They returned to the office. Both Will and Qing were devouring slices of pizza, Will ravenously, Qing looking as though she was experiencing nirvana.
‘So how did you do it, Will?’ Robin asked, sitting down again. ‘How did you get out?’
Will swallowed a large mouthful of pizza and said,
‘Stole twenty pounds from Mazu’s office. Went to the classroom when Shawna was in charge. Said Qing had to see Dr Zhou. Shawna believed me. Ran across the field. Climbed out at the blind spot, like you did. Flagged down a car. Woman took us to Norwich.’
Robin, who fully appreciated how difficult every single part of this plan would have been to execute, said,
‘That’s incredible. And then you hitched to London?’
‘Yeah,’ said Will.
‘But how on earth did you find our office?
Will pushed the plastic bag at his feet towards Robin with his toe, rather than dislodge the child on his lap. Robin bent to pick it up and extracted the plastic rock.
‘I know,’ said Will, his mouth full of pizza, ‘but I worked it out. After what – after the Retreat Room –’ he dropped his gaze to the floor again – ‘I sneaked out at night to see if there was anything on the edge of the woods, because Lin had seen you with the torch, and I thought you must be an investigator. I found the rock and looked inside, and there were imprints on the paper, from what you’d written on the sheets on top, so I could tell I was right, and you’d been writing about what was going on at Chapman Farm. After you left, Vivienne was telling everyone you’d answered to “Robin” in Norwich, and Taio said there was a big guy waiting for you at the blind spot when you escaped. So I looked up “Robin” and “detective” in a library in Norwich – got a lift to London – and—’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Strike, ‘we’ve been told you’re bright, but this is impressive.’
Will neither looked at Strike nor acknowledged his words, except by a slight frown. Robin suspected this was because Will knew it must have been Sir Colin who’d told the two detectives his son was clever.
‘Water,’ said Pat, as Qing began to cough, because she’d stuffed so much pizza into her mouth.
Robin joined Pat at the sink to help her fill glasses.
‘Could you distract Qing,’ Robin whispered to the office manager, the sound of running water drowning her voice, ‘while Strike and I talk to Will in our office? He might not want to talk openly in front of her.’
‘No problem,’ said Pat, in the growl that was her whisper. ‘Say the name again?’
‘Qing.’
‘Kind of name’s that?’
‘Chinese.’
‘Huh… mind you, my great-granddaughter’s called Tanisha. Sanskrit,’ said Pat, with a slight eye roll.
When Pat and Robin had handed out glasses of water, Pat said gruffly,
‘Qing, look at these.’
She’d taken a block of bright orange Post-it notes out of her desk.
‘They come off, look,’ said Pat. ‘And they stick to things.’
Fascinated, the little girl slid off Will’s lap, but still clung to his knee. Having seen the other children at Chapman Farm, Robin was glad of this sign that Qing knew her father was a place of safety.
‘You can play with them, if you want,’ said Pat.
The little girl toddled uncertainly towards Pat, who held out the block to her, and rummaged for some pens. Strike and Robin’s eyes met again, and Strike stood up, holding his pizza.
‘Fancy coming through here a moment, Will?’ he asked.
They left the connecting door between the offices open, so that Qing could see where her father was. Strike brought his plastic chair with him.
Robin had forgotten that all the pictures relating to the UHC case were on the board on the inner office wall. Will stopped dead, staring at them.
‘Why have you got all these?’ he said, in an accusatory voice, and to Robin’s dismay, he backed away. ‘That’s the Drowned Prophet,’ he said, pointing at the Torment Town pictures, sounding panicked now. ‘Why have you drawn her like that?’
‘We didn’t draw her,’ said Strike, moving quickly to close the flaps of the board, but Will said suddenly,
‘Yes,’ said Strike. Changing his mind about closing up the board, he stepped away from it, allowing Will a clear view. ‘Did you know Kevin?’
‘Only for a few… he left, not long after I… why…?’
Will took a few steps closer to the board. Kevin’s picture, which Strike had taken from the newspaper archive, still had the caption attached:
‘Kevin killed himself,’ said Will slowly. ‘Why’re they saying…?’
‘He was shot by someone else,’ said Strike.
‘No, he killed himself,’ said Will, with some of the dogmatism he’d displayed the first time Robin had ever heard him talk, on the vegetable patch. ‘He committed suicide, because he was pure spirit, and couldn’t cope with the materialist world.’
‘There was no gun found at the scene,’ said Strike. ‘Somebody else shot him.’
‘No… they can’t have done…’
‘They did,’ said Strike.
Will was frowning. Then –
