‘I’m talking about the Manson Family, which differed from the UHC only in laying slightly more emphasis on murder and a lot less on generating revenue, although by all accounts Charles Manson would’ve been happy to get cash as well. They committed nine murders in all, one of them of a pregnant actress, and those young women were right in the thick of the action, ignoring the victims’ pleas for mercy, dipping their fingers in the victims’ blood to scrawl – Jesus,’ said Strike, with a startled laugh, as he remembered a detail he’d forgotten, ‘they wrote “pigs” on the wall as well. In blood.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Yeah. “Death to pigs”.’
Having finished two pork pies, Strike rummaged in the bag for a Yorkie bar, and the apple he’d bought as an afterthought.
‘How’re we feeling about “Joe” and “Rose”?’ he asked, as he unwrapped the chocolate.
‘You sound sceptical.’
‘Can’t help thinking “Rose” might’ve been a name she thought of on the spur of the moment, given that she named her kids Poppy and Daisy.’
‘If she was going to lie, wouldn’t she deny her own involvement?’
‘It would’ve been too late. Her reaction when she saw the pictures gave her away.’
‘We know Paul Draper was real, though.’
‘Yeah, but he’s dead, isn’t he? He can’t testify.’
‘But… in a way, he still can.’
‘You about to whip out a Ouija board?’
‘Ha ha. No. I’m saying, if Carrie knows Paul’s dead, she must also know how he died: kept as a slave and beaten to death.’
‘So?’
‘What happened to Draper at Chapman Farm makes those Polaroids more incriminating, not less. He’d been groomed to accept abuse in the church, and that made him vulnerable to that pair of sociopaths who killed him.’
‘Not sure Carrie’s bright enough to think that through,’ said Strike.
Both sat for a minute, eating and following their own trains of thought, until Strike said,
‘You didn’t see any pig masks while you were in there, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm,’ said Strike. ‘Maybe they got bored of them once they discovered the virtues of the box. Or maybe what’s on those Polaroids was a secret, even from most people inside the church. Somebody was enjoying their fetish in private, knowing full well it couldn’t be given any kind of spiritual interpretation.’
‘And that person had the authority to compel the teenagers to do what they were told, and keep quiet about it afterwards.’
‘Pigs seem to have been Mazu’s particular preoccupation. Can you imagine Mazu telling teenagers to strip and abuse each other?’
Robin considered the question before saying slowly,
‘If you’d asked me before I went in there whether a woman could make kids do that, I’d have said it was impossible, but she’s not normal. I think she’s a true sadist.’
‘And Jonathan Wace?’
Robin felt as though Wace’s hands touched her again when Strike spoke his name. Gooseflesh rose once more over her torso.
‘I don’t know. Possibly.’
Strike pulled out his phone and brought up the photographs of the Polaroids again. Robin, who felt she’d looked at them quite enough, turned to look out of the window at the graveyard.
‘Well, we know one thing about Rose, if that’s her real name,’ said Strike, eyes on the chubby girl with the long black hair. ‘She hadn’t been at Chapman Farm very long before this happened. She’s too well nourished. All the others are very skinny. I could’ve sworn,’ said Strike, his gaze moving to the youth with the skull tattoo, ‘that guy was Reaney. His reaction when I showed him the – oh, shit. Hang on. Joe.’
Robin looked round again.
‘Henry Worthington-Fields,’ said Strike, ‘told me a man called Joe recruited him into the church, in a gay bar.’
‘Oh…’
‘So if that really is Joe, “Rose” looks much more credible as the name of the dark girl. Of course,’ said Strike thoughtfully, ‘there’s one person who’s got more to fear from these pictures than anyone in them.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘The photographer.’
‘Precisely. Judges don’t tend to look very kindly on people who photograph other people being raped.’
‘The photographer and the abuser must have been one and the same, surely?’
‘I wonder,’ said Strike.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Maybe the price of not having to whip himself across the face again was for Reaney to take dirty pictures? What if he was forced to take them, by the ringmaster?’
‘Well, it’d explain Carrie’s insistence she didn’t know who the photographer was,’ said Robin. ‘I doubt many people would welcome Jordan Reaney having a grudge against them or their families.’
‘Too true.’
Having eaten the last of the Yorkie bar, Strike picked up his pen again and began making a ‘to do’ list.
‘OK, so we need to try and trace Joe and Rose. I’d also like to clarify whether Wace was absent from the farm that morning, because Carrie tied herself up in knots there, didn’t she?’
‘How’re we supposed to find that out, after all this time?’
‘Christ knows, but can’t hurt to try,’ said Strike.
