‘No, the only thing she said was that more people than her had witnessed it. She said something like, “Everyone was there.” Then she got really, properly panicky, and told me she hadn’t meant it, and I should forget it, that the Drowned Prophet would come for her next, because she’d talked. I said, “It’s OK, I know you were just joking…”’
‘Did you believe that? That it was a joke?’
‘No,’ said Henry uncertainly, ‘she definitely wasn’t joking, but – like, nobody’s reported anything like that, have they? And if there were a load of witnesses, you’d think someone would have gone to the police, wouldn’t you? Maybe the church made it look like someone had been killed, to scare people?’
‘Maybe,’ said Strike.
Henry now checked the time on his watch.
‘I’m actually supposed to be somewhere in twenty minutes. Is that—?’
‘Just a couple more questions, if you don’t mind,’ said Strike. ‘This Joe individual, who recruited you. Did you see much of him, once you were at the farm?’
‘He was kind of around,’ said Henry. ‘But I never really got to talk to him again.’
‘What was he doing in a bar? Alcohol’s forbidden by the church, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t know… maybe he was drinking a soft drink?’
‘OK… were there a lot of children around, at the farm?’
‘Quite a few, yeah. There were some families staying there.’
‘Can you remember a man called Harold Coates? He was a doctor.’
‘Er… maybe,’ said Henry. ‘Kind of an old guy?’
‘He’d have been fairly old by then, yes. Did you ever see him around the kids?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘OK, well, I think that’s everything,’ said Strike, now pulling a business card out of his wallet. ‘If you remember anything else, anything you’d like to tell me, give me a ring.’
‘I will,’ said Henry, taking the card before gulping down the rest of his second gin and tonic.
‘I appreciate you meeting me, Henry, I really do,’ said Strike, getting to his feet to shake hands.
‘No problem,’ said Henry, also standing. ‘I hope I’ve been some use. I’ve always felt so shit about having taken Flora there in the first place, so… yeah… that’s why I agreed to talk to you. Well, bye then. Nice meeting you.’
As Henry walked towards the door, a dark woman entered the pub, and with anger and a sense of absolute inevitability, Strike recognised Charlotte Ross.
Strike had suspected Charlotte was on her way from the moment Henry had mentioned their mutual connection. Heads were turning; Strike had watched this happen for years; she had the kind of beauty that ran through a room like an icy breeze. As she and Henry made exclamations of surprise (on Henry’s side, probably genuine) and exchanged pleasantries at the door, Strike gathered up his things.
‘Corm,’ said a voice behind him.
‘Hello, Charlotte,’ he said, with his back to her. ‘I’m just leaving.’
‘I need to talk to you. Please. For five minutes.’
‘Afraid I’ve got to be somewhere.’
‘Corm,
He knew she was capable of making a scene if she didn’t get what she wanted. She was a newsworthy woman, and he, too, was now of interest to the papers, and he feared that, if such a scene happened, there would be gossip, and maybe a leak to a journalist.
‘OK, I’ll give you five minutes,’ he said coldly, sitting back down with the last inch of his non-alcoholic beer.
‘Thank you,’ she said breathlessly, and immediately departed for the bar, to buy herself a glass of wine.
She returned within a couple of minutes, shrugged off her black coat to reveal a dark green silk dress, which was cinched at the waist with a heavy black belt, then took the seat Henry had just vacated. She was thinner than he’d ever seen her, though as beautiful as ever, even at the age of forty-one. Her long dark hair fell to beneath her shoulders; her mottled green eyes were fringed with thick, natural lashes, and if she was wearing make-up, it was too subtle to see.
‘I knew you’d be here, as you’ve probably gathered,’ she said, smiling, willing him to smile back, to laugh at her cunning. ‘I suggested this pub to Hen. He’s lovely, isn’t he?’
‘What d’you want?’
‘You’ve lost a ton of weight. You look great.’
‘What,’ Strike repeated, ‘do you want?’
‘To talk.’
‘About…’
‘This is difficult,’ said Charlotte, taking a sip of wine. ‘OK? I need a moment.’
Strike checked his watch. Charlotte glared at him over the rim of her wine glass.
‘OK, fine. I’ve just found out I’ve got cancer.’
Whatever Strike had expected, it wasn’t that. As unpalatable and possibly unjustified as the suspicion might have been, he found himself wondering whether she was lying. He knew her to be not only highly manipulative, but reckless – sometimes self-destructively so – in pursuit of what she wanted.
