The Running Grave — страница 131 из 179

Robin made no response to this, but stared steely-eyed at the road ahead.

The frosty atmosphere inside the car persisted onto the motorway, each partner consumed by their own uncomfortable thoughts. Strike had had the always unpleasant experience of having his own prejudices exposed. Whatever he might have claimed to Robin, he had formed an unflattering mental picture of the young woman who’d drawn the corpse of Deirdre Doherty, and if he was absolutely honest (which he had no intention of being out loud), he had classed her with the women enjoying reiki sessions at Dr Zhou’s palatial clinic, not to mention those of his father’s children who lived off family wealth, with expensive therapists and private doctors on hand should they need them, cushioned from the harsh realities of working life by their trust funds. Doubtless the Brewster girl had had a bad time of it, but she’d also had years in the Kiwi sunshine to reflect upon what she’d seen at Chapman Farm, and instead of seeking justice for the woman who’d drowned and closure for the children now bereft of a mother, she’d sat in her comfortable Strawberry Hill flat and indulged in a spot of art.

Robin’s inner reverie was disturbing in a different way. While she stood by what she’d just said to her partner, she was uncomfortably aware (not that she intended to admit this) that she’d subconsciously wanted to force an argument. A small part of her had sought to disrupt the pleasure and ease she’d felt on finding herself back in the Land Rover with Strike, because she’d just told Murphy she loved him, and shouldn’t be feeling unalloyed pleasure at the prospect of hours on the road with somebody else. Nor should she be thinking about the man she supposedly loved with guilt and discomfort…

The silence in the car lasted a full half an hour, until Robin, resenting the fact that she was the one to have to break the ice, but ashamed of the hidden motive that had led her to become so heated, said,

‘Look, I’m sorry I got shirty. I’m just – I’m probably more on Flora’s side than you are because—’

‘I get it,’ said Strike, relieved that she’d spoken. ‘No, I don’t mean – I know I haven’t been in the Retreat Rooms.’

‘No, I can’t see Taio wanting to spirit bond with you,’ said Robin, but the mental image of Taio trying to lead Strike, who was considerably larger, towards one of the wooden cabins made her laugh.

‘No need to be offensive,’ said Strike, reaching for the coffee again. ‘We might’ve had a beautiful thing together if I hadn’t brained him with those wire cutters.’

96

Punishment is never an end in itself but serves merely to restore order.

The I Ching or Book of Changes




‘Shit,’ said Strike.

A little over two hours after he and Robin had resolved their argument, they’d arrived in Oakleaze Road, Thornbury, to find Carrie Curtis Woods’ residence empty. The modest but well-maintained semi-detached house, which shared a patch of unfenced lawn with its Siamese twin, was almost indistinguishable from every other house within view, except for slight variations in the style of front door.

‘And no car,’ said Strike, looking at the empty drive. ‘But they’re definitely back from holiday, I checked her Facebook page before I left this morning. She documents virtually every movement the family makes.’

‘Maybe she’s gone grocery shopping, if they’re just back from abroad?’

‘Maybe,’ said Strike, ‘but I think we might make ourselves a bit conspicuous if we hang around here for too long. Bit open plan. You won’t get away with much in a place like this.’

There were windows everywhere he looked, and the flat lawns in front of all the houses offered no hint of cover. The ancient Land Rover also looked conspicuous, among all the family cars.

‘What d’you say we go and get something to eat and come back in an hour or so?’

So they returned to the car and set off again.

The town was small, and they reached the High Street in minutes. There was less uniformity here, with shops and pubs of varying sizes, some of them painted in pastel colours or bearing old-fashioned awnings. Robin finally parked outside the Malthouse pub. The interior proved to be roomy, modern and white-walled, with grey checked carpet and chairs.

‘Too early for lunch,’ said Strike gloomily, returning from the bar with two packets of peanuts, a zero-alcohol beer for himself and a tomato juice for Robin, who was sitting in a bay window overlooking the high street.

‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘check your phone. Barclay’s just texted us.’

Strike sat down and took out his mobile. Their subcontractor had sent everyone at the agency a one-word message: SHAFTED, with a link to a news story, which Strike opened.

Robin started laughing again as she saw her partner’s expression change to one of pure glee. The news story, which was brief, was headed: BREAKING: TABLOID’S FAVOURITE PRIVATE EYE ARRESTED.

Mitchell Patterson, who was cleared of wrongdoing in the News International phone hacking scandal of 2011, has been arrested on a charge of illegally bugging the office of a prominent barrister.

