Farah’s voice came over more clearly than Kevin’s, presumably because the Dictaphone had lain closer to her. From what Strike could make out, she’d suggested twice they leave for somewhere quieter in the first five minutes, but Kevin, pathetically, said they should stay, because he knew it was her favourite bar. Apparently Kevin had been thoroughly convinced the good-looking Navabi was interested in him sexually.
Strike turned the volume up to maximum and listened closely, trying to make out what was being said. Farah kept asking Kevin to speak up or repeat things, and Strike was forced to rewind and relisten multiple times, pen in hand, trying to transcribe anything that was audible.
Initially, as far as Strike could make out, their chat had nothing to do with the UHC. For ten minutes, Farah talked indistinctly about her supposed job as an air stewardess. At last, the church was mentioned.
Farah:… ways been interested in the UH…
Kevin:… on’t do it… isters… still in b… aybe leave one d…
Somewhere close to where Farah and Kevin were sitting, a rowdy song broke out which, typically, was as clear as a bell.
And we were singing hymns and arias,
‘Land of my Fathers’, ‘Ar hyd y nos’.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ muttered Strike. The group of what Strike assumed were elderly Welshmen, because he wasn’t sure who else would be singing a Max Boyce song, struggled for the next ten minutes to remember all the lyrics, breaking out intermittently into fragments of verses that petered out again, rendering Kevin and Farah’s conversation completely inaudible. At last, the Welshmen reverted to merely talking loudly, and Strike was able to pick up the faint thread of what Farah and Kevin were saying again.
Kevin:… vil people. Evil.
Farah: How were they ev…?
Kevin:… ean, cruel… hypocr… ’m writing a b…
Farah: Oh wow that’s gr…
One of the Welshmen broke into song again.
But Will is very happy though his money all has gone:
He swapped five photos of his wife for one of Barry John.
Cheers greeted these remembered lines and when the yelling had subsided, Strike heard Kevin again: ‘… orry, need a…’
From the lack of chat from Farah, Strike surmised that Kevin had gone to the bathroom.
The next fifty minutes of recording were worthless. Not only had the noise in the pub become ever louder, but Kevin’s voice grew progressively more indistinct. Strike could have told Farah that offering unlimited drink to a young man who’d grown up never touching alcohol was a mistake, and soon Kevin was slurring and rambling, Farah trying very hard to keep track of what he was saying.
Kevin:… ’n she drown… said sh’drowned…
Farah: (loudly)… talking about Dai…?
Kevin:… unny thing zappenin… ings I keep… emembrin… or of ’em…
Farah: (loudly) Four? Did you say f…?
Kevin:… more ’n jus’ Shree… nice to kids, an’ she… Bec made Em l… visible… ullshit…
Farah: (loudly)… ecca made Em lie, did you s…?
Kevin:… drugged… sh’wuz allowed out… sh’could get things… smuggle it’n… let her ’way with stu… didn’ care ’bout ’er real… sh’ad chocolate once n’I stole some… bully though…
Farah: (loudly)… oo wa… ully?
Kevin:… ake ’lowances… gonna talk t’er… z’gonna meet m…
Farah: (very loudly) Is someone from the church going meet you, Kev…?
Kevin:… ’n’answer f’r it…
Strike slammed his hand onto pause, rewound and listened again.
Kevin:… gonna talk t’er… z’gonna meet m…
Farah: (very loudly) Is someone from the church going meet you, Kev…?
Kevin:… ’n’answer f’r it… opey… part’f…
Farah: (insistent) Are you going to meet someone from…?
Kevin:… sh’ad ’ard ti… ’n th’pigs…
Farah: (exasperated) Forget the pigs…
‘Let him talk about the fucking pigs,’ growled Strike at the recorder.
Kevin:… e liked pigs… ew what t’d… ’cos why… ’n I wuz in th’woo… ’n Bec… old me off cuz… ace’s daught… m’sn’t snitch…
Farah:… Daiyu in the woods?
Kevin:… unno… was sh..… ink there was a plot… in it t’gether… alwuz t’geth… f’I’m right… bution… ’n woods… wasn’t a… gale blowing on… ire but too wet… weird’n I… eatened me… an out’f the… ought it was for pun’shmen… ecca tole me… sorry, gotta…
Strike heard a loud clunk, as though a chair had fallen. He had a feeling Kevin might have set off clumsily for the bathroom, possibly to vomit. He kept listening, but nothing whatsoever happened for a further twenty-five minutes except that the Welshmen became ever more rambunctious. At last he heard Farah say,
‘Excuse me… f you’re going… n the loo? He’s wearing a blue…’
Five minutes later, a loud Welsh voice said,
‘’E’s in an ’orrible state, love. You might ’ave to carry ’im ’ome.’
