‘I think I know what happened,’ said Strike.
And as he drew breath to explain, a quotation rang through his head that he’d heard recently from a man who had nothing whatsoever to do with the Universal Humanitarian Church.
‘
Wei Chi/Before Completion
Of the many things that needed to be done before the agency could prove how, why and by whose contrivance Daiyu Wace had disappeared forever, Strike allocated one of the most important to Sam Barclay, whom he recalled from Norwich the day after the shooting, after Robin had gone home to catch up on some sleep. Both partners had agreed that the so far fruitless exercise of waiting for Emily Pirbright to appear with a collecting tin should now be abandoned, and the agency’s efforts turned instead towards proving that the myth of the Drowned Prophet was entirely baseless.
‘How far am I allowed to go, tae worm my way in wi’ this guy?’ asked Barclay, who’d just pocketed the name, address, place of work and photograph, all gleaned online by Strike, of the man who Strike wanted him to befriend, by whatever means necessary.
‘Unlimited alcohol budget. Doubt he’s into drugs. Milk the military. Big yourself up.’
‘A’right, I’ll get ontae it.’
‘And be careful. There’s a gun out there that’s still got bullets in the chamber.’
Barclay gave a mock salute and departed, passing Pat in the doorway.
‘I’ve called all these people,’ she told Strike, holding in her hand a piece of paper on which Strike had listed the names and numbers of Eric Wardle, who was his best friend in the Metropolitan Police; Vanessa Ekwensi, who was Robin’s; DI George Layborn, who’d rendered the agency significant help in a previous case, and Ryan Murphy. ‘I’ve only been able to get hold of George Layborn so far. He says he could meet you Wednesday evening, next week. I’ve left messages with the rest of them. I don’t see why Robin can’t ask Ryan herself.’
‘Because this is coming from me,’ said Strike. ‘I need to meet them all simultaneously, and lay out everything we’ve got, so we can hit the UHC as hard as possible, right when Wace and his lawyers aren’t expecting it.’
‘They still haven’t found that bloke who shot at you two and Will,’ grumbled Pat. ‘Don’t know what we pay our bloody taxes for.’
Blurry pictures of the Ford Focus with the fake plates had been appearing on various news channels all morning, with appeals to the public for any information. Though thankful his and Robin’s names hadn’t appeared in the press, Strike had had to take two cabs already that morning, and knew he’d need to hire himself a car for work purposes before the police were through with his own.
‘Dennis just called, by the way,’ Pat added. ‘Will’s feeling a bit better.’
‘Great,’ said Strike, who’d already endured ten solid minutes’ grousing from Pat about the state of shock in which Will had been returned to her house in the early hours of the morning. ‘Any news on him talking to my lawyer friend about immunity from prosecution?’
‘He’s thinking about it,’ said Pat.
Strike suppressed any expression of frustration at what he considered Will Edensor’s idiotic stubbornness.
Pat returned to her desk, e-cigarette between her teeth, and Strike rubbed his eyes. He’d insisted on walking Robin to her taxi at six o’clock, telling her it was imperative that neither of them took any more risks. In spite of their sleepless night, he hadn’t been to bed: there was too much to think about, to organise and to do, and it must all be done methodically and stealthily if they were to have any chance of taking on the UHC without anyone else getting shot through the head.
His mobile rang and he groped for it.
‘Hi,’ said Robin’s voice.
‘You were supposed to be getting some sleep.’
‘I can’t,’ said Robin. ‘I came home, got into bed, lay there awake for an hour then got back up again. Too much coffee. What’s going on there?’
‘I’ve seen Barclay and I’ve called Ilsa,’ said Strike, suppressing a yawn. ‘She’s happy to represent Will and Flora, if they’re agreeable. Shah’s on his way to Birmingham.’