Strike let out a laugh so loud that heads turned.

‘Fucking excellent,’ he said. ‘Now I can sack Littlejohn.’

‘Not in here,’ said Robin.

‘No,’ agreed Strike, glancing around, ‘not very discreet. There’s a beer garden, let’s do it there.’

‘Is my presence necessary?’ said Robin, smiling, but she was already gathering up her glass, peanuts and bag.

‘Killjoy,’ said Strike, as they set off through the pub. ‘Barclay would’ve paid good money to hear this.’

Once seated on benches at a brown painted table, Strike called Littlejohn and switched his mobile to speakerphone again.

‘Hi, boss,’ said Littlejohn, on answering. He’d taken to calling Strike ‘boss’ ever since Strike had revealed he knew Littlejohn was a plant. The jauntiness of Littlejohn’s tone suggested his duplicitous subcontractor didn’t yet realise Patterson had been arrested, and Strike’s pleasurable anticipation increased.

‘Where are you right now?’ asked Strike.

‘Following Toy Boy,’ said Littlejohn. ‘We’re on Pall Mall.’

‘Heard from Mitch this morning?’

‘No,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Why?’

‘He’s been arrested,’ said Strike.

No sound of human speech issued from Strike’s phone, though this time they could hear the background rumble of London traffic.

‘Still there?’ said Strike, a malicious smile on his face.

‘Yeah,’ said Littlejohn hoarsely.

‘So, you’re fired.’

‘You – what? You can’t – you said you’d keep me on—’

‘I said I’d think about it,’ said Strike. ‘I did, and I’ve decided you can fuck off.’

‘You cunt,’ said Littlejohn. ‘You fucking—’

‘I’m doing you a favour, when you think about it,’ said Strike. ‘You’re going to need a lot more time on your hands, what with the police wanting you to help them with their enquiries.’

‘You fucking – you bastard – I was going to – I had stuff for you on that church case – new stuff—

‘Sure you did,’ said Strike. ‘Bye, Littlejohn.’

He hung up, reached for his beer, took a long draught, wishing it wasn’t alcohol-free, then set down his glass. Robin was laughing, but shaking her head.

‘What?’ said Strike, grinning.

‘It’s lucky we haven’t got an HR department.’

‘He’s a subcontractor, all I owe him is cash – not that he’s getting any cash.’

‘He could sue you for it.’

‘And I could tell the court he posted a snake through Tasha Mayo’s door.’

They ate their peanuts and drank their drinks beneath hanging baskets and a bright August sun.

‘You don’t think he really had something for us, on the UHC?’ said Robin after a while.

‘Nah, he’s bullshitting,’ said Strike, setting down his empty glass.

‘What if he goes to the office while we’re away and—?’

‘Tries to photograph case files again? Don’t worry about that. I’ve taken precautions, I had Pat do it last week. If the fucker tries using a skeleton key again, he’ll get his comeuppance – which reminds me,’ said Strike, pulling a new set of office keys out of his pocket. ‘You’ll need those… Right, let’s go and see whether Cherie/Carrie’s home yet.’

97

K’an represents the pig slaughtered in the small sacrifice.

The I Ching or Book of Changes




They’d been sitting in the Land Rover, which was parked a few doors down from Carrie Curtis Woods’ still empty house, for forty minutes when a silver Kia Picanto passed them.

‘Strike,’ said Robin, having caught a glimpse of a blonde female driver.

The car turned into the Woods family’s drive. The driver got out. She had short, blonde, curly hair, and was wearing a pair of unflatteringly tight jeans, which caused a roll of fat under her white T-shirt to spill over the waistband. She was tanned, wore a lot of spiky mascara, and her eyebrows were thinner than was currently fashionable, giving her a surprised look. A polyester shopper was slung over her shoulder.

‘Let’s go,’ said Strike.

Carrie Curtis Woods was halfway to her front door when she heard the footsteps behind her and turned, keys in hand.

‘Afternoon,’ said Strike. ‘My name’s Cormoran Strike and this is Robin Ellacott. We’re private detectives. We believe you lived at Chapman Farm in the mid-nineties, under the name Cherie Gittins? We’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.’

Twice before, while working at the agency, Robin had thought a female interviewee might faint. Carrie’s face lost all healthy colour, leaving the surface tan patchy and yellow and her lips pale. Robin braced, ready to run forwards and break the woman’s fall onto hard concrete.

‘We just want to hear your side of the story, Carrie,’ said Strike.