The Running Grave — страница 120 из 179

‘They’re coming, they’re coming, help me—’

He reached over the wall and dragged her with him; her tracksuit bottoms tore on the remaining wire, but she was out onto the road.

Strike could hear the sound of running men.

‘How many?

‘Two – let’s go, please—’

‘Get in,’ he said, pushing her away, ‘just get in the car – GO!’ he bellowed, as Taio Wace came bursting through a thicket of trees and ran for the figure silhouetted ahead.

As Taio launched himself at the detective, Strike swung back the heavy metal wire cutters and smashed them into the side of Taio’s head. Taio crumpled and the figure behind him skidded to a halt. Before either man could return the attack, Strike was heading for the car. Robin had already started the engine; she saw Taio rise again, but Strike was inside the car; he slammed his foot on the accelerator, and in an exhilarating burst of speed they were driving away, Strike having found a glorious release for his days of anxiety, Robin shaking and sobbing in relief.

88

KEEPING STILL means stopping.

When it is time to stop, then stop.

The I Ching or Book of Changes




‘Drive, drive, drive,’ said Robin frantically. ‘They’ll see the number plates on the cameras—’

‘Doesn’t matter if they do, they’re fake,’ said Strike.

He glanced at her and even in the dim light was appalled at what he saw. She looked a good couple of stone lighter and her swollen face was covered either in dirt or bruises.

‘We’ve got to call the police,’ said Robin, ‘there’s a child dying in there – Jacob, that’s who Jacob is, and they’ve stopped feeding him. I’ve been with him all day. We’ve got to get the police.’

‘We’ll call them when we stop. We’ll be there in five minutes.’

‘Where?’ said Robin, alarmed.

She’d imagined travelling straight to London; she wanted to put as many miles as possible between herself and Chapman Farm, wanted to get back to London, to sanity and safety.

‘I’ve got a room in a hotel up the road,’ said Strike. ‘It’ll be the local force we need, if you want police.’

‘What if they come after us?’ said Robin, looking over her shoulder. ‘What if they come looking?’

‘Let them come,’ growled Strike. ‘Nothing would give me greater fucking pleasure than to belt some more of them.’

But when he glanced at her again, he saw naked fear.

‘They’re not going to come,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘They’ve got no authority outside the farm. They can’t take you back.’

‘No,’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘No, I… I s’pose not…’

Her sudden re-emergence into freedom was too massive for Robin to absorb in a few seconds. Waves of panic kept hitting her: she was imagining what was happening back at Chapman Farm, wondering how soon Jonathan Wace would know she’d gone. She found it almost impossible to grasp that his jurisdiction didn’t extend to this dark, narrow road bordered with trees, or even to the interior of the car. Strike was beside her, large and solid and real, and only now did it occur to her what would have become of her had he not been there, in spite of her absolute certainty that he was waiting.

‘This is it,’ said Strike five minutes later, as he pulled up in a dark car park.

As Strike turned off the engine, Robin undid her seat belt, half rose from her seat, threw her arms around him, buried her face in his shoulder and burst into tears.

‘Thank you.’

‘’S all right,’ said Strike, putting his arms around her and speaking into her hair. ‘My job, innit… you’re out,’ he added quietly, ‘you’re OK now…’

‘I know,’ sobbed Robin. ‘Sorry… sorry…’

Both were in very inconvenient positions in which to hug, especially as Strike still had his seat belt on, but neither let go for several long minutes. Strike gently rubbed Robin’s back, and she held him in a tight grip, occasionally apologising while his shirt collar grew wet. Instead of recoiling when he pressed his lips to the top of her head, she tightened her hold on him.

‘It’s all right,’ he kept saying. ‘It’s OK.’

‘You don’t know,’ sobbed Robin, ‘you don’t know…’

‘You can tell me later,’ said Strike. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

He didn’t want to let her go, but he’d dealt with enough traumatised people in the army – had indeed been one of those people himself, after the car in which he’d been travelling had been blown up, taking half his leg with it – to know that being asked to re-live calamity in its immediate aftermath, when what was really needed was physical comfort and kindness, meant a debrief ought to wait.

They walked together across the lawn towards the low guest house, one of three in a row, Strike’s arm around Robin’s shoulders. When he unlocked the door and stood back to let her in, she passed across the threshold in a state of disbelief, her eyes roving from the four-poster to the multitude of cushions Strike had found excessive, from the kettle standing on a chest of drawers to the television in the corner. The room seemed unimaginably luxurious: to be able to make yourself a hot drink, to have access to news, to have control of your own light switch…

She turned to look at her partner as he closed the door.

