‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Strike, but some part of his brain did, and a worse sensation than that which had followed Bijou’s announcement that she was pregnant now petrified his guts.
‘MY WIFE – MY WIFE—’
The man was crying as he yelled.
‘Mr Woods,’ said the female voice, louder now, ‘give me the phone. We can take care of this, Mr Woods. Give me the phone. Your daughters need you, Mr Woods.’
Strike heard the sounds of a phone being passed over. A Bristolian female voice now spoke in his ear; he could tell the woman was walking.
‘This is PC Heather Waters, Mr Strike. We believe you might have visited a Mrs Carrie Woods today? We found your card here.’
‘I did,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah.’
‘Can I ask what that was in relation to?’
‘What’s happened?’ said Strike.
‘Can I ask what you were talking to Mrs Woods about, Mr—?’
He heard a door close. The background noise disappeared.
‘Mrs Woods has hanged herself,’ said the voice. ‘Her husband found her body in the garage this evening, when he came home from work.’
Robin took the news of Carrie’s death, which Strike relayed by phone, very hard. The two detectives were questioned separately by the police the following day. Strike, who’d also shown the footage of the balaclavaed man to the police, had his own police interview later that afternoon.
Over the ensuing twenty-four hours, Strike and Robin saw very little of each other. Strike had given his partner the task of contacting Walter Fernsby’s and Marion Huxley’s children to see whether they’d be happy to talk about their respective parents’ involvement with the UHC, and to interview any who agreed. He’d done this because he knew Robin needed to keep busy, but had insisted she did it from home, because he didn’t want her running into any church members in the vicinity of the office. He, meanwhile, was taking care of their new client, who’d replaced the Franks: yet another wife who suspected her wealthy husband of infidelity.
Strike held a full team meeting, minus Shah, who was in Norwich keeping an eye out for Emily Pirbright, on Thursday. They met, not in the office, but in the red-carpeted basement room of the Flying Horse where they’d previously retired to evade Littlejohn, and which Strike had hired for a couple of hours. While careful observation of Denmark Street hadn’t revealed anyone who seemed to be keeping the office under surveillance, a locksmith who Strike wanted to disturb as little as possible was fitting a skeleton-key-proof lock on the street door, with the agreement of the landlord and second floor tenant. Neither knew what had occasioned Strike’s desire for more security, but as Strike was offering to pay for it, both were amenable.
The first part of the meeting was taken up by the subcontractors interrogating Robin, who they hadn’t seen since her return. They were mainly interested in the supposedly supernatural aspects of what she’d witnessed at Chapman Farm, and discussion ensued of how each illusion had been achieved, with only Pat remaining silent. Shortly after Barclay had suggested that Wace’s conjuring of Daiyu in the basement must have been a variation on the Victorian illusion called Pepper’s ghost, Strike said,
‘All right, enough, we’ve got work to do.’
He was afraid that Robin’s surface good humour might soon crack. She had purplish shadows under her eyes, and her smile was becoming increasingly strained.
‘I know we’ve seen no evidence of it yet,’ said Strike, ‘but I want eyes peeled at all times for anyone who seems to be watching the office, and get pictures if you can. I’ve got a feeling the UHC will be on the prowl.’
‘Any word on our gun-toting visitor?’ asked Barclay.
‘No,’ said Strike, ‘but the police have got the footage. With the street door secured, they’ll have a job getting back inside, whoever they were.’
‘What were they after?’ asked Midge.
‘UHC case file,’ suggested Barclay.
‘Probably,’ said Strike. ‘Anyway: I’ve got good news. Heard from the police this morning: both Franks are going to be charged with stalking and attempted kidnap.’
The others applauded, Robin joining in a little late, trying to appear as cheerful as the rest.
‘Excellent,’ said Barclay.
