‘Has it occurred to you,’ Wace said, ‘that your partner invented dying children and other such dramatic incidents, because she observed nothing of any note during our time with us, but had to justify the fees you charge your clients?’
‘You know,’ said Strike, ‘I always think it’s a mistake to diversify too far away from the core brand. I’m sure Dr Zhou would agree,’ he added, looking over at the doctor. ‘Just because a man knows how to market enemas to idiots, doesn’t mean he knows shit about pig farming – to take a random example.’
‘I’m sure there’s meaning in that cryptic statement,’ said Wace, looking entertained, ‘but I must confess, I can’t find it.’
‘Well, let’s say a failed car salesman finds out he’s supremely good at flogging liquid bullshit to the masses. Would he be smart to try parcelling up solid chunks for the likes of me?’
‘Ah, you’re cleverer than everyone else in this room, are you?’ said Wace. Though still smiling, it was as though his large blue eyes had become a little more opaque.
‘On the contrary. I’m just like you, Jonathan,’ said Strike. ‘Every day, I get up, look myself in the mirror and ask, “Cormoran, are you a righteous vessel for truth and justice?”’
‘You’re disgusting!’ burst out Noli Seymour.
‘Noli,’ said Wace, making a small version of the gesture with which he’d quelled the crowd’s applause. ‘Remember the Buddha.’
‘“Conquer anger with non-anger”?’ asked Strike. ‘Always thought that’d make a pretty substandard fortune cookie, personally.’
Becca was now looking at him with a little smile, as though she’d seen many like him before. A muscle flickered at the scarred corner of Zhou’s mouth. Joe Jackson had folded his long arms, looking down at Strike with a slight frown. Mazu was so motionless, the screen might have frozen.
‘Now, I’m the first to admit, I wouldn’t be any good at what you do, Jonathan,’ said Strike. ‘But you seem to think you’ve got a flair for my game.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Wace, with a puzzled smile.
‘Surveillance of our office. Tailing us by car.’
‘Cormoran,’ said Wace slowly, ‘I can’t tell whether you know you’re inventing things, or not.’
‘As I say,’ said Strike, ‘it’s all about diversifying from the core brand. You’re top notch at picking out people who’re happy to be sucked dry of all their worldly goods, or slave on the farm for no wages, but less good, if you don’t mind me saying, at picking people to stake out premises, or follow targets discreetly. Bright red Vauxhall Corsas aren’t discreet. Unless you meant to let us know what you’re up to, I’m here to tell you: this isn’t your forte. You can’t just pick some random guy who’s fucked up this year’s carrot crop to stand opposite my office, staring up at the windows.’
‘Cormoran, we’re not watching you,’ said Wace, smiling. ‘If these things have indeed happened, you must have offended someone who takes a less tolerant view of your activities than we do. We choose – like the Buddha—’
‘The bullet through Kevin Pirbright’s brain was shot in non-anger, was it?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea what emotions Kevin was feeling when he shot himself.’
‘Any interest in who murdered your brother?’ Strike said, turning to Becca.
‘What you don’t perhaps realise, Mr Strike, is that Kevin had a guilty conscience,’ said Becca sweetly. ‘I forgive him for what he did to me, but apparently he couldn’t forgive himself.’
‘How d’you choose the people making the phone calls?’ Strike said, looking back at Wace. ‘Obviously, a woman had to pretend to be Reaney’s wife to persuade the authorities to let the call through, but who spoke to him once he’d picked up? You?’
‘I have literally no idea who or what you’re talking about, Cormoran,’ said Wace.
‘Jordan Reaney. Overslept the morning he was supposed to be on the vegetable run, conveniently leaving room for Daiyu in the front of the truck.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw the smile vanish from Becca’s face. ‘Currently in jail. Got a call after I interviewed him, which appears to have precipitated a suicide attempt.’
‘This all sounds very upsetting and unfortunate and more than a little strange,’ said Wace, ‘but I promise you, I don’t have the slightest knowledge about any phone calls to any prison.’
‘You remember Cherie Gittins, of course?’
‘I’m hardly likely to forget her,’ said Wace quietly.
‘Why were you so careful to keep track of her, after she left?’
‘We did no such thing.’
Strike turned again to Becca, and he gained some satisfaction from her sudden look of panic.
‘Miss Pirbright here knows Cherie had daughters. She told the police so. Volunteered the information, for some reason. Went right off script, talking about how what seems devilish may, in fact, be divine.’
Some women blush becomingly, but Becca wasn’t one of them. She turned a purplish red. In the short silence that followed, both Noli Seymour and Joe Jackson turned their heads to look at Becca.
‘How many important religious figures would you say end up hanged?’ asked Strike. ‘Offhand, I can only think of Judas.’
