The Running Grave полностью

‘I see you’re one of those who prides themselves on disrespecting rites, mysteries, and religious observance,’ said Wace, smiling again. ‘I shall pray for you, Cormoran. I mean that sincerely.’

‘I’ll tell you one book I’ve read, that’s right up your street,’ said Strike. ‘Came across it in a Christian mission where I was spending a night, just outside Nairobi. This was when I was still in the army. I’d drunk too much coffee, and there were only two books in the room, and it was late, and I didn’t think I’d be able to make much of a dent in the Bible, so I went for Who Moved the Stone? by Frank Morison. Have you read it?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Wace, sitting back in his chair, still smiling. ‘We recognise Jesus Christ as an important emissary of the Blessed Divinity, though, of course, he’s not the only one.’

‘Oh, he had nothing on you, obviously,’ said Strike. ‘Anyway, Morison was a non-believer who set out to prove the resurrection never happened. He did an in-depth investigation into the events surrounding Jesus’ death, drawing on as many historical sources as he could find, and as a direct result, was converted to Christianity. You see what I’m driving at?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Wace.

‘What questions d’you think Morison would’ve wanted answered, if he set out to disprove the legend of the Drowned Prophet?’

Three people reacted: Taio, who let out a low growl, Noli Seymour, who gasped, and Mazu, who, for the first time, spoke.

‘Jonathan.’

‘My love?’ said Wace, turning to look at the face on screen.

‘The sage casts out all that is inferior and degrading,’ said Mazu.

‘Well said.’

It was Dr Zhou who’d spoken. He’d drawn himself up to his full height, and unlike the absent Harmon, he looked undeniably impressive in his robes.

‘Is that from the I Ching?’ asked Strike, looking from Zhou to Mazu. ‘Funnily enough, I’ve got a few questions on the subject of degradation, if you’d rather hear those? No?’ he said, when nobody answered. ‘Back to what I was saying, then. Let’s suppose I fancy writing the new Who Moved the Stone? – working title, “Why Paddle in the North Sea at Five a.m.?” As a sceptical investigator of the miraculous ascension into heaven of Daiyu, I think I’d start with how Cherie knew Jordan Reaney would oversleep that morning. Then I’d be finding out why Daiyu was wearing a dress that made her as visible as possible in the dark, why she drowned off exactly the same stretch of beach as your first wife and – parallels with Who Moved the Stone? here – I’d want to know where the body went. But unlike Morison, I might include a chapter on Birmingham.’

‘Birmingham?’ repeated Wace. Unlike everyone else in the room, he was still smiling.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve noticed there’s a lot of going to Birmingham round about the time Daiyu disappeared.’

‘Once again, I have literally no—’

‘You were supposed to be in Birmingham that morning, but you called it off, right? You sent your daughter Abigail up to Birmingham, shortly after Daiyu died. And I think you were banished to Birmingham, too, weren’t you, Miss Pirbright? For three years, is that correct?’

Before Becca could answer, Wace had leaned forwards, hands clasped between his knees, and said quietly,

‘If the mention of my eldest daughter is supposed to worry me, you’re shooting wide of the mark, Cormoran. The most of which I can be reproached regarding Abigail is that I spoiled her, after the – after the dreadful death of her mother.’

Incredibly, at least to Strike, who found it difficult to cry in extremity, let alone on cue, Wace’s eyes now welled with tears.

‘Do I regret that Abigail left the church?’ he said. ‘Of course – but for her sake, not mine. If you are indeed in contact with her,’ said Wace, now placing a hand over his heart, ‘tell her, from me, “Popsicle misses you”. It’s what she used to call me.’

‘Touching,’ said Strike indifferently. ‘Moving on: you remember Rosie Fernsby, I presume? Well-developed fifteen-year-old you were going to take up to Birmingham, on the morning Daiyu died?’

Wace, who was wiping his eyes on the crumpled towel, didn’t answer.

‘You were going to “show her something”,’ Strike went on. ‘What kinds of things does he show young girls in Birmingham?’ he asked Becca. ‘You must have seen some of them, if you were there three years?’

‘Jonathan,’ said Mazu again, more insistently. Her husband ignored her.

‘You talk about “spoiling”,’ said Strike, looking back at Wace. ‘There’s a word with a double meaning, if ever there was one… which brings us to pig masks.’

‘Cormoran,’ said Wace, his tone world-weary, ‘I think I’ve heard enough to realise that you’re determined to write some lurid exposé, full of innuendo, short on facts and embellished with whatever fictional details you and Miss Ellacott can dream up together. I regret to say we’ll have to proceed with our action against Miss Ellacott for child abuse. It would be best if you communicate henceforth through my lawyers.’