‘Oh, for God’s s… anks for checking, any…’
There was a rustle, the sound of breathing, and the recording ended.
80
External conditions hinder the advance, just as loss of the wheel spokes stops the progress of a wagon.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Shah departed for Norfolk at midday on Thursday, bearing a letter from Strike instructing Robin to stay beside the plastic rock after reading it, because Shah would be waiting in the vicinity with his car lights off and cutters at the ready to ensure safe passage through the barbed wire. Strike set off for dinner at Lucy’s that evening feeling surprisingly cheerful given that he’d be up at six the following morning to drive to Gloucestershire, and wasn’t looking forward to the evening ahead.
Although Ted was pleased to see his nephew, it was immediately clear to Strike that his uncle had deteriorated even in the few weeks since he’d last seen him. There was a vagueness, a sense of disconnection, that hadn’t been there before. Ted smiled and nodded, but Strike wasn’t convinced he was following the conversation. His uncle watched Lucy’s three sons bustle in and out of the kitchen with an air of bemusement and treated them with a formal courtesy that suggested he wasn’t sure who they were.
Strike and Lucy’s attempts to draw Ted out about where and how he wanted to live went nowhere, because Ted tended to agree with every proposition put to him, even if they were contradictory. He agreed that he wanted to stay in Cornwall, that it might be better to move to London, that he needed a bit more help, then, with a sudden flicker of the old Ted, stated spontaneously that he was managing just fine and nobody ought to be worrying about him. All through dinner, Strike sensed tension between his sister and brother-in-law, and sure enough, once Ted was settled in the sitting room in front of the television with a cup of decaffeinated coffee, there was an uncomfortable three-way conversation in which Greg made plain his sense of ill-usage.
‘She wants him to live with us,’ he told Strike, scowling.
‘I said, if we sell the house in Cornwall, we could build an extension on the back,’ Lucy told her brother.
‘And lose half the garden,’ said Greg.
‘I don’t want him going into a home,’ said Lucy tearfully. ‘Joan would’ve hated the idea of him in a home.’
‘What’re you going to do, give up work?’ Greg demanded of his wife. ‘Because he’s going to be a full-time job if he gets much worse.’
‘I think,’ said Strike, ‘we need to get him a full medical assessment before we decide anything.’
‘That’s just kicking the can down the road,’ said Greg, whose irritation was undoubtedly informed by the fact that Strike was unlikely to be discommoded by any change in Ted’s living arrangements.
‘There are homes and homes,’ Strike told Lucy, ignoring Greg. ‘If we got him into somewhere decent in London, we could make sure we’re seeing him regularly. Take him for days out—’
‘Then Lucy’ll be running round after him like he’s living here,’ said Greg, his clear implication that Strike wouldn’t be doing any running round at all. ‘He wants to stay in Cornwall, he’s just said so.’
‘He doesn’t know what he wants,’ said Lucy shrilly. ‘What happened on Tuesday was a warning. He isn’t safe to live alone any more, anything could have happened to him – what if he’d tried to take his boat out?’
‘That’s what I was worried about,’ admitted Strike.
‘So sell the boat,’ said Greg angrily.
The conversation ended, as Strike could have predicted from the first, with no decision in place other than getting Ted seen by a specialist in London. As Ted was exhausted after his unexpected journey to London he turned in at nine, and Strike left shortly afterwards, hoping to maximise his sleep before getting up to drive to Thornbury.
He’d decided against giving Cherie, or Carrie, as she was now, prior notice of his arrival, due to her well-established pattern of flight and reinvention: he had a feeling that if he called her first, she’d make sure she was unavailable. Strike doubted the woman who posted endless pictures on Facebook of her family’s outings to Longleat and Paultons Park, of her contributions to school bake sales and of the fancy dress costumes she’d made her little girls was going to enjoy being reminded of her unsavoury past.
Strike had been travelling along the motorway for two hours when he received a phone call from Tasha Mayo, asking why Midge wasn’t looking after her any more, and requesting that Midge be reassigned to her case. The phrase ‘looking after’ did nothing to allay Strike’s faint suspicion that Midge had become over-friendly with the actress, and he didn’t much appreciate their client dictating to him which personnel they wanted assigned to them.
‘It’s just more natural for me to be seen walking around with another woman,’ Mayo told him.
‘If what my agency provided was private security, and we wanted to keep it discreet, I’d agree,’ said Strike, ‘but there shouldn’t be any walking around together, given that what we’re providing is surveillance—’