‘I won’t, she sounds really—’
‘No, I mean, don’t assume there’s any sense of – ’ he groped for the right word ‘– you know – sisterhood there. Not when it comes to spirit bonding. If she wants to take you to some bloke—’
There came a knock on the door.
‘What?’ called Strike, with a trace of impatience.
Pat’s monkeyish face appeared, scowling. She said to Strike, in her deep, gravelly voice,
‘There’s a woman on the phone, wanting to talk to you. Name of Niamh Doherty.’
‘Put her through,’ said Strike at once.
He moved around to his side of the desk, and the phone began to ring within seconds.
‘Cormoran Strike.’
‘Hello,’ said a tentative woman’s voice. ‘Er – my name’s Niamh Doherty? You left a message with my husband, asking whether I’d answer some questions about the Universal Humanitarian Church?’
‘I did, yes,’ said Strike. ‘Thanks very much for getting back to me.’
‘That’s all right. Can I ask why you want to talk to me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Strike, eyes on Robin’s. ‘My agency’s been hired to investigate claims about the church made by an ex-member. We’re after corroboration, if we can get it.’
‘Oh,’ said Niamh. ‘Right.’
‘This would be an off-the-record chat,’ Strike assured her. ‘Just for background. I understand you were pretty young when you were there?’
‘Yes, I was there from ages eight to eleven.’
There was a pause.
‘Have you tried my father?’ Niamh asked.
‘Yes,’ said Strike, ‘but he declined to talk.’
‘He would… I understand if you can’t say, but why are you trying to corroborate these claims? Are you working for a newspaper, or—?’
‘No, not a newspaper. Our client’s got a relative inside the church.’
‘Oh,’ said Niamh, ‘I see.’
Strike waited.
‘All right,’ said Niamh at last, ‘I don’t mind talking to you. Actually, if you could manage tomorrow, or Friday—’
‘Tomorrow would be no problem,’ said Strike, who had his own reasons for favouring Thursday.
‘Thank you, that’d be great, because I’m off work – we’ve just moved house. And, it’s a bit cheeky to ask this, but would you mind coming to me? I’m not far from London. Chalfont St Giles.’
‘No problem whatsoever,’ said Strike, reaching for a pen to take down her address.
When he’d hung up, Strike turned to Robin.
‘Fancy a trip to Chalfont St Giles with me tomorrow?’
‘She’s agreed to talk?’
‘Yep. Be good if you heard what she’s got to say, before you go in.’
‘Definitely,’ said Robin, getting to her feet. ‘Would you mind if I go home now, then? I’ve got a few things to sort out before I leave for Chapman Farm.’
‘Yeah, no problem.’
Once Robin had left, Strike sat down at his computer, his spirits rather higher than they’d been on waking up. He’d just scuppered the possibility of Robin spending the whole of her last free day before going undercover with Ryan Murphy. If his actions recalled, however faintly, Charlotte Ross’s machinations with regard to himself, his conscience remained surprisingly untroubled as he Googled pleasant places to have lunch in Chalfont St Giles.
21
The danger of heaven lies in the fact that one cannot climb it… The effects of the time of danger are truly great.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
The village Strike and Robin entered the following morning, which lay an hour from London, had a sleepy English prettiness. As they drove past half-timbered buildings overlooking a village green, Strike, who’d accepted Robin’s offer to drive his BMW, looked out at the stone grey Norman tower of the parish church, and spotted a sign proclaiming that they were in Buckinghamshire’s best kept village.
‘None of this will come cheap,’ he commented, as they turned off the High Street into Bowstridge Lane.
‘We’re here,’ said Robin, coming to a halt beside a square, detached house of tawny brick. ‘We’re ten minutes early, should we wait or—?’
‘Wait,’ said Strike, who had no desire to hurry through the interview. The longer it took, the more likely Robin would want something to eat before returning to London. ‘You all packed and ready for tomorrow?’
‘I’ve put my waterproof coat and underwear in a holdall, if you can call that packing,’ said Robin.
What she didn’t tell Strike was that she’d realised for the first time yesterday that she wouldn’t be able to take contraceptive pills with her into Chapman Farm. Having checked the small print on the pamphlet she’d been given, they were specifically listed as banned medications. Nor was she about to tell Strike that she and Murphy had had something close to an argument the previous evening, when Murphy had announced that he’d taken the day off to spend it with her, as a surprise, and she’d told him she was driving off to Buckinghamshire with Strike.
