I was also in the little kids’ classroom for the first time and they’re not right, brainwashed and strange, it’s horrible.
Shawna says Becca Pirbright is lying about her [illegible] with Daiyu. I’m going to try and find out more. Think that’s everyting. Shawna also said [illegible] about Jacob being the reason Papa J won’t have kids with Becca. She also says Jacob’s [illegible] by the devil.
R x
I forgot, there’s a picture of a tree with axe in it on the kid’s [illegible], looks recent I’ll try and find it if I can but its hard to think up a reason to come into the woods by daylight.
Strike, who was sitting at the partners’ desk in the office, read Robin’s letter through twice, noting the deterioration of her handwriting and misspellings. This was the first of her reports to contain concrete leads, not to mention information the church definitely wouldn’t want made public, but his expression betrayed no pleasure; on the contrary, he was frowning as he re-read the line about spirit bonding. Hearing footsteps he said, eyes still on the page,
‘Bit worried about her.’
‘Why?’ asked Pat in her usual baritone, setting a mug down beside Strike.
‘Sorry, thought you were Midge,’ said Strike. The subcontractor had just handed him the letter, which she’d retrieved overnight.
‘She had to go, she’s on the Franks. What’s wrong with Robin?’
‘Exhaustion and underfeeding, probably. Cheers,’ he added, picking up his tea.
‘Ryan just called,’ said Pat.
‘Who? Oh, Murphy?’
‘He wanted to know whether he’s had a message from Robin.’
‘Yeah, he has,’ said Strike, handing the folded paper over. He’d resisted reading it, but had been glad to see through the back of the paper that it looked as though it only comprised two or three lines. ‘Don’t tell him I said I’m worried about Robin,’ Strike added.
‘Why would I?’ said Pat, scowling. ‘And you’ve had some voicemail messages. One at nine o’clock last night, from a man called Lucas Messenger. He says he’s Jacob’s brother.’
‘Shit,’ said Strike, who was now ignoring all office phone calls that diverted to his mobile in the evening, on the assumption they were from Charlotte. ‘OK, I’ll call him back.’
‘And three more from the same woman,’ said Pat, her expression austere, ‘all early hours of the morning. She didn’t give her name, but—’
‘Delete them,’ said Strike, reaching for his phone.
‘I think you should listen to them.’
‘Why?’
‘She gets threatening.’
They looked at each other for a few seconds. Strike broke eye contact first.
‘I’ll call Messenger, then I’ll listen to them.’
When Pat had closed the door to the outer office, Strike called Lucas Messenger. After a few rings, a male voice said,
‘Yeah?’
‘Cormoran Strike here. You left a message for me yesterday evening.’
‘Oh—’ A slight distortion on the line told Strike he’d been switched to speakerphone. ‘You’re the detective, yeah? What’s Jacob done? Driven froo annuver window?’
Strike heard a few background sniggers and surmised that Lucas was sharing the conversation with workmates.
‘I’m trying to find out where he is.’
‘Why d’you wanna know? What’s he done?’
‘Did your brother join the Universal Humanitarian Church?’
The laughter on the other end of the line was louder this time.
‘He did, yeah. Twat.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Germany, I fink. We’re not in touch. He’s me half-brother. We don’t get on.’
‘When did he go to Germany, do you know?’
‘Dunno, some time last year?’
‘Was this a UHC thing? Was he sent to the centre in Munich?’
‘Nah, I fink he met a girl. He’s full of it, I don’t listen to half what he tells me.’
‘Would your parents know where Jacob is?’
‘They’re not talking to him neither. They had a row.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might be in contact with Jacob?’
‘No,’ said Lucas. ‘Like I say, we don’t get on.’
This being the extent of Lucas’ information, Strike hung up a minute later having written only the words Jacob Messenger Germany? on his notepad. Turning in his swivel chair, he looked up at the board on the wall onto which he’d pinned various pictures and notes concerning the UHC case.
In a column on the left-hand side were pictures of people Strike was still trying to locate. At the top were the pictures of the girl who’d variously called herself Carine, Cherie and Cherry, and a printout of the Facebook profile of Carrie Curtis Woods, who he hoped might prove to be the same person.
