The village Strike and Robin entered the following morning, which lay an hour from London, had a sleepy English prettiness. As they drove past half-timbered buildings overlooking a village green, Strike, who’d accepted Robin’s offer to drive his BMW, looked out at the stone grey Norman tower of the parish church, and spotted a sign proclaiming that they were in Buckinghamshire’s best kept village.
‘None of this will come cheap,’ he commented, as they turned off the High Street into Bowstridge Lane.
‘We’re here,’ said Robin, coming to a halt beside a square, detached house of tawny brick. ‘We’re ten minutes early, should we wait or—?’
‘Wait,’ said Strike, who had no desire to hurry through the interview. The longer it took, the more likely Robin would want something to eat before returning to London. ‘You all packed and ready for tomorrow?’
‘I’ve put my waterproof coat and underwear in a holdall, if you can call that packing,’ said Robin.
What she didn’t tell Strike was that she’d realised for the first time yesterday that she wouldn’t be able to take contraceptive pills with her into Chapman Farm. Having checked the small print on the pamphlet she’d been given, they were specifically listed as banned medications. Nor was she about to tell Strike that she and Murphy had had something close to an argument the previous evening, when Murphy had announced that he’d taken the day off to spend it with her, as a surprise, and she’d told him she was driving off to Buckinghamshire with Strike.
Strike’s mobile rang. Caller ID was withheld.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said a female voice. ‘This is Abigail Glover.’
Strike mouthed ‘Jonathan Wace’s daughter’ at Robin before turning his mobile to speakerphone so that she could hear what was going on.
‘Ah, great,’ he said. ‘You got the message I left at the station?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Woss this about?’
‘About the Universal Humanitarian Church,’ said Strike.
Absolute silence followed these words.
‘Are you still there?’ asked Strike.
‘Yeah.’
‘I was wondering whether you might be willing to talk to me,’ said Strike.
More silence: Strike and Robin were looking at each other. At last a single monosyllable issued from the phone.
‘Why?’
‘I’m a private—’
‘I know ’oo you are.’
Unlike her father’s, Abigail’s accent was pure working-class London.
‘Well, I’m trying to investigate some claims made about the church.’
‘’Oose claims?’
‘A man called Kevin Pirbright,’ said Strike, ‘who’s now dead, unfortunately. Did he ever make contact with you? He was writing a book.’
There was another silence, the longest yet.
‘You working for a newspaper?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, for a private client. I wondered whether you’d be happy to talk to me. It can be off the record,’ Strike added.
Yet another lengthy silence followed.
‘Hello?’
‘I dunno,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll need to fink about it. I’ll call you back if I… I’ll call you later.’
The line went dead.
Robin, who realised she’d been holding her breath, exhaled.
‘Well… I can’t say I’m surprised. If I were Wace’s daughter, I wouldn’t want to be reminded of it, either.’
‘No,’ agreed Strike, ‘but she’d be very useful, if she was happy to talk… I left a message for Jordan Reaney’s wife yesterday, after you left, by the way. Tracked her down to her place of work. She’s a manicurist at a place called Kuti-cles with a K.’
He checked the time on the dashboard.
‘We should probably go in.’
When Strike pressed the doorbell they heard a dog barking, and when the door opened, a wire-haired fox terrier came flying out of the house so fast he flew right past Strike and Robin, skidded on the paved area in the front of the house, turned, ran back and began jumping up and down on its hind legs, barking hysterically.
‘Calm
‘Sorry,’ Niamh said to Strike and Robin, before saying, ‘Basil,
