‘I’m Louise,’ said the woman, and Robin remembered that Kevin Pirbright’s mother had been called Louise.
She wondered why Louise’s head was shaved. In the outside world, she’d have assumed she’d been through chemotherapy, but the UHC’s spiritual beliefs made that unlikely. Louise’s skin was weathered and chapped; she looked as though she spent most of her life out of doors.
‘You’re fast,’ she added, watching Robin begin to stuff the toy turtle. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Primrose Hill, in London,’ said Robin. ‘Where do you—?’
‘That’s a nice area. Have you got family?’
‘A younger sister,’ said Robin.
‘Are both your parents alive?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘What do they do?’
‘My dad’s a hedge fund manager. My mum’s got her own business.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘She provides external HR support to companies,’ said Robin.
Louise was working slowly, due to the stiffness of her hands. Her fingernails, Robin noticed, were all broken off. All around the table, the church members were talking to the newcomer to their right, and from what Robin could hear of the conversations, they were running very much along the lines of hers and Louise’s: quick-fire questions intended to elicit a lot of personal information. In very brief pauses in Louise’s questioning, she overheard Marion Huxley telling her neighbour that she was a widow, who’d run an undertakers with her husband.
‘You’re not married?’ Louise asked Robin.
‘No… I was going to be, but we called it off,’ said Robin.
‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ said Louise. ‘What made you interested in the UHC?’
‘It was actually a friend of mine,’ said Robin. ‘She wanted to go, but then she let me down and I ended up attending the temple on my own.’
‘That wasn’t a coincidence,’ said Louise, just as the blonde had said, on Robin’s first visit to the temple. ‘Most pure spirits were called like that, by what feels like chance. Do you know the fable of the blind turtle? The blind turtle who lives in the depths of the ocean and surfaces once every hundred years? The Buddha said, imagine there was a yoke floating on the ocean, and he asked what the chances that the old, blind turtle would surface at exactly the point that meant his neck would pass through the yoke. That’s how hard it is to find enlightenment for most people… you’re a good worker,’ Louise said again, as Robin completed her fourth stuffed turtle. ‘I think you’ll go pure spirit really fast.’
On Robin’s other side, Wan had begun to tell her neighbour the parable of the blind turtle, too. She wondered whether she dared ask Louise why her head was shaved, but decided it might be too personal a question to start with, so instead she said,
‘How long have you—?’
But Louise spoke across her, as though she hadn’t heard.
‘Did you have to take time off your job to come to Chapman Farm?’
‘No,’ said Robin, smiling. ‘I’m not actually working at the moment.’
25
The correct place of the woman is within;
the correct place of the man is without.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
The late afternoon sun pierced Strike’s retinas through the sides of his sunglasses as he walked along Sloane Avenue, ready to take over surveillance of Bigfoot. His thoughts were entirely with Robin as he wondered what was happening right now at Chapman Farm, how she was finding her new environment and whether she’d be able to find the plastic rock hidden just inside the perimeter fence.
As Strike approached his destination, Shah, who’d been watching the large hotel called the Chelsea Cloisters, walked away, which was usual procedure for a handover when facing a many-windowed building, from which people might be watching the street. However, a minute later, Strike received a call from the now out-of-sight subcontractor.
‘Hi, what’s up?’
‘He’s been in there an hour and a half,’ said Shah. ‘It’s chock-full of sex workers. Eastern European, mainly. I wanted a word about Littlejohn, though.’
‘Go on.’
‘Did he tell you he worked at Pattersons for a couple of months, before coming to us?’
‘No,’ said Strike, frowning. ‘He didn’t.’
‘A guy I used to know there, who’s now head of security at a City bank, told me yesterday Littlejohn was working for them. The guy resigned before Littlejohn left. He heard he was sacked. No details.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Dev. ‘He’s definitely ex-army, is he?’
‘Yeah, ex-SIB, I checked his references,’ said Strike. ‘His story was he hadn’t worked for a couple of months before he came to us. OK, thanks. I’ll talk to him.’
Strike was on the point of slipping his mobile back into his pocket when it vibrated, and he saw another emoji-strewn text from Bijou.
