‘’Spect there is a lot, now,’ said Abigail. ‘No birf control.’
‘How long were you at the farm, between Daiyu’s disappearance and leaving for Birmingham?’
‘Dunno. Week or two. Somefing like that.’
‘And when you were transferred to Birmingham, did anyone from Chapman Farm go with you?’
‘Yeah, bloke called Joe. ’E was older’n me an’ ’e was one of my farver and Mazu’s favourites. ’E wasn’ going up there ’cos ’e was being punished, though, ’e was gonna be second in command in the Birmingham Centre.’
‘And it was just you and Joe who were transferred that day, was it?’
‘Yeah, ’s far as I can remember.’
Strike turned a page in his notebook.
‘You remember Alex Graves’ family? Father, mother and sister?’
‘Yeah, I told you I did,’ said Abigail, frowning.
‘Well, Graves’ father thinks your father ordered Cherie Gittins to kill Daiyu.’
Abigail chewed her gum for a few seconds in silence, then said,
‘Well, that’s the sort of stupid fing people say, innit? When they’re angry. Why’s my farver s’posed to ’ave killed ’er?’
‘To get his hands on the quarter of a million pounds Graves left Daiyu in his will.’
‘You’re shittin’ me. She ’ad a qua’er of a million?’
‘If she’d lived, she’d also have inherited the Graves family home, which is probably worth ten times that.’
‘Jesus!’
‘You didn’t know she had that much money?’
‘No! Graves looked like a tramp, I never knew ’e ’ad any money of ’is own!’
‘Do you think a quarter of a million would be a sufficient motive for your father to want Daiyu dead?’
Abigail chewed her gum vigorously, still frowning, before saying,
‘Well… ’e’d’ve liked the money. ’Oo wouldn’t? But of course ’e didn’ fuckin’ tell Cherie to do it. ’E wouldn’t’ve wanted to upset Mazu.’
‘Your father sent you a message, when I met him.’
‘You’ve met ’im?’
‘Yeah. He invited me backstage after his Olympia rally.’
‘An’ ’e sent me a message?’ she said incredulously.
‘Yeah. “Popsicle misses you.”’
Abigail’s lip curled.
‘Bastard.’
‘Him, or me?’
‘’Im, obviously. Still tryna…’
‘To…?’
‘Tug the ’eartstrings. It’s been twenny fuckin’ years an’ not a fuckin’ word, an’ ’e finks I’ll fuckin’ melt if ’e says fuckin’ “Popsicle”.’
But he could tell she was disturbed by the thought of her father sending her a message, even if it was difficult to tell whether anger or pain predominated.
‘I can understand why you don’t like the idea of your father drowning people,’ he said. ‘Not even Daiyu.’
‘What d’you mean, “not even Daiyu”? Yeah, she was spoiled, but she was still a fuckin’ kid, wasn’ she? An’ what d’you mean “people”? ’E didn’t drown my muvver, I toldja that last time!’
‘You wouldn’t be the first person who found it hard to believe their own flesh and blood could do terrible things.’
‘I’ve got no fuckin’ problem believin’ my farver does terrible fuckin’ fings, fanks very much!’ said Abigail angrily. ‘I was there, I saw what was fuckin’ goin’ on, I know what they do to people inside that fuckin’ church! They did it to me, too,’ she said, thumping herself in the chest. ‘So don’ tell me I don’ know what my farver is, because I fuckin’ do, but ’e wouldn’t kill members of ’is own—’
‘You were family, and as you’ve just said, he did terrible things to you, too.’
‘’E didn’t – or not… ’e let bad stuff ’appen to me, yeah, but that was all Mazu, an’ it was mostly when ’e was away. If that’s all about Birmingham—’
She made to stand up.
‘Just a couple more points, if you don’t mind,’ said Strike, ‘and this first one’s important. I want to ask you about Becca Pirbright.’
128
Through repetition of danger we grow accustomed to it. Water sets the example for the right conduct under such circumstances… it does not shrink from any dangerous spot nor from any plunge, and nothing can make it lose its own essential nature. It remains true to itself under all conditions…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Robin had now stood waiting in Wardour Street for nearly an hour. Midge had texted ten minutes previously that she was waiting for Becca to emerge from a chemist’s. Wardour Street was still full of people entering and leaving Chinese restaurants and supermarkets. The red and gold lanterns swung gently overhead in the breeze as the sun sank slowly behind the buildings.
Robin was banking on Midge giving her due warning that Becca was on her way back to the temple, so she could find a less obvious place to watch, but the longer Robin waited, the more the little battery life in her phone was leaking away.