‘Cherie wasn’t hanged,’ said Becca. Her eyes flickered towards Wace as she said it.
‘Do you mean that in a metaphysical sense?’ asked Strike. ‘Same as Daiyu didn’t really drown, but dissolved into pure spirit?’
‘Papa J,’ said Jackson unexpectedly, pushing himself off the wall, ‘I wonder whether there’s much point—?’
‘Thank you, Joe,’ said Wace quietly, and Jackson fell immediately back into line.
‘Now, that’s what I like to see,’ said Strike approvingly. ‘Military-level discipline. Shame it doesn’t extend to the foot soldiers.’
The door behind Strike opened. He glanced round. Taio entered the room, large, greasy-haired, rat-faced and dressed in a UHC tracksuit that strained across his belly. On seeing Strike, he stopped dead.
‘Cormoran’s here at my invitation, Taio,’ said Wace, smiling. ‘Join us.’
‘How’s the head?’ said Strike, as Taio took up a standing position beside Jackson. ‘Need stitches at all?’
‘We were talking about Cherie,’ said Wace, again addressing Strike. ‘As a matter of fact – I know this may be hard for you to understand – Becca’s perfectly right in what she said: Cherie played a divine role, a necessarily difficult role, in the ascension of Daiyu as a prophet. If she has indeed hanged herself, that, too, may have been ordained.’
‘You’ll be hanging up a second thrashing straw figure in temple to celebrate, will you?’
‘I see you’re one of those who prides themselves on disrespecting rites, mysteries, and religious observance,’ said Wace, smiling again. ‘I shall pray for you, Cormoran. I mean that sincerely.’
‘I’ll tell you one book I’ve read, that’s right up your street,’ said Strike. ‘Came across it in a Christian mission where I was spending a night, just outside Nairobi. This was when I was still in the army. I’d drunk too much coffee, and there were only two books in the room, and it was late, and I didn’t think I’d be able to make much of a dent in the Bible, so I went for Who Moved the Stone? by Frank Morison. Have you read it?’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Wace, sitting back in his chair, still smiling. ‘We recognise Jesus Christ as an important emissary of the Blessed Divinity, though, of course, he’s not the only one.’
‘Oh, he had nothing on you, obviously,’ said Strike. ‘Anyway, Morison was a non-believer who set out to prove the resurrection never happened. He did an in-depth investigation into the events surrounding Jesus’ death, drawing on as many historical sources as he could find, and as a direct result, was converted to Christianity. You see what I’m driving at?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Wace.
‘What questions d’you think Morison would’ve wanted answered, if he set out to disprove the legend of the Drowned Prophet?’
Three people reacted: Taio, who let out a low growl, Noli Seymour, who gasped, and Mazu, who, for the first time, spoke.
‘Jonathan.’
‘My love?’ said Wace, turning to look at the face on screen.
‘The sage casts out all that is inferior and degrading,’ said Mazu.
‘Well said.’
It was Dr Zhou who’d spoken. He’d drawn himself up to his full height, and unlike the absent Harmon, he looked undeniably impressive in his robes.
‘Is that from the I Ching?’ asked Strike, looking from Zhou to Mazu. ‘Funnily enough, I’ve got a few questions on the subject of degradation, if you’d rather hear those? No?’ he said, when nobody answered. ‘Back to what I was saying, then. Let’s suppose I fancy writing the new Who Moved the Stone? – working title, “Why Paddle in the North Sea at Five a.m.?” As a sceptical investigator of the miraculous ascension into heaven of Daiyu, I think I’d start with how Cherie knew Jordan Reaney would oversleep that morning. Then I’d be finding out why Daiyu was wearing a dress that made her as visible as possible in the dark, why she drowned off exactly the same stretch of beach as your first wife and – parallels with Who Moved the Stone? here – I’d want to know where the body went. But unlike Morison, I might include a chapter on Birmingham.’
‘Birmingham?’ repeated Wace. Unlike everyone else in the room, he was still smiling.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve noticed there’s a lot of going to Birmingham round about the time Daiyu disappeared.’
‘Once again, I have literally no—’
‘You were supposed to be in Birmingham that morning, but you called it off, right? You sent your daughter Abigail up to Birmingham, shortly after Daiyu died. And I think you were banished to Birmingham, too, weren’t you, Miss Pirbright? For three years, is that correct?’
Before Becca could answer, Wace had leaned forwards, hands clasped between his knees, and said quietly,
‘If the mention of my eldest daughter is supposed to worry me, you’re shooting wide of the mark, Cormoran. The most of which I can be reproached regarding Abigail is that I spoiled her, after the – after the dreadful death of her mother.’