Hey strong and silent international man of mysteryFancy a “get together” some time this week?Just bought a new bra and suspender belt and nobody to show them toCan send pics if you like
‘Christ,’ muttered Strike, returning his mobile to his pocket and taking out his vape pen instead. This would be the second text from Bijou he’d ignored. Two shags did not, in Strike’s view, necessitate a formal notice of termination, although he suspected most of the women he knew would have disagreed.
Across the street, a couple of teenaged girls emerged from the Chelsea Cloisters, wearing what looked like pyjamas with their trainers. Talking together, they passed out of sight, returning half an hour later with chocolate bars and bottles of water, and disappeared back inside the large brick and stone building.
Afternoon had shaded slowly into early evening before Strike’s target emerged from the building, unknowingly filmed by Strike. As hairy and unkempt as ever, Bigfoot walked off along the street, apparently texting someone. Evidently one of the advantages of owning your own software company was both the time and means to spend hours of a workday at a hotel. As Strike followed Bigfoot back towards Sloane Square, the detective’s mobile rang again.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said a female voice. ‘It’s Abigail Glover again. We spoke yesterday.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Strike, surprised, ‘thanks for getting back to me.’
‘I just wanna bit more info,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m not agreeing to anyfing.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Strike.
‘Who are you working for?’
‘Can’t disclose that, I’m afraid,’ said Strike. ‘Client confidentiality.’
‘You mentioned that guy Pirbright.’
‘Yes. As I said, I’ve been hired to investigate claims Kevin was making about the church.’
Bigfoot had slowed down and now withdrew into a doorway to read another text. Pretended to be equally absorbed in his own phone conversation, Strike also stopped walking, and feigned interest in passing traffic.
‘Pirbright was writing a book, wasn’ ’e?’ said Abigail.
‘How d’you know that?’
‘He told me, when he phoned me at work.’
Strike had a hunch he knew exactly what was bothering Abigail.
‘I haven’t been hired to help finish Pirbright’s book.’
When she didn’t respond, he said,
‘Our client’s trying to get a relative out of the UHC. Pirbright told the client about certain incidents he witnessed while in the church, and the client wants to find out how much truth, or otherwise, there was in Pirbright’s claims.’
‘Oh,’ said Abigail. ‘I see.’
Bigfoot had set off again. Strike followed, mobile still clamped to his ear.
‘I’m not looking to identify ex-church members, or expose their identities,’ he reassured Abigail. ‘It’ll be down to individual witnesses to decide whether they want to go on the record—’
‘I don’t,’ said Abigail quickly.
‘I understand,’ said Strike, ‘but I’d still like to talk to you.’
Up ahead, Bigfoot had stopped again, this time to talk to a slim, dark teenage girl who was heading in the direction of the hotel he’d just left. Strike hastily turned his mobile to camera and took a couple of pictures. When he’d placed the phone back to his ear, Abigail was talking.
‘… weekend?’
‘Great,’ said Strike, hoping she’d just agreed to meet him. ‘Where would you—?’
‘Not at my flat, my lodger’s bloody nosy. I’ll meet you at seven on Sunday in the Forester on Seaford Road.’
26
The Joyous is the lake… it is a sorceress; it is mouth and tongue.
It means smashing and breaking apart…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Robin had no idea how long she’d stuffed toy turtles, but at a guess, it was a couple of hours. During that time her fake identity had been so thoroughly tested that she could only be glad she’d devoted so many hours to bringing Rowena to life. When Louise asked, Robin was able to give the names of both her imaginary parents’ imaginary cats.
She might have worried that Louise’s meticulous questioning of her indicated suspicion of her bona fides, except for the fact that all the new recruits, as far as she could hear, were being subjected to similar interrogations. It was as though the established members had been given a rota of questions to ask, and Robin had a feeling that the most important parts of what she’d told Louise would have been memorised, and passed in due course to somebody else.
The room in which Fire Group was making the toys became progressively stuffier as they worked, and the relentless questioning had left so little time to think, that Robin was relieved when Becca came to the door, smiling and letting in a cool breeze.
‘Thank you for your service,’ she told the group, pressing her hands together as though in prayer, and bowing. ‘Now, please follow me!’
Everyone trooped after Becca, back past the chicken coop, inside which Wood Group was ushering the hens back into their shed. Seeing the low-hanging sun, Robin realised she must have spent longer with the toy turtles than she’d imagined. There were no longer people in