He started unenthusiastically on his apple. Robin had just finished her sandwich when her phone rang.
‘Hi,’ said Murphy. ‘How’s it going in Thornbury?’
Strike, who thought he recognised Murphy’s voice, feigned interest in the passenger side of the road.
‘Good,’ said Robin. ‘Well – interesting.’
‘If you fancy coming over this evening, I’ve got something you’ll also find interesting.’
‘What?’ asked Robin.
‘The interview tapes of the people who’re accusing you of child abuse.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Needless to say, I shouldn’t have them. Called in a favour.’
The idea of seeing anyone from Chapman Farm again, even on film, gave Robin goosebumps for the second time in ten minutes.
‘OK,’ she said, checking her watch, ‘what time will you be home?’
‘Eightish, probably. I’ve got a lot to catch up on here.’
‘OK, great, I’ll see you then.’
She hung up. Strike, who gathered from what he’d just overheard that Robin and Murphy’s relationship had not, in fact, fallen apart during the separation, said,
‘Everything OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘Ryan’s managed to get hold of the interview tapes of the people saying I abused Jacob.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Right.’
He not only resented Murphy being able to access information he couldn’t, he resented Murphy being in a position to inform or assist Robin, when he couldn’t.
Robin was now staring ahead through the windscreen. Her pulse was racing: the child abuse accusation, which she’d tried to relegate to the back of her mind, now seemed to loom over her, blocking out the August sun.
Strike, who suspected what was going through Robin’s mind, said,
‘They’re not going to go through with it. They’ll have to drop it.’
And how can you be so sure? thought Robin, but, well aware that her predicament wasn’t Strike’s fault, she merely said,
‘Well, I hope so.’
‘Any other thoughts on Carrie Curtis Woods?’ said Strike, hoping to distract her.
‘Um…’ said Robin, forcing herself to concentrate, ‘yes, actually. Carrie asking what had happened to Becca was odd. She didn’t seem to remember any of the other kids.’
Strike, who hadn’t particularly registered this point at the time, said,
‘Yeah, now you mention it – remind me how old was Becca, when Daiyu died?’
‘Eleven,’ said Robin. ‘So she wouldn’t have been in the kids’ dormitory that night. Too old. And then we’ve got “It wasn’t a joke, it wasn’t pretend”, haven’t we?’
Yet again, both sat in silence, but this time, their thoughts were running on parallel tracks.
‘I think Carrie knows or believes Daiyu’s dead,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t know… maybe it really was an accidental drowning?’
‘Two drownings, in exactly the same place? No body? Possibly drugged drinks? An escape through a window?’
Strike pulled his seat belt back across himself.
‘No,’ he said, ‘Daiyu was either murdered, or she’s still alive.’
‘Which are very different possibilities,’ said Robin.
‘I know, but if we can prove it either way, the Drowned Prophet – pun intended – is dead in the water.’
99
This line is the representative of the evil that is to be rooted out.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Robin arrived at Murphy’s flat in Wanstead at ten past eight that evening. Like her own, Murphy’s dwelling was cheap, one-bedroomed and came with unsatisfactory neighbours, in his case below, rather than above. It lay in an older and smaller block than Robin’s, with stairs rather than a lift.
Robin climbed the familiar two flights, carrying her overnight bag and a bottle of wine she thought she might need, given that the centrepiece of the night’s entertainment was to be watching videoed interviews accusing her of child abuse. She very much hoped the smell of curry was coming from Murphy’s flat, because she was craving hot food after a day eating sandwiches and peanuts.
‘Oh, wonderful,’ she sighed, when Murphy opened the door and she saw the takeaway cartons laid out on the table.
‘Me or the food?’ asked Murphy, bending to kiss her.
‘You, for getting the food.’
When they’d first started going out together, Robin had found the interior of Murphy’s flat frankly depressing, because except for the fact that there were no cardboard boxes and his clothes were hung up in the wardrobe, it looked as though he’d just moved in. Of course, Strike’s flat was the same, in that there were no decorative objects there at all, except for the school photo of his nephews Lucy never failed to send him, which was updated yearly. However, the fact that Strike lived under the eaves gave his flat a certain character, which was entirely lacking in Murphy’s identikit dwelling. It had taken a couple of visits to Robin’s own flat for Murphy to comment aloud, with an air of faint surprise, that pictures and plants made a surprising difference to a space, which had made Robin laugh. However, she hadn’t made the slightest attempt to change Murphy’s flat: no gifted cushions or posters, no helpful suggestions. She knew such things might be interpreted as a proprietorial statement of intent, and with all its drawbacks, her own flat was dear to her for the independence it gave her.