In spite of diligently searching all available records, Robin had found no evidence that Rosie had ever owned property in the UK under either of her known names. She’d never married and had no children. She was now nearing forty. Converted to Hinduism. Possibly in India. Silly crazes. Bikram yoga. Incense.
A vague picture was forming in Robin’s mind of a woman who saw herself as a free spirit, but who might, perhaps, have suffered emotional or financial reverses (would many solvent thirty-year-olds voluntarily go and live with their father, as Rosie had done before her name change, unless they had no alternative?). Perhaps Rosie was in India, as her brother had suggested? Or was Rosie one of those chaotic people who left little trace of themselves in records, flitting, perhaps, between sub-lets and squats, rather as Leda Strike had done?
The ringing of her mobile made Robin jump.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi,’ said Prudence’s voice. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘You?’
‘Not bad… so, um… I had a session with Flora this afternoon.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin, bracing herself.
‘I’ve told her – I had to – who the person was, who’d contacted her about her Pinterest pictures. I apologised, I said it was my fault Corm worked it out, even though I didn’t name her.’
‘Right,’ said Robin.
‘Anyway… we talked about your investigation, and I told her somebody else has managed to get out of Chapman Farm, and that you helped them do it, and… long story short… she’d like to meet that person.’
‘Really?’ said Robin, who realised she’d been holding her breath.
‘She’s not committing to anything beyond that, at the moment, OK? But if you and Cormoran are agreeable, she says she’s prepared to meet your ex-UHC person, with me present – and for the other individual to have someone there for support, too.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Robin. ‘That’s wonderful, Prudence, thank you. We’ll talk to our client’s son, and see whether he’d like to meet Flora. I’m sure he’d find it helpful.’
After Prudence had rung off, Robin checked the rota, then texted Pat.
Sorry to disturb you after working hours Pat, but would it be ok for Strike and me to come over to your house tomorrow morning at 10am to talk to Will?
Pat, as was her invariable habit, called Robin back five minutes later, rather than texting.
‘You want to come and see him?’ she asked, in her usual baritone. ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’
‘How is he?’
‘Still chanting a bit. I tell him, “Stop doing that and give me a hand with the washing up,” and he does. I got him more clothes. He’s seemed happier, being out of that tracksuit. He’s playing chess with Dennis just now. I’ve just put Qing to bed. Right little chatterbox, all of a sudden. I read her the Hungry Caterpillar. She wanted it five times in a row.’
‘Pat, we really can’t thank you enough for this.’
‘No trouble. He’s well brought up, you can tell. He’ll be a nice enough boy, once he’s got all their rubbish out of his system.’
‘Has he mentioned the Drowned Prophet at all?’ asked Robin.
‘Yeah, last night,’ said Pat unemotionally. ‘Dennis said to him, “You don’t believe in ghosts, intelligent bloke like you?” Will said Dennis would, if he’d seen what Will’s seen. Said he’d seen people levitate. Dennis said, “How high did they go?” Few inches, said Will. So Dennis showed him how they fake it. Silly sod nearly fell over onto our gas fire.’
‘How does Dennis know how to fake levitation?’ asked Robin, diverted.
‘Mate of his, when he was young, used to do stuff like that to impress girls,’ said Pat laconically. ‘Some girls are bloody silly, let’s face it. When does anyone need a man who can rise two inches into the air?’
Robin laughed, thanked Pat again, and wished her a good evening. Having hung up, she found herself in a considerably improved state of mind. She now had both a new theory and a potentially crucial meeting to tell Strike about when he returned. She checked her watch. Strike would now have been in Wace’s meeting for over an hour, but Robin knew Papa J: he’d probably just be getting started. Perhaps she’d order some food, to be delivered to the office while reviewing the UHC file.
She got to her feet, mobile in hand, and moved to the window, wondering what kind of pizza she fancied. The sun was falling and Denmark Street was now in shadow. The shops were closed, many of their windows covered in metal blinds.
Robin had just decided she wanted something with capers on it, when she spotted somebody tall, bulky and dressed all in black walking along the street. Bizarrely, for a mild evening in August, they had their hood up. Robin raised her phone and switched it to camera mode, recording the figure as it walked down the steps in front of the music shop opposite, disappearing into the basement area below.
