Strike suppressed any expression of frustration at what he considered Will Edensor’s idiotic stubbornness.
Pat returned to her desk, e-cigarette between her teeth, and Strike rubbed his eyes. He’d insisted on walking Robin to her taxi at six o’clock, telling her it was imperative that neither of them took any more risks. In spite of their sleepless night, he hadn’t been to bed: there was too much to think about, to organise and to do, and it must all be done methodically and stealthily if they were to have any chance of taking on the UHC without anyone else getting shot through the head.
His mobile rang and he groped for it.
‘Hi,’ said Robin’s voice.
‘You were supposed to be getting some sleep.’
‘I can’t,’ said Robin. ‘I came home, got into bed, lay there awake for an hour then got back up again. Too much coffee. What’s going on there?’
‘I’ve seen Barclay and I’ve called Ilsa,’ said Strike, suppressing a yawn. ‘She’s happy to represent Will and Flora, if they’re agreeable. Shah’s on his way to Birmingham.’
Strike heaved himself up onto his feet and glanced down into the street again. The tall, fit-looking black man with green eyes had reappeared since he’d last looked, though on this occasion he was marginally better hidden than previously, in a doorway four along from the office on the other side of the street.
‘We’re still being watched,’ Strike informed Robin, ‘but only by the clown squad. He wasn’t there when I went out to Cedar Terrace this morning.’
‘You went? I thought we agreed neither of us was going to take stupid risks?’
‘I couldn’t send Shah, Barclay was still in Norwich and Midge was asleep. Anyway, it wasn’t a risk,’ said Strike, letting the blinds fall back into place. ‘There was never going to be a safer time to go and talk to Rosie Fernsby than while police are hunting the shooter. Trouble with trying to kill people you’re afraid know too much is, if you miss, you’ve not only handed them confirmation of their theory, you’ve made yourself a target. Anyway,’ Strike continued, dropping back into his chair, ‘Rosie-Bhakta was there.’
‘She was?’ said Robin, sounding excited.
‘Yeah. She’s bloody annoying, although maybe I’d’ve found her less so if I wasn’t this knackered. Says she doesn’t ever bother answering the landline because it’s only ever for her mother – predictably, given it’s her mother’s house.’
‘What did she say about the Polaroids?’
‘Exactly what we expected her to say. She was quite excited to think she might be in danger, though. I’ve persuaded her to move to a B&B at Colin Edensor’s expense.’
‘Good. Listen, I’m worried about Midge going back to Chapman Farm—’
‘She’ll want to do it. She’s constantly pissed off I don’t let her do dangerous stuff. However bloody insubordinate she can be, nobody could call her a coward.’
Robin, who’d rolled her eyes at the word ‘insubordinate’, said,
‘And what if they’ve put up cameras at the blind spot now?’
‘Unless they’re night vision cameras she’ll be OK, as long as she’s well covered and got the wire cutters. We’ve got to chance it. Without forensic evidence, we’re going to be bloody hard-pressed to prove what happened…
‘I’ve got Pat typing up a final report on Toy Boy, by the way. You’ll like this: Dev caught him in the same hotel as Bigfoot, with another Eastern European girl.’
‘No way.’
‘Yeah, so I’ve passed those photos to the client. Toy Boy’s seen his last Rolex. You and I will have to cover Hampstead while the others are working the UHC case. With luck, the clowns watching us will think we’ve lost interest in the church now we’ve been shot at.’
‘I’m worried about Sam, though. What if—?’
‘Barclay can handle himself fine,’ said Strike. ‘Stop worrying about him and Midge and concentrate on the fact that we’re trying to take down a bunch of fuckers who’re brainwashing thousands, raping people and selling kids.’
‘I am concentrating on that,’ said Robin crossly. ‘For your information, I’ve spent the last six hours combing through every other Isaac Mills in the UK.’
‘And?’
‘And there are two more Isaac Millses who’re the right age. One’s a chartered accountant, the other’s in jail.’
‘Very promising,’ said Strike. ‘Which jail?’
‘Wandsworth.’
‘Even better,’ said Strike. ‘Won’t be a long trip. What’s he in for?’
‘Manslaughter. I’m doing some more digging right now.’
‘Great.’ Strike scratched his chin, thinking. ‘If he’s the right one, you should visit him. Might require a lighter touch than I gave Reaney.’
He chose not to say that Mills was likely to fancy a visit from an attractive young woman far more than he’d want to meet a broken-nosed forty-one-year-old man.
