Barclay, Midge and Dev had spent the previous seven days rotating between London and Norfolk, making a careful survey of the environs of the UHC’s base while ensuring that the cameras didn’t pick up any individual face too often. Midge had used a couple of different wigs. They’d also affixed false number plates on each of their vehicles to drive around the farm’s perimeter.
‘These,’ said Midge, pointing at a series of red crosses the three subcontractors had added to the periphery of Chapman Farm’s land, ‘are cameras. They’re serious about security. The whole perimeter’s under surveillance. But there –’ she pointed at a circled red mark, which was on the edge of a patch of woodland ‘– is the blind spot. Barclay found it.’
‘You’re sure?’ said Strike, looking around at the Scot, who was drinking tea out of a Celtic mug, in what was usually Strike’s chair.
‘Aye,’ said Barclay, leaning forwards to point. ‘The two cameras either side are fixed tae trees, an’ they’re a wee bit too far apart. They’ve noticed it’s nae properly covered, because they’ve fortified it. Extra barbed wire. The ground inside the fence was covered in nettles an’ brambles, as well.’
‘“Was”?’ said Robin.
‘Aye. I’ve cut a path through it. That’s how I confirmed they can’t see anything there: naebody came to tell me to get oot an’ I was there a couple of hours. I got in over the barbed wire, nearly fuckin’ castrated meself – ye’re welcome – an’ cut it all back. There’s a wee clearing there now, hard by the road. If I hadnae done it,’ Barclay told Robin, ‘ye’d have had to explain why you keep gettin’ covered in stings and lacerations.’
‘Bloody good going,’ said Strike.
‘Thanks, Sam,’ said Robin, warmly.
‘Last thing we did was check what happens when they do see someone coming in over the perimeter fence, on the security camera,’ said Midge, pointing to a circled blue cross. ‘I climbed over the fence here. Five minutes later, I had a guy running towards me holding a scythe. I acted dumb. A rambler who thought the farm might have a nice shop. He believed me. The farm’s up a track off a local walk, Lion’s Mouth. Beauty spot.’
‘OK,’ said Strike, now lifting a realistic-looking plastic rock off a chair onto the desk, ‘this is going to be at the blind spot, right by the perimeter fence.’
He opened it to show Robin the contents.
‘Pencil torch and pen and paper, just in case they don’t give you any inside. You write us a note, put it back in the rock and place it in the spot where the cameras can’t see you. We collect it every Thursday evening at nine, put in a return message you can read on the spot, then tear up.
‘If you skip a Thursday letter, one of us stays in the vicinity and keeps checking the rock. If we haven’t heard from you by Saturday evening, we come in the front.’
‘Too soon,’ said Robin. ‘Make it Sunday.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if I’m worried about hitting every Thursday deadline, I’m at risk of messing up. I just want a bigger margin.’
‘What instructions have they given you?’ Midge asked Robin.
‘No phones or any electronic devices. They say you can check them in when—’
‘Don’t take them,’ said Midge and Barclay simultaneously.
‘No, you definitely don’t want the UHC having possession of your phone,’ agreed Strike. ‘Leave it here, in the office safe. House keys, as well. Take nothing in there that ties you to your real life.’
‘And I’m to bring a waterproof coat,’ said Robin, ‘three changes of underwear, and that’s it. You’re given tracksuits to wear when you arrive, and you leave your daywear in a locker. No alcohol, sugar, cigarettes or drugs, prescription or otherwise—’
‘They make you leave medication?’ said Barclay.
‘The body will heal itself if the spirit is pure enough,’ said Robin, straight-faced.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ muttered Barclay.
‘Face it, the UHC doesn’t want people who need medication,’ said Strike. ‘No diabetic’s going to stand up to that starvation regime for long.’
‘And no toiletries. Those are all provided,’ said Robin.
‘You can’t even take your own deodorant?’ said Midge indignantly.
‘They don’t want you reminded of your life outside,’ said Robin. ‘They don’t want you thinking of yourself as an individual.’
A few seconds’ silence followed this remark.
‘You’re gonnae be all right, are ye?’ said Barclay.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. But if anything goes wrong, I’ve got you lot, haven’t I? And my trusty rock.’
‘Dev’s going to drive up there tonight and put the rock in position,’ said Strike. ‘You might have to feel around a bit to find it. We want to make it look like it’s been there forever.’
‘Right,’ said Barclay, slapping his thighs before getting to his feet, ‘I’m off tae take over from Littlejohn. Frank One should be ready for a bit o’ light stalking once he’s had his lunch.’
‘Yeah, I should go relieve Dev,’ said Midge, checking her watch. ‘See what Bigfoot’s up to.’
