‘How high was the window?’
‘First floor, but there was an easy landing on a big communal bin directly below.’
‘Nobody saw them coming out of the window?’ asked Strike, who was still making notes.
‘The tenants whose windows faced out back were all out or busy inside.’
‘CCTV any help?’
‘They got a small bit of footage of a stocky bloke in black walking away from the area, who could possibly have been carrying a laptop in a reusable shopping bag, but no clear view of the face. And that’s literally all I know,’ said Wardle.
Strike replaced the photograph in the police file as Wardle asked,
‘Robin still seeing Ryan Murphy?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike.
‘You know he’s an alcoholic?’
‘Is he?’ said Strike, masking his expression by drinking more beer. Robin told him so little about her relationship that he hadn’t previously known this. Perhaps, he thought (with a leap of something strongly resembling hope), Robin didn’t know, either.
‘Yeah. On the wagon now, though. But he was a mean drunk. Real arsehole.’
‘In what way?’
‘Aggressive. Made a pass at anyone in a skirt. Tried it on with April one night. I nearly fucking punched him.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Oh yeah,’ repeated Wardle. ‘No surprise his wife walked out.’
But his expression saddened after he’d said it, remembering, perhaps, that Murphy wasn’t the only person whose wife had left him.
‘He’s dried out now, though, has he?’ asked Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Wardle. ‘Where are the bogs in here?’
After Wardle had left the table, Strike set down his knife and flipped open the police file again, still forking beef Madras into his mouth. He extracted the post-mortem findings on Kevin Pirbright’s corpse, skipping the fatal injury to the head, and concentrating on the lines concerning toxicology. The pathologist had found a low level of alcohol in the body, but no trace of illegal drugs.
9
But in abolishing abuses one must not be too hasty. This would turn out badly because the abuses have been in existence so long.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Robin’s neck felt exposed and chilly as she travelled by train to Prudence’s house in Strawberry Hill the following evening. She sincerely hoped the accountant would let her claim at least half the cost of her new haircut as a business expense, because it was the most expensive she’d ever had. Chin-length, with a long, graduated fringe, with the ends bleached and then dyed pale blue. After one look of shock, Murphy had beamed and told her he liked it upon meeting the previous evening, which, true or not, had made her feel slightly less self-conscious as they entered the Duke of York Theatre, to watch The Father.
‘Blue, eh?’ were Strike’s first words, when Robin got into the BMW outside Strawberry Hill station. ‘Looks good.’
‘Thanks. I’m hoping it also says, “Hi, I’ve got more money than sense.”’
‘Maybe once you’ve got the posh clothes on,’ said Strike, pulling out of the car park.
‘How was Bigfoot?’ Robin asked, as they drove past a long line of solid Edwardian villas.
‘Disappointingly celibate,’ said Strike. ‘But for a man who’s worth a couple of million, you’d think he could afford a comb.’
‘You really don’t like scruffiness, do you?’ said Robin, amused.
‘Not in people who have a choice. How hard is it to bloody wash?’
Strike took a right turn before saying,
‘Dev found the bloke Shanker’s after, by the way.’
‘Oh good,’ said Robin. While she was under no illusions about Shanker’s deeply criminal nature, he happened to have once helped her escape an assault by a large murder suspect, for which she remained grateful. ‘How’s the little girl doing?’
‘He didn’t say, but hopefully seeing her dad will cheer her up… here we go…’
Earlier than Robin had expected, they turned into the drive of a particularly large Edwardian house, which not only made Robin feel slightly intimidated, but also made her think ruefully of her own flimsily built flat, in which she had to endure the almost constant noise of the music from the man upstairs.
The front door opened before they reached it, revealing Strike’s half-sister, who was the daughter of a well-known actress and the rock star who’d also fathered Strike. Prudence was wearing a plain black dress that looked unexceptional to Strike, but which Robin guessed would have cost the equivalent of her own monthly mortgage repayment.
Like Sir Colin Edensor, Prudence had the kind of face it was hard to dislike, or so thought Robin. Though not quite as beautiful as her actress mother, she was very attractive, with freckled skin and long, wavy black hair. Eyes that slanted upwards at the corners and a small, smiling mouth added a slightly Puckish look. Though by no means overweight, she was curvy, something Robin, who’d been afraid she’d be stick thin and flat-chested, saw with relief.
‘Come in, come in! It’s so nice to meet you,’ said Prudence, beaming as she shook Robin’s hand.
‘You, too. My hair isn’t usually like this,’ Robin said, and then wished she hadn’t. She’d just caught sight of her reflection in Prudence’s hall mirror. ‘It’s all part of my cover.’
‘Well, it looks great,’ said Prudence, before turning to Strike and hugging him.
‘Blimey, bruv, well done. There’s less of you every time I see you.’
‘If I’d known it would make everyone this happy, I’d’ve got the other leg amputated.’
‘Very funny. Come on through to the sitting room. I’ve just opened some wine.’
She led the two detectives into a large room of exquisite taste. Beautifully proportioned, with large black and white photographs on the walls, stacked bookcases and a low, dark leather sofa on a tubular metal frame, it managed to be simultaneously stylish and welcoming.
‘So,’ said Prudence, gesturing Strike and Robin to the sofa and settling into a large cream armchair before pouring two extra glasses of wine, ‘clothes. Do I get to ask what they’re for?’
‘Robin needs to look like a rich girl who’s at enough of a loose end to joint a cult.’
‘A cult?’
‘Well, that’s what some people would say it is,’ temporised Robin. ‘They’ve got a kind of compound in the countryside, and I’m hoping to be recruited so I can get in there.’
To both detectives’ surprise, Prudence’s smile disappeared and was replaced with a look of concern.
‘This wouldn’t be the UHC, would it?’
Startled, Robin glanced at Strike.
‘That’s a very swift bit of deduction,’ he said. ‘Why d’you think it would be them?’
‘Because it started in Norfolk.’
‘You’ve got a client who was in there,’ said Strike, on a sudden hunch.
‘I don’t bandy around clients’ identifying details, Cormoran,’ said Prudence, her voice mock-stern as she pushed his glass towards him across the coffee table.
‘Pity,’ said Strike lightly. ‘We need to find ex-members.’
Prudence looked intently at him for a moment or two, then said,
‘Well, as I’ve got a duty of confidentiality, I can’t—’
‘I was being glib,’ Strike reassured her. ‘I’m not after a name and address.’
Prudence took a sip of wine, her expression grave. Finally, she said,
‘I don’t think you’ll find it very easy, getting ex-members to talk. There’s a lot of shame attached to having been coerced in that way, and often significant trauma.’