She was afraid that if Becca spotted her, she’d turn tail and run. It might be better, she thought, to be waiting in the temple when Becca returned. That, after all, was Becca’s place of safety and her final destination; it would be far harder for her to refuse to talk there than in the street. After a few more moments of indecision, Robin texted her intention to Midge, then headed into Rupert Court.
None of the people walking up and down the narrow passage paid her the slightest attention as she removed the skeleton keys from her pocket. This, after all, was London: each to their own business, unless it became so noisy, violent or otherwise bothersome that passers-by felt duty bound to intervene. It took Robin five goes to find a key that would unlock the temple doors, but finally she managed it. Having slipped inside, she closed the doors quietly behind her and locked them again.
Becca had left the temple lights on their lowest setting, doubtless to make it easier for her to navigate when she returned. The place was deserted. The gigantic cinema screen facing Robin was black, which gave it a faintly forbidding look. The Disneyesque hand-holding figures that ran around the walls had blended into the shadows, but the ceiling figures were dimly visible: the Wounded Prophet in orange, with the blood on his forehead; the Healer Prophet in his blue robes, with his beard and serpent-wrapped staff; the Golden Prophet in yellow, scattering jewels as she flew; the Stolen Prophet in scarlet, with his noose around his neck; and lastly the Drowned Prophet, all in bridal white, with the stylised waves rising behind her.
Robin walked up the scarlet-carpeted aisle to stand beneath the image of Daiyu, with its malevolent black eyes. It was while she was still looking up at the figure that Robin heard something she hadn’t expected, and which made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up: the screaming of a baby, somewhere inside the temple.
She turned swiftly, trying to locate the source of the sound, then headed towards the stage. To the right of it was a door so well camouflaged in the gold temple wall that Robin hadn’t noticed it during the services she’d attended, distracted, no doubt, by the images of Gods, and of the church’s charitable work, shown onscreen. Robin felt for the flush pull handle and tugged.
The door opened. There was a staircase beyond, leading upstairs to what Robin knew were sleeping quarters. The baby’s cries grew louder. Robin began to climb.
129
The fate of fire depends on wood; as long as there is wood below, the fire burns above.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
‘So,’ said Strike, pausing in his note-taking to read back what Abigail had just told him, ‘in the two or three weeks you spent at the Birmingham centre, you definitely don’t remember any eleven-year-olds being transferred from Chapman Farm?’
‘No,’ said Abigail.
‘That tallies with my information,’ said Strike, ‘because my operative in Birmingham made enquiries about Becca Pirbright. They know who she is, because she’s a big shot in the church now, but they said she’d never lived there as a child.’
‘What’s it matter wevver she ever lived in Birmingham?’ said Abigail, perplexed.
‘Because that’s where her brother and sister believed she’d gone, after Daiyu disappeared. Becca returned to the farm three years later, and she was changed.’
‘Well, she would be, after free years,’ said Abigail, still looking puzzled.
‘But you can’t remember the Pirbright kids?’
‘No, they must’ve been a lot younger than me.’
‘Becca was five years younger.’
‘Then we’d’ve missed each uvver in the dorms.’
‘Dark,’ Strike prompted her. ‘Reasonably attractive. Shiny hair.’
Abigail shrugged and shook her head.
‘Their mother was called Louise.’
‘Oh,’ said Abigail slowly. ‘Yeah… I remember Louise. Really good-looking woman. Mazu ’ad it in for ’er the moment she arrived at the farm.’
‘Did she?’
‘Oh yeah. It was all bruvverly love an’ not bein’ possessive an’ shit, but Mazu fuckin’ ’ated all the women my farver was shagging.’
‘Was he calling them spirit wives in those days?’
‘Not to me,’ said Abigail restlessly. ‘Listen, can you get to the point? Only I’ve gotta meet Darryl an’ ’e’s pissed off at me at the moment ’cause ’e finks I’m not givin’ ’im enough attention.’
‘You don’t seem the type to be bothered by complaints like that.’
‘’E’s very good in the sack, if you must know,’ said Abigail coolly. ‘Is that it, then, on Becca and Birmingham?’
‘Not entirely. I’d have asked Cherie to clarify the next couple of points, but unfortunately I can’t, because she hanged herself hours after I interviewed her.’
‘She… wha’?’
Abigail had stopped chewing.
‘Hanged herself,’ repeated Strike. ‘It’s been a bit of a feature of this case, to tell you the truth. After I went to interview Jordan Reaney, he tried to kill himself, too. I’d shown both of them –’
He slid his hand into his coat pocket, extracted his mobile and brought up the pictures of the Polaroids.