wash the cut and put a sticking plaster on it – we keep a first aid kit in there.