The Running Grave полностью

‘You’ve met ’im?’

‘Yeah. He invited me backstage after his Olympia rally.’

‘An’ ’e sent me a message?’ she said incredulously.

‘Yeah. “Popsicle misses you.”’

Abigail’s lip curled.

‘Bastard.’

‘Him, or me?’

‘’Im, obviously. Still tryna…’

‘To…?’

‘Tug the ’eartstrings. It’s been twenny fuckin’ years an’ not a fuckin’ word, an’ ’e finks I’ll fuckin’ melt if ’e says fuckin’ “Popsicle”.’

But he could tell she was disturbed by the thought of her father sending her a message, even if it was difficult to tell whether anger or pain predominated.

‘I can understand why you don’t like the idea of your father drowning people,’ he said. ‘Not even Daiyu.’

‘What d’you mean, “not even Daiyu”? Yeah, she was spoiled, but she was still a fuckin’ kid, wasn’ she? An’ what d’you mean “people”? ’E didn’t drown my muvver, I toldja that last time!’

‘You wouldn’t be the first person who found it hard to believe their own flesh and blood could do terrible things.’

‘I’ve got no fuckin’ problem believin’ my farver does terrible fuckin’ fings, fanks very much!’ said Abigail angrily. ‘I was there, I saw what was fuckin’ goin’ on, I know what they do to people inside that fuckin’ church! They did it to me, too,’ she said, thumping herself in the chest. ‘So don’ tell me I don’ know what my farver is, because I fuckin’ do, but ’e wouldn’t kill members of ’is own—’

‘You were family, and as you’ve just said, he did terrible things to you, too.’

‘’E didn’t – or not… ’e let bad stuff ’appen to me, yeah, but that was all Mazu, an’ it was mostly when ’e was away. If that’s all about Birmingham—’

She made to stand up.

‘Just a couple more points, if you don’t mind,’ said Strike, ‘and this first one’s important. I want to ask you about Becca Pirbright.’

Through repetition of danger we grow accustomed to it. Water sets the example for the right conduct under such circumstances… it does not shrink from any dangerous spot nor from any plunge, and nothing can make it lose its own essential nature. It remains true to itself under all conditions…

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Robin had now stood waiting in Wardour Street for nearly an hour. Midge had texted ten minutes previously that she was waiting for Becca to emerge from a chemist’s. Wardour Street was still full of people entering and leaving Chinese restaurants and supermarkets. The red and gold lanterns swung gently overhead in the breeze as the sun sank slowly behind the buildings.

Robin was banking on Midge giving her due warning that Becca was on her way back to the temple, so she could find a less obvious place to watch, but the longer Robin waited, the more the little battery life in her phone was leaking away.

She was afraid that if Becca spotted her, she’d turn tail and run. It might be better, she thought, to be waiting in the temple when Becca returned. That, after all, was Becca’s place of safety and her final destination; it would be far harder for her to refuse to talk there than in the street. After a few more moments of indecision, Robin texted her intention to Midge, then headed into Rupert Court.

None of the people walking up and down the narrow passage paid her the slightest attention as she removed the skeleton keys from her pocket. This, after all, was London: each to their own business, unless it became so noisy, violent or otherwise bothersome that passers-by felt duty bound to intervene. It took Robin five goes to find a key that would unlock the temple doors, but finally she managed it. Having slipped inside, she closed the doors quietly behind her and locked them again.

Becca had left the temple lights on their lowest setting, doubtless to make it easier for her to navigate when she returned. The place was deserted. The gigantic cinema screen facing Robin was black, which gave it a faintly forbidding look. The Disneyesque hand-holding figures that ran around the walls had blended into the shadows, but the ceiling figures were dimly visible: the Wounded Prophet in orange, with the blood on his forehead; the Healer Prophet in his blue robes, with his beard and serpent-wrapped staff; the Golden Prophet in yellow, scattering jewels as she flew; the Stolen Prophet in scarlet, with his noose around his neck; and lastly the Drowned Prophet, all in bridal white, with the stylised waves rising behind her.

Robin walked up the scarlet-carpeted aisle to stand beneath the image of Daiyu, with its malevolent black eyes. It was while she was still looking up at the figure that Robin heard something she hadn’t expected, and which made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up: the screaming of a baby, somewhere inside the temple.