Strike’s mobile rang. Caller ID was withheld.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said a female voice. ‘This is Abigail Glover.’
Strike mouthed ‘Jonathan Wace’s daughter’ at Robin before turning his mobile to speakerphone so that she could hear what was going on.
‘Ah, great,’ he said. ‘You got the message I left at the station?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Woss this about?’
‘About the Universal Humanitarian Church,’ said Strike.
Absolute silence followed these words.
‘Are you still there?’ asked Strike.
‘Yeah.’
‘I was wondering whether you might be willing to talk to me,’ said Strike.
More silence: Strike and Robin were looking at each other. At last a single monosyllable issued from the phone.
‘Why?’
‘I’m a private—’
‘I know ’oo you are.’
Unlike her father’s, Abigail’s accent was pure working-class London.
‘Well, I’m trying to investigate some claims made about the church.’
‘’Oose claims?’
‘A man called Kevin Pirbright,’ said Strike, ‘who’s now dead, unfortunately. Did he ever make contact with you? He was writing a book.’
There was another silence, the longest yet.
‘You working for a newspaper?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, for a private client. I wondered whether you’d be happy to talk to me. It can be off the record,’ Strike added.
Yet another lengthy silence followed.
‘Hello?’
‘I dunno,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll need to fink about it. I’ll call you back if I… I’ll call you later.’
The line went dead.
Robin, who realised she’d been holding her breath, exhaled.
‘Well… I can’t say I’m surprised. If I were Wace’s daughter, I wouldn’t want to be reminded of it, either.’
‘No,’ agreed Strike, ‘but she’d be very useful, if she was happy to talk… I left a message for Jordan Reaney’s wife yesterday, after you left, by the way. Tracked her down to her place of work. She’s a manicurist at a place called Kuti-cles with a K.’
He checked the time on the dashboard.
‘We should probably go in.’
When Strike pressed the doorbell they heard a dog barking, and when the door opened, a wire-haired fox terrier came flying out of the house so fast he flew right past Strike and Robin, skidded on the paved area in the front of the house, turned, ran back and began jumping up and down on its hind legs, barking hysterically.
‘Calm down, Basil!’ shouted Niamh. Robin was taken aback by her youth: she was in her mid-twenties, and for the second time lately, Robin found herself comparing her own flat to somebody else’s house. Niamh was short and plump, with shoulder-length black hair and very bright blue eyes, and was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a quotation by Charlotte Brontë printed on the front: I would always rather be happy than dignified.
‘Sorry,’ Niamh said to Strike and Robin, before saying, ‘Basil, for God’s sake,’ seizing the dog by its collar and dragging it back inside. ‘Come in. Sorry,’ she repeated over her shoulder, as she dragged the overexcited dog along the wooden floorboards towards a kitchen at the end of the hall, ‘we moved in last Sunday and he’s been hyper ever since… get out,’ she added, forcibly pushing the dog out into the garden through a back door, which she closed firmly on him.
The kitchen was farmhouse style, with a purple Aga and plates displayed on a dresser. A scrubbed wooden table was surrounded by purple-painted chairs, and the fridge door was covered in a child’s paintings, mostly blobs of paint and squiggles, which were held up with magnets. There was also – and this, Robin thought, explained how a twenty-five-year-old came to find herself living in such an expensive house – a picture of Niamh in a bikini, arm in arm with a man in swimming trunks, who looked at least forty. A smell of baking was making Strike salivate.
‘Thanks very much for seeing us, Mrs—’
‘Call me Niamh,’ said their hostess, who, now that she didn’t have a fox terrier to manage, looked nervous. ‘Please, sit down, I’ve just made biscuits.’
‘You’ve just moved in and you’re baking?’ said Robin, smiling.
‘Oh, I love baking, it calms me down,’ said Niamh, turning away to grab oven gloves. ‘Anyway, we’re pretty much straight now. I only took a couple of days off because I had leave owed to me.’
‘What d’you do for a living?’ asked Strike, who’d taken the chair nearest the back door, at which Basil was now whining and scratching, eager to get back in.
‘Accountant,’ said Niamh, now lifting cookies off the baking tray with a spatula. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
By the time the two detectives and Niamh had their mugs of tea, and the biscuits were sitting on a plate in the middle of the table, Basil’s whines had become so piteous that Niamh let him back into the room.
‘He’ll settle,’ she said, as the dog zoomed around the table, tail wagging furiously. ‘Eventually.’
Niamh sat down herself, making unnecessary adjustments to the sleeves of her sweatshirt.