‘Has he met anyone yet?’ said Robin, who’d been buried so deep in her preparation for Chapman Farm, and research on ex-UHC members, that she hadn’t had time to read the Bigfoot file.
‘He’s been to Stringfellows,’ said Midge dismissively, ‘but the wife’s not going to get half his business just because he had a lap dance… not that I’m really arsed about her getting it, snotty cow.’
‘We’re Team Client, even if they’re bastards,’ said Strike.
‘I know, I know,’ said Midge, heading for the outer office, where her leather jacket was hanging up, ‘but you get bored of helping out people who’ve never done a day’s bloody work in their lives.’
‘When I find a starving orphan who can afford to hire us, I’ll pass them straight to you,’ said Strike.
Midge returned a sardonic salute, then said to Robin,
‘If I don’t see you before you go in, good luck.’
‘Thanks, Midge,’ said Robin.
‘Aye, best o’ luck,’ said Barclay. ‘An’ if the worst comes tae the worst, an’ ye’re on the verge of gettin’ brainwashed, take a rusty nail and dig it intae the palm of your hand. Worked for Harry Palmer in the The Ipcress File.’
‘Good advice,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll try and smuggle one in.’
The two subcontractors left the office.
‘I had something else to tell you,’ Robin told Strike, now sitting down on her usual side of the partners’ desk. ‘I think I’ve found Jordan Reaney. The guy who was forced to whip himself across the face with the leather flail? He was using his middle name at Chapman Farm. His real name’s Kurt.’
She typed ‘Kurt Reaney’ and swung the screen of her PC round to face Strike, who was confronted with the mugshot of a heavily tattooed man. An ace of spades was inked onto his left cheek, and a tattooed tiger covered his throat.
‘He was sentenced to ten years for armed robbery and aggravated assault. Kurt Jordan Reaney,’ said Robin, rolling her chair around the desk to contemplate the mugshot alongside Strike. ‘He’ll have been in his late teens when Sheila knew him, which fits. I’ve trawled through all the usual online records, and got as many addresses for him as I can find. There’s a gap in online records from ’93 to ’96, then he reappears in a flat in Canning Town. We know the UHC Jordan was frightened of the police, because Kevin Pirbright said that’s what Mazu was threatening him with, while she was making him whip himself.’
‘Sounds like our guy,’ said Strike, ‘but you can’t just ring up a bloke in jail.’
‘Maybe a letter?’ said Robin, though without much conviction.
‘“Dear Mr Reaney, having seen your mugshot, you strike me as the kind of bloke who’d very much like to help a criminal investigation…”’
Robin laughed.
‘What about next of kin?’ said Strike.
‘Well, there’s a woman with the same surname living at his last address.’
‘I’ll try and get at him through her. What about the other kid who got beaten up?’ said Strike. ‘The one with the low IQ?’
‘Paul Draper? Haven’t found any trace of him yet. Cherie Gittins seems to have vanished off the face of the earth too.’
‘OK, I’ll keep digging on them while you’re at Chapman Farm. I’ve left a message at Abigail Glover’s fire station, as well.’
‘Wace’s daughter?’
‘Exactly.’
Strike now moved to the door separating the inner office from the outer, where Pat sat typing, and closed it.
‘Listen,’ he said.
Robin braced herself, trying not to look exasperated. Murphy had said ‘listen’ in exactly that tone on Friday night, five minutes after ejaculating, and immediately before embarking on his prepared speech about the risks of going under deep cover.
‘I wanted to tell you something, before you go in there.’
He looked serious, but hesitant, and Robin felt a tiny electric shock in the pit of her stomach, just as she had when Prudence said Robin was the most important person in Strike’s life.
‘There’s a slight chance – very slight, actually, but it’s still better you know – that someone in there might say something about me, so I wanted to forewarn you, so you don’t look shocked and give yourself away.’
Now Robin knew what was coming, but said nothing.
‘I was at the Aylmerton Community for six months, with my mum and Lucy, back in 1985. I’m not saying people will remember me, I was just a kid, but my mother was a minor celebrity. Well, she’d been in the papers, anyway.’
For a few seconds, Robin debated what best to say, and decided on honesty.
‘Actually, Sheila Kennett remembered you and your mum. I didn’t want to say anything,’ she added, ‘unless you told me yourself.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Right.’
They looked at each other.
‘Fucking terrible place,’ said Strike bluntly, ‘but nothing happened to me in there.’
He’d unintentionally placed a slight emphasis on the word ‘me’.
‘I’ve got another reason for telling you this,’ said Strike. ‘That Mazu woman. Don’t trust her.’