Perhaps they knew the shop owner? Maybe they’d been instructed to go to the door beneath street level?
Robin pressed pause on the camera and watched the few seconds of footage back. Then, with a return of her earlier feeling of foreboding, she returned to the UHC file and withdrew the still photographs of the masked intruder with the gun Strike had printed off from the camera footage.
It might be the same person, but equally, it might not. They were wearing similar black jackets, but the photographs from the dimly lit landing were too blurry to make an identification certain.
Should she call the police? But what would she say? That someone in a black jacket had their hood up in the vicinity of the office, and had walked down some steps? It was hardly criminal behaviour.
The person with the gun had waited until nightfall, and the extinguishment of all lights in the building, to act, Robin reminded herself. She now wondered whether a pizza delivery was such a good idea. She’d have to open the ground-floor door to let them in; what if the lurker in the black jacket forced entry, along with the delivery man, a gun pressed to their back? Or was she being absurdly paranoid?
No, said Strike’s voice in her head. You’re being smart. Keep an eye on them. Don’t leave the office until you’re certain they’ve gone.
Aware that her silhouette might be visible even through the Venetian blinds, Robin went to turn out the office lights. She then drew Strike’s chair to the window, the UHC file on her lap, glancing regularly down into the street. The black-clad figure remained out of sight.
112
Nine in the fourth place means:
He treads on the tail of the tiger.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Jonathan Wace had already explained how the UHC found commonality in all faiths, uniting and fusing them into a single, all-encompassing belief system. He’d quoted Jesus Christ, the Buddha, the Talmud and, mostly, himself. He’d called Giles Harmon and Noli Seymour separately onto the stage, where each had paid heartfelt tributes to the inspirational genius of Papa J, Harmon with an intellectual gravitas that earned a round of applause, Seymour with an effusive girlishness that the crowd appreciated even more.
The sky visible through the glass panes in the vaulted ceiling deepened gradually to dark blue, and Strike’s one and a half legs, cramped in the second row of seats, had developed pins and needles. Wace had moved on to denouncing world leaders, while the screens above him showed images of war, famine and environmental devastation. The crowd was punctuating his shorter sentences with whoops and cheers, greeting his oratorical flourishes with applause, and roaring their approval of every castigation and accusation he flung at the elites and the warmongers. Surely, Strike thought, checking his watch, they were nearly done? But another twenty minutes passed, and Strike, who now needed a piss, was becoming uncomfortable as well as bored.
‘So which of you will help us?’ shouted Wace at long last, his voice cracking with emotion as he stood alone in the spotlight, all else in shadow. ‘Who will join? Who’ll stand with me, to transform this broken world?’
As he spoke, the pentagonal stage began to transform, to further screams and applause. Five panels lifted like rigid petals to reveal a pentagonal baptismal pool, their undersides ridged in steps that would afford easy access to the water. Wace was left standing on a small circular platform in the middle. He now invited all those who felt they’d like to be received into the UHC to join him, and be reborn into the church.
The lights came up and some of the audience began to make their way towards the exits, including the elderly toffee-chewer to Strike’s left. She’d seemed impressed by Wace’s charisma and stirred by his righteous anger, but evidently felt a dip in the baptismal pool would be taking things too far. Some of the other departing audience members were carrying sleepy children; others were stretching stiff limbs after the long period of enforced sitting. No doubt many would enrich the UHC further, by purchasing a copy of The Answer or a hat, T-shirt or keyring before leaving the building.
Meanwhile, trickles of people were descending down the aisle to be baptised by Papa J. The cheers of existing members continued to ring off the metal supports of the Great Hall as one by one the new members were submerged, then rose, gasping and usually laughing, to be wrapped in towels by a couple of pretty girls on the other side of the pool.
Strike watched the baptisms, until the sky was black and his right leg had gone to sleep. At last, there were no more volunteers for baptism. Jonathan Wace pressed his hand to his heart, bowed, and the stage area went dark to a final burst of applause.
‘Excuse me?’ said a soft voice in Strike’s ear. He turned to see a young redhead in a UHC tracksuit. ‘Are you Cormoran Strike?’