‘You’re wrong,’ said Robin. ‘Just because Cherry didn’t drown Daiyu, doesn’t mean she didn’t do something nearly as bad. None of it could have happened without her collusion.’
By the tiniest tremor at the corner of Mills’ mouth, she could tell he was listening more closely.
‘What you don’t appreciate,’ said Robin, forcing herself to lean forwards, even though it meant getting closer to the source of Mills’ disgusting breath, ‘is that the cult centres around Daiyu’s death. They’ve turned her into a prophet who vanished in the sea, only to come back to life again. They’re pretending she materialises in their temple. Proof that she never really drowned means their religion’s founded on a lie. And if you’re the one who provides that proof, a lot of people, some of them very rich, are going to be deeply invested in you being well enough to testify. You might be their last hope of seeing their family members again.’
She had his full attention now. Mills sat in silence for a few more seconds before saying,
‘She never done it.’
‘Done what?’
‘Killed Dayoo, or whatever her name was.’
‘So what really happened?’ said Robin, taking the top off her pen.
This time, Isaac Mills answered.
Forty minutes later, Robin emerged from Wandsworth Prison in a state of elation. Pulling her mobile out of her bag, she noticed with frustration that it was almost out of power: either it hadn’t charged properly at Murphy’s the previous evening or, which she thought more likely given its age, she needed a new phone. Waiting until she was out of the vicinity of the stream of families now exiting the building, she called Strike.
‘You were right,’ said Robin. ‘Carrie confessed nearly all of it to Mills, mostly whenever she got drunk. He says she’d always deny it when she sobered up, but basically, he’s confirmed everything, except—’
‘Who planned it.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Because she was still scared enough of them to kill herself twenty-one years later.’
‘But Mills is very clear it was all a put-up job. Carrie faked the drowning, Daiyu was never on the beach. I know it’s not enough, hearsay from a dead woman—’
‘Still can’t hurt,’ said Strike. ‘Will he testify?’
‘Yes, but only because he’s got hemo-something and thinks he might get a new liver out of it.’
‘A new what?’
‘Liver,’ said Robin loudly, now heading for the bus stop.
‘I’ll get him one out of Aldi. Listen, have you seen the—?’
Robin’s phone went dead.
She hurried on towards the bus stop. She was supposed to be meeting Murphy at a bar in the middle of town at seven, but was now keen to find a way of speaking to Strike again, who’d sounded strangely keyed up before he got cut off. Unfortunately, she had no idea where he was. Speeding up, she tried to remember the rota: if he was at the office, or in his flat, she might have time to see him before going on to the West End.
The hour’s journey back towards Denmark Street seemed interminable. Robin kept shuffling through different scenarios in her mind, trying to see possible routes to their murderer in the light of Mills’ evidence, which confirmed Strike’s theory and would add substance to whatever other testimony they could get. However, she still saw pitfalls ahead, especially if the plastic-wrapped objects in the office safe yielded nothing useable.
She and Strike had concluded during the sleepless night they’d spent at the office that there were four people, aside from Isaac Mills, whose combined testimony might reveal exactly what happened to Daiyu, even if the originator of the plan denied it. However, all had strong reasons for not talking, and two of them probably didn’t realise that what they knew was significant. It was by no means certain they’d be able to take an axe to the roots of Jonathan Wace’s dangerous and seductive religion.
A little over an hour later, Robin arrived in Denmark Street, sweaty and dishevelled from haste, but on reaching the second landing her heart sank: the office door was locked and the lights were out. Then she heard movement above her.
‘What d’you mean?’ said Robin, taken aback.
‘I’ve been worried fucking sick, I thought someone had grabbed you off the fucking street!’
‘My phone died!’ said Robin, who didn’t much appreciate this welcome, having just jogged up the street to see her partner. ‘And I was in Wandsworth in broad daylight –
As this was precisely what he’d been telling himself for the last sixty minutes, Strike bit back a retort. Nevertheless, finding it hard to shift gears immediately from acute anxiety to a normal conversational tone, he said angrily,
‘You need a new fucking phone.’