‘This is all going to take time to arrange,’ said Robin, sounding worried.
‘Doesn’t matter. We do this properly or not at all. I’m trying to fix up a meeting with all our police contacts—’
‘I know, Ryan just called me, he got Pat’s message,’ said Robin.
Then why the fuck didn’t he call Pat? was Strike’s immediate, ungracious thought.
‘He can’t do anything until next week.’
‘Nor can Layborn,’ said Strike. ‘I might give them all a little kick up the arse, tell them my journalist contact is gagging to write a piece about the church and police apathy, and that I’m barely holding him off.’
‘Would you mind not?’ said Robin. ‘Or not unless it’s absolutely necessary?’
‘You’re the one who wants to speed things up,’ said Strike.
And nobody made you start seeing that prick Murphy.
123
Strength in the face of danger does not plunge ahead but bides its time, whereas weakness in the face of danger grows agitated and has not the patience to wait.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
For the next fortnight, everyone at the agency was very busy, their efforts directed almost exclusively to proving Strike’s theory about the fate of the Drowned Prophet.
Midge, who’d accepted with alacrity the possibly dangerous job of trying to get forensic evidence from the woods at Chapman Farm, returned safely and triumphantly from Norfolk. Given that the agency had no access to a forensics lab, the only hope of having her findings analysed would be in the context of a police investigation that hadn’t yet started, if, indeed, it ever did. Everything she’d carried out of the woods at Chapman Farm was now wrapped carefully in plastic in the office safe.
After a week of hanging around various likely haunts, Barclay had successfully located the man whom Strike was so keen to have befriended, and was cautiously optimistic, given his target’s fondness for drink and military anecdotes, that a few more free pints might see himself invited round to the man’s home.
‘Don’t rush it,’ warned Strike. ‘One false move could set off alarm bells.’
Shah remained in Birmingham, where some of the activities he’d undertaken were illegal. In consequence, Strike didn’t intend to share any of Dev’s findings at the meeting with his and Robin’s four best police contacts, which finally took place two weeks and a day after Strike and Robin had been shot at, on a Tuesday evening, in the useful downstairs room at the Flying Horse. Strike – who felt he was becoming increasingly profligate with Sir Colin Edensor’s money – was paying for the room and dinner out of his own pocket, with the promise of burgers and chips to sweeten their contacts’ sacrifice of a few hours of their free time.
Unfortunately for Strike, he was late for his own meeting. He’d driven to Norfolk and back that day in a hired automatic Audi A1. The interview he’d conducted there had taken longer than he’d expected, the unfamiliar car’s pedals had been hard on his right leg, he’d hit a lot of traffic on the way back into London, and this, coupled with the stress of checking constantly that he wasn’t being followed, had etched a slight scowl onto his face which he had to discipline into a smile when he reached the downstairs room, where he found Eric Wardle, George Layborn, Vanessa Ekwensi, Ryan Murphy, Robin, Will, Flora and Ilsa.
‘Sorry,’ Strike muttered, spilling some of his pint as he dropped clumsily into the spare seat at the table. ‘Long day.’
‘I’ve ordered for you,’ said Robin, and Strike noted the look of irritation on Murphy’s face as she said it.
Robin was feeling uneasy. Will, she knew, had been cajoled into attending by Pat and Dennis, the latter having told Will firmly that he was caught in a chicken and egg situation and needed to bloody well get himself out of it. Since arriving in the basement of the Flying Horse with Flora and Ilsa, Will, who looked pale and worried, had barely spoken. Meanwhile, it had required all Robin’s cheerful chat and gratitude for her presence to raise the slightest smile from Flora, who was currently twisting her fingers on her lap beneath the table. Robin had already glimpsed a fresh self-harm mark on her neck.
Aside from her worries about how this meeting was likely to affect the two fragile ex-church members, Robin sensed undercurrents between Wardle and Murphy; the latter had become peremptory and curt in manner even before Strike arrived.
After some slightly stilted small talk, Strike introduced the subject of the meeting. The police listened in silence while Strike ran over the main accusations against the church, omitting all mention of the Drowned Prophet. When Strike said Flora and Will were prepared to give statements about what they’d witnessed while members of the church, Robin saw the knuckles of Flora’s hands turn white beneath the table.
Food arrived before the police had had time to ask any questions. Once the waitress had left, the CID officers began to speak up. They were, as Strike had expected, starting from a position, if not of scepticism, then of caution.