The Running Grave полностью

Memories of people she’d got to know over her four months at the farm were revolving in her mind as though it was a zoetrope: Emily, Shawna, Amandeep, Kyle, Walter, Vivienne, Louise, Marion, Taio, Jiang… who’d talk? Who’d lie?

‘I had bloody Rosie Fernsby on the phone at lunchtime,’ said Strike.

‘What did she want?’

‘To go to a yoga class this afternoon. The glamour of being a hunted woman’s worn off.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That she’d have to stay put and cleanse her own bloody chakras. She chose to take it as a joke.’

‘Just as well. We do need her to testify.’

‘What she’s got to tell will take three minutes, if this comes to court,’ said Strike. ‘I’m trying to stop her getting bloody shot.’

Robin checked her watch.

‘I’d better go.’

As she got to her feet, Strike’s mobile buzzed.

‘Holy shit.’

‘What?’

‘Barclay’s done it, he’s in.’

Strike, too, rose.

‘I’m going to talk to Abigail Glover about Birmingham.’

‘Then,’ said Robin, as a feeling like fire flamed through her insides, ‘I’m going to talk to Becca.’

‘No, you’re fucking not,’ said Strike, pausing where he stood. ‘Midge doesn’t know who else might be in the temple.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Robin, already heading for her phone. ‘You realise she could be planning to head for San Francisco or Munich? Ryan, hi… no, listen, something’s come up… I know, I’ve seen on the news, but I can’t do dinner. Sorry… no… it’s just a witness who might get away unless I see her now,’ Robin said, meeting Strike’s frown with a frosty look of her own. ‘Yes… OK. I’ll ring you later.’

Robin hung up.

‘I’m doing it,’ she told Strike, before he could speak. ‘She’s not wriggling out of this. Not bloody Becca.’

‘All right,’ he said, ‘but you go in with Midge, all right? Not alone.’

‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘Give me your skeleton keys in case she doesn’t open up when I knock. I think this is going to be what they call closure.’

In the royal hunts of ancient China it was customary to drive up the game from three sides, but on the fourth the animals had a chance to run off.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Robin parted from Strike in Tottenham Court Road, and arrived in Wardour Street ten minutes later. It was swarming with Saturday evening visitors to Chinatown, but she couldn’t see Midge. Her phone now charged sufficiently for at least one call, Robin called the subcontractor’s number.

‘Where are you? Strike told me you were watching the Rupert Court Temple.’

‘I was,’ said Midge, ‘but Becca’s left. I’m following her.’

‘Shit,’ said Robin, for the second time in as many hours. ‘No, I mean, it’s good that you’re still on her, but – is she alone? She hasn’t got a bag or anything, has she? Does she look as though she’s going on a trip?’

‘She’s alone, and there’s no bag,’ said Midge. ‘She might just be buying food. She’s looking at her phone a lot.’

‘I’ll bet she is,’ said Robin. ‘Will you keep me posted on where you are? I’m in the vicinity of the temple. Let me know if she’s on her way back.’

‘Will do,’ said Midge, and she rang off.

Deprived in the short term of her prey, frustrated and tense, Robin moved out of the way of a group of drunken men. Fiddling with the skeleton keys in her pocket, she contemplated the red and gold creatures over the door of the temple: the dragon, the pheasant, the sheep, the horse, the cow, the dog, the rooster, and, of course, the pig.

Heaven has the same direction of movement as fire, yet it is different from fire…

The I Ching or Book of Changes

It took Strike forty-five minutes to reach the fire station where Abigail was working that evening. It was a large, Art Deco building of grey stone, with the usual large, square openings below for the fire trucks.

Upon entering, Strike found a man in his forties scribbling a note at a desk in an otherwise deserted reception area. When Strike enquired whether Abigail Glover was currently on the premises, he said yes, she was upstairs. When Strike said his business was urgent, the fireman called upstairs on a wall-mounted phone, his expression amused. Strike wondered whether he had, again, been mistaken for one of Abigail’s boyfriends.

She descended the stairs a few minutes later, looked disconcerted and irritable, for which Strike couldn’t blame her; he, too, preferred not to be disturbed at work. She was wearing the regulation firemen’s overalls, though without the jacket. Her black top was tight-fitting, and he assumed she’d been mid-way through changing when he’d interrupted her.

‘Why’re you ’ere?’

‘I need your help,’ said Strike.

‘People norm’lly dial 999,’ said Abigail, to a snigger from her colleague.

‘It’s about Birmingham,’ said Strike.

‘Birmingham?’ Abigail repeated, frowning.