She spoke as though Robin was unspeakably impertinent. No matter that she’d interrupted attempted murder, or that press were swarming at the gates of Chapman Farm, or that police were raiding the church – Becca Pirbright remained what she’d always been: utterly convinced of her own rectitude, confident that everything, even this, could be put right by Papa J.
‘You’re already facing child abuse charges,’ Becca said contemptuously, ineffectually trying to quell Yixin’s screams by jiggling her. ‘Now you’re taking us hostage at gunpoint.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to wash in court, coming from the person who colluded in covering up infanticide,’ said Robin.
‘You’re unbalanced,’ said Becca.
‘You’d better hope psychiatrists find
‘That’s no business—’
‘You weren’t in Birmingham. You were either in the Glasgow centre, or some rented property where Jonathan Wace could keep you well away from other people.’
Becca’s smile was patronising.
‘Rowena, you’re an agent—’
‘It’s Robin, but you’re damn right, I’m your adversary. Do
The door behind Strike banged open again. Abigail, now divested of her fireman’s apparel and wearing jeans, marched towards him with a leather bag slung over her shoulder, grabbed her vacated chair, dragged it into the centre of the room, then clambered up onto it. Tall as she was, she had no difficulty in reaching the smoke alarm in the middle of the ceiling. With one twist, she’d taken off the lid and pulled out its batteries. Having replaced the lid, she jumped down off the chair and rejoined Strike at the table, pulling a pack of Marlboro Golds out of her bag. She sat down and lit one with a Zippo.
‘Is that allowed, in a fire station?’ he asked.
‘I don’t fuckin’ care,’ said Abigail, inhaling. ‘All right,’ she said, blowing smoke sideways, ‘you can ’ave DNA, if you want, an’ compare it to this Becca’s, but if she’s still in the church, I don’ see ’ow you’re gonna get it.’
‘My partner’s working on that right now,’ said Strike.
‘I was finkin’, upstairs.’
‘Go on,’ said Strike.
‘What you jus’ said, about all what Daiyu was gonna get, from Graves’ will. That ’ouse. You said it was worf millions.’
‘Yeah, it must be,’ said Strike.
‘Then the Graves lot ’ad a motive to get rid of ’er. Stop ’er gettin’ the ’ouse.’
‘Interesting you should say that,’ said Strike, ‘because that thought occurred to me, too. Daiyu’s aunt and uncle, who’ll inherit if Daiyu’s dead, have been doing their best to stop me investigating her disappearance. I went to see them in Norfolk the other day. It wasn’t a happy interview, especially after I told Phillipa I’d seen her at your father’s Olympia meeting.’
‘The fuck was she doing there?’
‘Something had clearly rattled her enough to make her desperate to speak to your father. Phillipa left a note for him, backstage at Olympia. I asked whether they’d received an unexpected, anonymous phone call recently, which spurred her into action.’
‘Wha’ made you ask that?’
‘Call it intuition.’
Abigail flicked ash onto the floor and kicked it away with her foot.
‘You’d get on wiv Mazu.’ She affected a malignant whisper.
‘They didn’t want to tell me, but when I suggested that someone had called to say Daiyu’s still alive, Phillipa gave herself away. Turned white. You can see how a phone call like that would put the fear of God into them. No more family mansion for
‘And I have to say,’ added Strike, ‘Nicholas Delaunay ticks quite a few boxes for me, as Kevin Pirbright’s killer. Ex-marine. Knows how to handle a gun, knows how to plan and execute an ambush. The person who murdered Kevin was pretty slick.’
Abigail took another drag on her cigarette, frowning.
‘I’m lost.’
‘I think Kevin Pirbright worked out the truth behind Daiyu’s disappearance before he died, and that’s why he was shot.’
Abigail lowered her cigarette.
‘’E knew?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘’E never said nuffing to
‘He didn’t mention it being an odd coincidence, Daiyu dying exactly where your mother did?’
‘Oh,’ said Abigail. ‘Yeah. ’E
‘Possibly Kevin only put it all together after he’d approached you,’ said Strike.
‘So ’oo called these Delaunay people?’
‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I suspect it was the same person who called Jordan Reaney to find out what he might have let slip to me, and who called Carrie Curtis Woods, and tipped her into suicide.’
Strike’s mobile buzzed, not once, but twice, in quick succession.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Been waiting for this.’
