‘Thanks,’ said Robin, now almost equally cross, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
A reluctant grin replaced Strike’s scowl, though Robin wasn’t that easily appeased.
‘You were asking me if I’d seen something when I got cut off,’ she said coolly. ‘I haven’t got long, I’m supposed to be meeting Ryan.’
Strike supposed he deserved that.
‘Come up here,’ he said, pointing towards his flat. ‘They raided Chapman Farm at six this morning.’
‘A dozen coppers, Met and local force. Wardle’s with them. He called me at two. Couldn’t talk long, because they’re still interviewing people. They’ve already released a severely dehydrated and traumatised Emily Pirbright from a locked wooden box in the farmhouse basement.’
‘Oh no.’
‘She’ll be OK. They’ve taken her to hospital. It gets better,’ said Strike, as they entered the attic. ‘Shah’s just seen roughly the same number of coppers entering the Birmingham centre. No word on Glasgow yet, but I’m assuming it’s happening there, too.’
He led her through to his bedroom, a spartan place, like the rest of the small flat. The television at the foot of the bed had been paused on Sky News: a female reporter was frozen, open mouthed, in what Robin recognised as Lion’s Mouth. Behind her was the entrance to Chapman Farm, which now had two uniformed officers standing outside it.
‘Someone at the Met’s leaked,’ said Strike, picking up the remote. ‘Said there’d be glory in it, didn’t I?’
He pressed play.
‘… already seen an ambulance leaving,’ said the reporter, gesturing down the lane. ‘Police haven’t yet confirmed the reasons for the investigation, but we do know officers are here in large numbers and a forensic team arrived just over an hour ago.’
‘Jenny, some have called the UHC controversial, haven’t they?’ said a male voice.
‘Cautious,’ said the smirking Strike, as the female reporter nodded, finger pressed to her earpiece.
‘Yes, Justin, mainly in regard to its financial activities, though it must be said the church has never been convicted of any wrongdoing.’
‘Give it time,’ said Strike and Robin simultaneously.
‘And, of course, it’s got some very high-profile members,’ said the invisible Justin. ‘Novelist Giles Harmon, actress Noli Seymour – are any of them currently on the grounds, do you know?’
‘No, Justin, we’ve had no confirmation of who’s at the farm right now, although locals estimate there are at least a hundred people living here.’
‘And has there been any official statement from the church?’
‘Nothing as yet—’
Strike paused the news report again.
‘Just thought you’d like to see it,’ he said.
‘You were right,’ said Robin, beaming.
‘Almost enough to make you believe in God, isn’t it? I tipped off Fergus Robertson as soon as I heard from Wardle. I’ve given him a good few pointers as to where to get some scoops. Think it’s time to turn up the heat on Jonathan Wace as high as we can. Got time for a coffee?’
‘A quick one,’ said Robin, checking her watch. ‘Could I borrow a charger?’
This provided, and coffee made, they sat down at the small Formica table.
‘Becca’s still at the Rupert Court Temple,’ said Strike.
‘How d’you know?’
‘She took the service today, which I got Midge to attend, wigged up.’
‘I thought Midge was watching Hampstead?’
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot – she got pictures of him with a bloke on the heath last night.’
‘When you say “pictures”—’
‘I doubt they’ll be featuring on the family Christmas card,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll let the client know on Monday, because he’s home with her and the kids right now.’
‘Go on about Becca.’
‘She didn’t leave at the end of the service. Midge is still watching Rupert Court, minus her wig, obviously. She’s confident Becca’s still in there. Doors locked.’
‘Haven’t the police been?’
‘Presumably they’re more interested in the compounds.’
‘Is Becca alone?’
‘Dunno. She could well be planning to make a break for it – unless she fancies taking the Stolen Prophet’s way out, of course.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said Robin, thinking of Carrie Curtis Woods hanging in the family garage. ‘If we know where she is—’
‘We do nothing –
‘But—’
‘Did you hear me?’
‘For God’s sake, I’m not a bloody schoolchild!’
‘Sorry,’ said Strike. The residue of his hour’s anxiety hadn’t yet dispersed. ‘Look, I know you think I keep boring on about that gun, but we still don’t know where it is – which is a pain in the arse,’ he added, checking his watch, ‘because we’re on the clock, now the police have gone in. People are going to start arse-covering or making themselves unavailable for interview. They’ll have an excuse for only communicating through lawyers now, as well.’
‘D’you think they’ve got the Waces?’ said Robin, whose thoughts had roved irresistibly back to Chapman Farm. ‘They
