‘You seem upset,’ said Strike, watching him.
‘Fuckin’ upset?’ snarled Reaney. ‘You come in ’ere sayin’ I fuckin’ killed—’
‘I never mentioned killing anyone. I asked about livestock being slaughtered.’
‘I never fuckin’ – stuff at that farm – you weren’ there. You don’ fuckin’ know what went on.’
‘The point of this interview is to find out what went on.’
‘What ’appened in there, what you were made to do, it plays on your fuckin’ mind, that’s why I still ’ave fuckin’ nightmares, but I never killed nobody, all right? An’ I don’ know nuffin’ about no fuckin’ hatchet,’ Reaney added, although he looked away from Strike as he said it, those hard-blinking eyes roaming over the visitors’ room as though seeking safe haven.
‘What d’you mean by “what you were made to do”?’
Reaney was chewing the inside of his cheek again. Finally he looked back at Strike and said forcefully,
‘Ev’ryone ’ad to do stuff we didn’ wanna do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like all of it.’
‘Give me examples.’
‘Doin’ stuff that – jus’ to ’umiliate people. Shovellin’ shit an’ cleanin’ up after them.’
‘Who’s “them”?’
‘Them. The family, the Waces.’
‘Any particular things you had to do that keep playing on your mind?’
‘All of it,’ said Reaney.
‘What d’you mean by “cleaning up” after the Waces?’
‘Jus’ – you unnerstand fuckin’ English – cleanin’ the bogs an’ stuff.’
‘Sure that’s all it was?’
‘Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.’
‘You were at the farm when Daiyu Wace drowned, weren’t you?’
He saw the muscles in Reaney’s jaw tighten.
‘Why?’
‘You were there, right?’
‘I slept froo the ole fuckin’ thing.’
‘Were you supposed to be in the truck that morning? With Cherie?’
‘’Oo’ve you talked to?’
‘Why does that matter?’
When Reaney merely blinked, Strike became more specific.
‘Were you supposed to be on the vegetable run?’
‘Yeah, bu’ I overslept.’
‘When did you wake up?’
‘Why’re you askin’ abou’ this?’
‘I told you, I want information. When did you wake up?’
‘I dunno. When ev’ryone was kickin’ off because the little b—’
Reaney cut himself off.
‘The little—?’ prompted Strike. When Reaney didn’t answer, he said,
‘I take it you didn’t like Daiyu?’
‘Nobody fuckin’ liked ’er. Fuckin’ spoiled fuckin’ rotten. Ask anyone ’oo was there.’
‘So you woke up when everyone was kicking off because Daiyu had disappeared?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you hear the people on early duty telling the Waces they’d seen her leaving on the truck with Cherie?’
‘Why the fuck d’you wanna know tha’?’
‘Did you hear them saying she’d left in the truck?’
‘I’m not gonna talk for them. Ask them what they seen.’
‘I’m asking what you heard, when you woke up.’
Apparently deciding this answer couldn’t incriminate him, Reaney finally muttered,
‘Yeah… they seen ’er leave.’
‘Were Jonathan and Mazu both present at the farm when you woke up?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How soon did you find out Daiyu had drowned?’
‘Can’ remember.’
‘Try.’
The tiger rippled yet again. The blue eyes blinked, over-hard.
‘Later that mornin’. The police come. Wiv Cherie.’
‘Was she distressed about Daiyu drowning?’
‘’Course she fuckin’ was,’ said Reaney.
‘Cherie left the farm for good shortly before you did, right?’
‘Can’ remember.’
‘I think you can.’
Reaney sucked in his hollow cheeks. Strike had a feeling this was a habitual expression prior to violence. He looked steadily back at Reaney, who blinked first, hard.
‘Yeah, she wen’ after the inquiry fing.’
‘The inquest?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And she didn’t tell you where she was going?’
‘Didn’t tell no one. She left in the middle of the night.’
‘And what made you leave?’
‘Jus’ ’ad enough of the place.’
‘Did Draper leave when you did?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you stay in touch?’
‘No.’
‘Did you keep in contact with anyone from the UHC?’
‘No.’
‘You like tattoos,’ said Strike.
‘Wha’?’
‘Tattoos. You’ve got a lot of them.’
‘So?’
‘Anything on your upper right arm?’ said Strike.
‘Why?’
‘Could I have a look?’
‘No, you fuckin’ can’t,’ snarled Reaney.
‘I’ll ask that again,’ said Strike quietly, leaning forwards, ‘this time reminding you what’s likely to happen to you once this interview’s over, when I inform my friend you weren’t cooperative.’
Reaney slowly pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. There was no skull on the bicep, but a large, jet black devil with red eyes.
‘Is that covering anything up?’
‘No,’ said Reaney, tugging his sleeve back down.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
‘I’m asking,’ said Strike, now reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a couple of the Polaroids Robin had found in the barn at Chapman Farm, ‘because I thought you might once have had a skull where that devil is.’
He laid the two photos down on the table, facing Reaney. One showed the tall, skinny man with the skull tattoo penetrating the chubby, dark-haired girl, the other the same man sodomising the smaller man whose short, wispy hair might have been Paul Draper’s.
Reaney’s forehead had started shining in the harsh overhead light.
‘That ain’t me.’
‘You sure?’ said Strike. ‘Because I thought this might explain the pig nightmares better than the smell of pig shit.’
Sweaty and pale, Reaney shoved the photos away from him so violently that one of them fell onto the floor. Strike retrieved it and replaced both in his pocket.
‘This spirit you saw,’ he said, ‘what did it look like?’
Reaney didn’t answer.
‘Were you aware Daiyu re-materialises regularly now at Chapman Farm?’ Strike asked. ‘They call her the Drowned—’
Without warning, Reaney got to his feet. Had his plastic chair and the table not been fastened to the floor, Strike was prepared to bet the prisoner would have kicked them over.
‘Oi!’ said a nearby warder, but Reaney was walking fast towards the door into the main prison. A couple more warders caught up with him, and escorted him through the door out of the hall. Prisoners and visitors had turned to watch Reaney storm out, but swiftly turned back to their own conversations, afraid of wasting precious minutes.
Strike met the eyes of the large prisoner one table along, which were asking a silent question. Strike made a small, negative gesture. Further beatings wouldn’t make Jordan Reaney any more cooperative, Strike was sure of that. He’d met terrified men before, men who feared something worse than physical pain. The question was, what exactly was putting Jordan Reaney into such a state of alarm that he was prepared to face the worst kind of prison justice rather than divulge it?