The sky outside the window was rapidly darkening. He got up from the table, went into his bedroom, returned to the kitchen with his notebook and laptop, and opened both. Work had always been his greatest refuge, and the sight of an email from Eric Wardle headed
Wardle had done him proud. The last three censuses for Chapman Farm were attached: 1991, 2001 and 2011. Strike typed out a brief message of thanks to Wardle, then opened the first attachment, scanning the list of names provided.
After an hour and a half of online cross-referencing, and having found a bonus in the form of an interesting article about the church dating from 2005, dusk was drawing in. Strike poured himself a second whisky, sat back down at his table and contemplated the immediate results of his research: a list of names, only one of which so far had an address beside it.
He contemplated his mobile, thinking back on the days he’d occasionally called Robin at home, while she was still married. Those calls, he knew, had sometimes caused trouble, given Matthew’s resentment of his wife’s growing dedication to the job. It was Saturday night: Robin and Murphy might be at a restaurant, or the bloody theatre again. Strike took another swig of whisky, and pressed Robin’s number.
‘Hi,’ she said, answering on the second ring. ‘What’s up?’
‘Got a moment to talk? I’ve been digging information out of the census.’
‘Oh, great – Wardle came through?’
Strike heard the rattle of what he thought might be a saucepan.
‘Sure you’re not busy?’
‘No, it’s fine, I’m cooking. Ryan’s coming over for dinner, but he’s not here yet.’
‘I might have a couple of leads. There’s a woman called Sheila Kennett who lived at Chapman Farm with her late husband until the nineties. She’s knocking on a bit, but I’ve got an address for her in Coventry. Wondering whether you’d mind driving up there and interviewing her. Old lady – better you than me.’
‘No problem,’ said Robin, ‘but it’ll have to be week after next, because Midge is away from Wednesday and I’m covering for her.’
‘OK. I’ve also found an article written by a journalist called Fergus Robertson, who got an ex-member of the UHC to speak to him anonymously in 2006. There are a lot of “allegeds”: violence used against members, misappropriation of funds. They protect their sources, journalists, but I thought there might be stuff Robertson couldn’t put in, for fear of litigation. Fancy coming with me if he agrees to talk?’
‘Depends when it is,’ said Robin, ‘I’ve got a heavy week on the new stalker case, but –
‘You OK?’
‘Burned myself – sorry, I – hang on, that’s Ryan.’
He heard her walking away towards the door. Slightly despising himself, Strike hung on: he really wanted Ryan Murphy to arrive and find Robin on the phone to him.
‘Hi,’ he heard her say, and then came Murphy’s muffled voice, and the unmistakeable sound of a kiss. ‘Dinner’s nearly done,’ she said, and Murphy said something, Robin laughed, and said ‘No, it’s Strike,’ while her detective partner sat frowning in front of his laptop.
‘Sorry, Cormoran,’ said Robin, her mouth to the receiver again, ‘carry on.’
‘I haven’t found contact details for anyone else who lived at Chapman Farm yet, but I’ll keep digging and email you what I’ve got,’ said Strike.
‘It’s Saturday night,’ said Robin. ‘Take a break. No!’ she added, laughing, and he assumed this was directed at Murphy, whose laughter he could also hear. ‘Sorry,’ she said again.
‘No problem, I’ll let you go,’ he said, as she had earlier, and before she could reply, he hung up.
Thoroughly irritated at himself, Strike slapped his laptop closed and got up to examine the contents of his healthily stocked fridge. As he took out a packet of what he was starting to think of as ‘more fucking fish’ to check the sell-by date, his mobile rang. He returned to the table to check before answering, because if it was another call forwarded from the office phone, he wasn’t going to answer: the last thing he needed right now was Charlotte. Instead, he saw an unfamiliar mobile number.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said a bold, husky voice. ‘Surprise.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Bijou. Bijou Watkins. We met at the christening.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike, a memory of cleavage and legs blotting out darker thoughts, and this, at least, was welcome. ‘Hi.’
‘I s’pose you’ve got plans,’ she said, ‘but I’m all dressed up and my friend I was s’posed to be meeting tonight’s ill.’
‘How did you get my number?’
‘Ilsa,’ said Bijou, with the cackle of laughter he remembered from the Herberts’ kitchen. ‘Told her I needed a detective, for a case I’m working on… I don’t think she believed me,’ she added, with another cackle.
‘No, well, she’s quick like that,’ said Strike, holding the mobile a little further from his ear, which made the laugh slightly less jarring. He doubted he could stand that for long.
‘So… want a drink? Or dinner? Or whatever?’
