‘Still can’t hurt,’ said Strike. ‘Will he testify?’
‘Yes, but only because he’s got hemo-something and thinks he might get a new liver out of it.’
‘A new what?’
‘Liver,’ said Robin loudly, now heading for the bus stop.
‘I’ll get him one out of Aldi. Listen, have you seen the—?’
Robin’s phone went dead.
‘Shit.’
She hurried on towards the bus stop. She was supposed to be meeting Murphy at a bar in the middle of town at seven, but was now keen to find a way of speaking to Strike again, who’d sounded strangely keyed up before he got cut off. Unfortunately, she had no idea where he was. Speeding up, she tried to remember the rota: if he was at the office, or in his flat, she might have time to see him before going on to the West End.
The hour’s journey back towards Denmark Street seemed interminable. Robin kept shuffling through different scenarios in her mind, trying to see possible routes to their murderer in the light of Mills’ evidence, which confirmed Strike’s theory and would add substance to whatever other testimony they could get. However, she still saw pitfalls ahead, especially if the plastic-wrapped objects in the office safe yielded nothing useable.
She and Strike had concluded during the sleepless night they’d spent at the office that there were four people, aside from Isaac Mills, whose combined testimony might reveal exactly what happened to Daiyu, even if the originator of the plan denied it. However, all had strong reasons for not talking, and two of them probably didn’t realise that what they knew was significant. It was by no means certain they’d be able to take an axe to the roots of Jonathan Wace’s dangerous and seductive religion.
A little over an hour later, Robin arrived in Denmark Street, sweaty and dishevelled from haste, but on reaching the second landing her heart sank: the office door was locked and the lights were out. Then she heard movement above her.
‘What the fuck happened?’ said Strike, descending the stairs.
‘What d’you mean?’ said Robin, taken aback.
‘I’ve been worried fucking sick, I thought someone had grabbed you off the fucking street!’
‘My phone died!’ said Robin, who didn’t much appreciate this welcome, having just jogged up the street to see her partner. ‘And I was in Wandsworth in broad daylight – don’t start about guns,’ she said, correctly anticipating Strike’s next sentence. ‘You’d have heard the bang, wouldn’t you?’
As this was precisely what he’d been telling himself for the last sixty minutes, Strike bit back a retort. Nevertheless, finding it hard to shift gears immediately from acute anxiety to a normal conversational tone, he said angrily,
‘You need a new fucking phone.’
‘Thanks,’ said Robin, now almost equally cross, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
A reluctant grin replaced Strike’s scowl, though Robin wasn’t that easily appeased.
‘You were asking me if I’d seen something when I got cut off,’ she said coolly. ‘I haven’t got long, I’m supposed to be meeting Ryan.’
Strike supposed he deserved that.
‘Come up here,’ he said, pointing towards his flat. ‘They raided Chapman Farm at six this morning.’
‘What?’ gasped Robin, climbing the stairs to the attic behind him.
‘A dozen coppers, Met and local force. Wardle’s with them. He called me at two. Couldn’t talk long, because they’re still interviewing people. They’ve already released a severely dehydrated and traumatised Emily Pirbright from a locked wooden box in the farmhouse basement.’
‘Oh no.’
‘She’ll be OK. They’ve taken her to hospital. It gets better,’ said Strike, as they entered the attic. ‘Shah’s just seen roughly the same number of coppers entering the Birmingham centre. No word on Glasgow yet, but I’m assuming it’s happening there, too.’
He led her through to his bedroom, a spartan place, like the rest of the small flat. The television at the foot of the bed had been paused on Sky News: a female reporter was frozen, open mouthed, in what Robin recognised as Lion’s Mouth. Behind her was the entrance to Chapman Farm, which now had two uniformed officers standing outside it.
‘Someone at the Met’s leaked,’ said Strike, picking up the remote. ‘Said there’d be glory in it, didn’t I?’
He pressed play.
‘… already seen an ambulance leaving,’ said the reporter, gesturing down the lane. ‘Police haven’t yet confirmed the reasons for the investigation, but we do know officers are here in large numbers and a forensic team arrived just over an hour ago.’
‘Jenny, some have called the UHC controversial, haven’t they?’ said a male voice.
‘Cautious,’ said the smirking Strike, as the female reporter nodded, finger pressed to her earpiece.
‘Yes, Justin, mainly in regard to its financial activities, though it must be said the church has never been convicted of any wrongdoing.’
‘Give it time,’ said Strike and Robin simultaneously.
‘And, of course, it’s got some very high-profile members,’ said the invisible Justin. ‘Novelist Giles Harmon, actress Noli Seymour – are any of them currently on the grounds, do you know?’
‘No, Justin, we’ve had no confirmation of who’s at the farm right now, although locals estimate there are at least a hundred people living here.’
‘And has there been any official statement from the church?’
‘Nothing as yet—’
Strike paused the news report again.
‘Just thought you’d like to see it,’ he said.
‘You were right,’ said Robin, beaming.
‘Almost enough to make you believe in God, isn’t it? I tipped off Fergus Robertson as soon as I heard from Wardle. I’ve given him a good few pointers as to where to get some scoops. Think it’s time to turn up the heat on Jonathan Wace as high as we can. Got time for a coffee?’
‘A quick one,’ said Robin, checking her watch. ‘Could I borrow a charger?’
This provided, and coffee made, they sat down at the small Formica table.
‘Becca’s still at the Rupert Court Temple,’ said Strike.
‘How d’you know?’
‘She took the service today, which I got Midge to attend, wigged up.’
‘I thought Midge was watching Hampstead?’
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot – she got pictures of him with a bloke on the heath last night.’
‘When you say “pictures”—’
‘I doubt they’ll be featuring on the family Christmas card,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll let the client know on Monday, because he’s home with her and the kids right now.’
‘Go on about Becca.’
‘She didn’t leave at the end of the service. Midge is still watching Rupert Court, minus her wig, obviously. She’s confident Becca’s still in there. Doors locked.’
‘Haven’t the police been?’
‘Presumably they’re more interested in the compounds.’
‘Is Becca alone?’
‘Dunno. She could well be planning to make a break for it – unless she fancies taking the Stolen Prophet’s way out, of course.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said Robin, thinking of Carrie Curtis Woods hanging in the family garage. ‘If we know where she is—’
‘We do nothing – nothing,’ said Strike firmly, ‘until we hear from Barclay.’
‘But—’
‘Did you hear me?’
‘For God’s sake, I’m not a bloody schoolchild!’
‘Sorry,’ said Strike. The residue of his hour’s anxiety hadn’t yet dispersed. ‘Look, I know you think I keep boring on about that gun, but we still don’t know where it is – which is a pain in the arse,’ he added, checking his watch, ‘because we’re on the clock, now the police have gone in. People are going to start arse-covering or making themselves unavailable for interview. They’ll have an excuse for only communicating through lawyers now, as well.’