The Running Grave полностью

‘Teenage girls can be weird,’ said Robin quietly. ‘They rationalise things… tell themselves it wasn’t as bad as they know, deep down, it was… She had a big crush on Jonathan Wace, remember. Maybe she walked willingly into the barn, not knowing what was about to happen. Afterwards, if Wace is telling her how wonderful she is, how beautiful and brave and free spirited… telling her she’s proved herself somehow… But I know it’s all speculation until we find her, which is the other thing I was going to tell you. There’s a chance – only a chance, don’t get too excited – that I have found her.’

‘You’re kidding me?’

‘I had an idea in the early hours of the morning. Well, two ideas, actually, but this one first. I’ve drawn a total blank on property records, but then I thought, dating apps. I had to join about half a dozen to get access. Anyway, on mingleguru.co.uk—’

‘Mingle Guru?’

‘Yes, Mingle Guru – is one Bhakta Dasha, age thirty-six, so the right age for Rosie, and very much not Asian, unlike everyone else on the site.’

As Strike pulled up at a red light, she held up a profile picture for him to see.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Strike.

The woman was pretty, round-faced and dimpled, wearing a stuck-on bindi and with very orange skin. As the lights changed and they moved off again, Strike said,

‘That should be brought to the attention of the Advertising Standards Authority.’

‘She’s a practising Hindu,’ said Robin, reading Bhakta’s details, ‘who loves India, has travelled extensively there, would very much like to meet someone who shares her outlook and religion, and gives her current location as London. I wondered whether—’

‘Dev,’ said Strike.

‘Exactly, unless he’s getting tired of being the resident good-looking man we always send to sweet talk women.’

‘There are worse problems to have,’ said Strike. ‘Starting to think you should sleep on the sofa more often. It seems to bring something out in you.’

‘You haven’t heard my second idea yet. I was trying to get to sleep and thinking about Cherie, and then I thought, Isaac Mills.’

‘Who?’

‘Isaac Mills. Her boyfriend after Chapman Farm. The one who robbed the pharmacy.’

‘Oh, yeah. The junkie with the teeth.’

‘I thought, what if she told Isaac what had happened at Chapman Farm?’ said Robin. ‘What if she confided in him? It was all very recent when she met him.’

‘That,’ said Strike, ‘is a very sound bit of reasoning and I’m pissed off I didn’t think of it myself.’

‘So you think it’s worth looking for him?’ said Robin, pleased that this theory, at least, wasn’t getting short shrift.

‘Definitely. Just hope he’s still alive. He didn’t have the look of a man who gets a lot of fresh air and vitamins – shit, I forgot to tell you something else, from last night.’

‘What?’

‘I might be wrong,’ said Strike, ‘but I could’ve sworn I saw Phillipa Delaunay in the audience at Wace’s meeting. Daiyu’s aunt – brother of the Stolen Prophet.’

‘Why on earth would she be there?’

‘Good question. Mind you, as I say, I could be wrong. Hearty blondes in pearls all blur into one to me. Dunno how their husbands tell them apart.’

‘Pheromones?’ suggested Robin.

‘Maybe. Or some kind of special call. Like penguins.’

Robin laughed.

What has been spoiled through man’s fault can be made good again through man’s work.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

As they admitted to each other afterwards, for the first hour Strike and Robin spent talking to Will in Pat’s house in Kilburn, each privately thought their mission was doomed. He was implacably opposed to meeting Flora Brewster and insisted he didn’t want immunity from prosecution, because he deserved jail. All he wanted was for Lin to be found, so she could look after Qing once he’d handed himself over to the police.

Pat had taken Will’s daughter to the shops to allow them to talk in peace. The room in which they were sitting was small, neat, smelled strongly of stale Superkings and was cluttered with family photographs, although Pat also had an unsuspected weakness for crystal animal figurines. Will was wearing a new green sweater which, though it hung loosely on his still very thin frame, both suited and fitted him better than his filthy UHC tracksuit. His colour had improved, the shadows under his eyes had gone, and for a full sixty minutes, he made no mention of the Drowned Prophet.

However, when Strike, starting to lose patience, pushed Will on why he didn’t want to at least talk to another ex-member with a view to joining forces and freeing as many people as possible from the church, Will said,

‘You can’t free them all. She wants to keep them. She’ll let some go, like me, who aren’t any good—’

‘Who’s “she”?’ said Strike.

‘You know who,’ muttered Will.