‘Strike,’ she said, with a shaky laugh, ‘you’re so thin.’

I’m fucking thin?’

‘D’you think I could eat something?’ she said timidly, as though asking for something unreasonable.

‘Yeah, of course,’ said Strike, moving to the phone. ‘What d’you want?’

‘Anything,’ said Robin. ‘A sandwich… anything…’

She moved restlessly around the room as he dialled the number of the main hotel, trying to convince herself she was genuinely here, touching surfaces, gazing around at the leaf-strewn wallpaper and the ceramic deer head. Then, out of one of the windows, she spotted the hot tub, the water looking black by night and reflecting the trees behind it, and she seemed to see the eyeless child rising again from the depths of the baptismal pool. Strike, who was watching her, saw her flinch and turn away.

‘Food’s on its way,’ he told her, having hung up. ‘There are biscuits by the kettle.’

He closed the curtains as she picked up two plastic-wrapped biscuits and ripped them open. Having devoured them in a few mouthfuls, she said,

‘I should phone the police.’

The call, as Strike could have predicted, wasn’t straightforward. While Robin sat on the edge of the bed, explaining to the emergency operator why she was calling and describing the condition and location of the boy called Jacob, Strike scribbled ‘We’re here: Felbrigg Lodge, Bramble guest house’ onto a bit of paper and passed it to her. Robin duly read out this address when asked for her location. While she was still talking, Strike texted Midge, Barclay, Shah and Pat.

Got her. She’s OK.

He wasn’t convinced the second sentence was true, except in the very broadest sense of lacking a disabling physical injury.

‘They’re going to send someone out to talk to me,’ Robin told Strike at last, having hung up. ‘They said it might be an hour.’

‘Gives you time to eat,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve just been telling the others you’re out. They’ve been crapping themselves about you.’

Robin started crying again.

‘Sorry,’ she gasped, for what felt like the hundredth time.

Who hit you?’ he asked, looking at the yellowish purple marks on the left side of her face.

‘What?’ she said, trying to stem the flood of tears. ‘Oh… Will Edensor…’

‘Wh—?’

‘I told him his mother was dead,’ said Robin wretchedly. ‘It was a mistake… or… I don’t know if it was a mistake… I was trying to get through to him… that was a couple of days ago… it was that or have sex with him… sorry,’ she said again, ‘so much has happened these last few days… it’s been—’

She gasped.

‘Strike, I’m so sorry about Charlotte.’

‘How the hell did you know about that?’ he said, amazed.

‘I saw it in an old newspaper this afternoon… it’s awful…’

‘It’s what it is,’ he said, far less interested in Charlotte at this moment than in Robin. His mobile buzzed.

‘That’s Barclay,’ he said, reading the text. ‘He says “thank fuck.”’

‘Oh, Sam,’ sobbed Robin, ‘I saw him a week ago… was it a week ago? I watched him, in the woods… I should’ve gone then, but I didn’t think I had enough to leave… sorry, I don’t know why I keep c-crying…’

Strike sat down next to her on the bed and put his arm around her again.

‘Sorry,’ she said, sobbing as she leaned into him, ‘I’m really sorry—’

‘Stop apologising.’

‘It’s just… relief… they locked me up in a b-box… and Jacob… and the Manifestation was—’ Robin gasped again, ‘Lin, what about Lin, did you find her?’

‘She’s not in any of the hospitals Pat called,’ said Strike, ‘unless she was admitted under another name, but—’

His mobile buzzed again.

‘That’s Midge,’ he said, and he read the text aloud. ‘“Thank fuck for that.”’

The phone buzzed a third time.

‘Shah. “Thank fuck.” What d’you say we get them all thesauruses for Christmas?’

Robin started to laugh, and found she couldn’t stop, though tears were still dribbling out of her eyes.

‘Hang on,’ said Strike, as his phone buzzed yet again. ‘We’ve got an outlier. Pat says, “Is she really OK?”’

‘Oh… I love Pat,’ said Robin, her laughter turning immediately to sobs again.

‘She’s sixty-seven,’ said Strike.

‘Sixty-seven what?’

‘That’s exactly what I said when she told me. Sixty-seven years old.’

‘S-seriously?’ said Robin.

‘Yeah. I haven’t sacked her, though. Thought you’d be pissed off at me.’

There was a knock on the door, and Robin jumped as violently as if she’d heard gunshots.

‘It’s only your brandy,’ said Strike, getting to his feet.

When he’d taken the glass from the helpful woman from the hotel, handed it to his partner and sat back down on the bed beside her, Strike said,