Beneath Cherie’s pictures was a photo of dark-haired and tanned Jacob Messenger, who stood posing on a beach in his swimming shorts, tensing his abdominal muscles and beaming at the camera. Strike now knew Messenger’s brief flicker of fame had peaked when he came third on a reality show, for which this was a publicity picture. Jacob’s trial and imprisonment for driving under the influence had put his name back in the papers, and his last press appearance had featured photos of him at a UHC addiction services clinic, wearing a tight white T-shirt with the UHC’s logo on it, and announcing how much he’d gained from joining the church. Since then, he’d disappeared from public view.
Strike got to his feet, tore out the page with Jacob Messenger Germany? written on it and pinned it beside the young man’s photo, before picking up Robin’s letter again and re-reading the lines about Jacob. Shawna also said something about Jacob being the reason Papa J won’t have kids with Becca. I didn’t understand that, will try and find out more. She says Jacob’s [illegible] by the devil. Frowning slightly, Strike looked from the letter to the picture of beaming Jacob, with his tropical print swimming trunks and bright white teeth, wondering whether Messenger was indeed the Jacob lying ill at Chapman Farm, and if so, how this fact could possibly relate to Jonathan Wace’s lack of interest in having children with Becca Pirbright.
His gaze moved to the next picture in the left-hand column: the faded photo of bespectacled Deirdre Doherty. In spite of Strike’s best efforts, he still hadn’t found any trace of Deirdre online or off.
The bottom picture on the left-hand side of the board was a drawing: Torment Town’s strange depiction of a fair-haired woman in glasses floating in a dark pool. Strike was still trying to find the true identity of Torment Town, who’d finally responded to his online message.
To Strike’s comment, Amazing pictures. Do you draw from imagination? the anonymous artist had written:
Thanks. Kind of.
Strike had replied:
You’re really talented. You should do a comic book. Horror.
To which Torment Town had responded,
Nobody would want to read that lol
Strike had then said,
You really don’t like the UHC, do you?
But to this, Torment Town had made no reply. Strike was afraid he’d come to the point too quickly and regretted, not for the first time, that he couldn’t set Robin to work on extracting confidences out of whoever had drawn these pictures. Robin was good at building trust online, as she’d proven when she’d persuaded a teenager to give her vital information in one of their previous cases.
Strike closed Pinterest and opened Facebook instead. Carrie Curtis Woods still hadn’t accepted his follower request.
With a sigh, he pushed himself reluctantly up from his chair, and carried his mug of tea and vape pen into the outer office, where Pat sat typing, e-cigarette clamped between her teeth as usual.
‘All right,’ Strike said, sitting down on the red sofa opposite Pat’s desk, ‘let’s hear these threats.’
Pat pressed a button on her desk phone, and Charlotte’s voice, slurred with drink as Strike had expected, filled the room.
‘’S me, pick up, you fucking coward. Pick up…’
A few moments’ silence, then Charlotte’s voice came almost in a shout.
‘OK, then, I’ll leave a fucking message for your precious fucking Robin to hear when she picks up your messages, before giving you your morning blow job. I was there when your leg got blown off, even though we were split up, I stayed with you an’ I visit’d you ev’ry single day, an’ I gave you a place to stay when your whole shitty family gave up on you, and ev’ryone around me saying, “You know he’s on the make” an’ “What’re you doing, he’s an abusive shit?” an’ I wouldn’t listen, even after ev’rything you’d done to me, I was there for you, an’ now when I need a friend you can’t even fucking meet me fr’a coffee when I’ve got fucking cancer, you fucking leech, you user, an’ I’m still protecting you to the fucking press even though I could tell them things that’d fucking finish you, I could finish you if I told them, and why should I be fucking loyal wh—’
A loud beep cut the message off. Pat’s expression was impassive. There was a click, then a second message began.
‘Pick up. Fucking pick up, you cowardly bastard… after everything you did to me, you expect me to defend you to the press. You walked out after I miscarried, you fucking threw me across that fucking boat, you fucked every girl that moved when we were together, does precious Robin know what she’s letting hersel—’
This time there was no beep: Pat had slammed her hand onto a button on the phone, silencing voicemail. Littlejohn’s silhouette had appeared outside the frosted glass in the door onto the stairwell. The door opened.
‘Morning,’ said Strike.
‘Morning,’ said Littlejohn, looking down at Strike through his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Need to file my report on Toy Boy.’
Strike watched in silence as Littlejohn retrieved the file from the drawer and added a couple of sheets of notes. Pat had begun typing again, e-cigarette waggling between her teeth, ignoring both men. When Littlejohn had replaced the file in the drawer, he turned to Strike and for the first time in their acquaintance, initiated conv