‘And I’m to bring a waterproof coat,’ said Robin, ‘three changes of underwear, and that’s it. You’re given tracksuits to wear when you arrive, and you leave your daywear in a locker. No alcohol, sugar, cigarettes or drugs, prescription or otherwise—’
‘They make you leave medication?’ said Barclay.
‘The body will heal itself if the spirit is pure enough,’ said Robin, straight-faced.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ muttered Barclay.
‘Face it, the UHC doesn’t want people who need medication,’ said Strike. ‘No diabetic’s going to stand up to that starvation regime for long.’
‘And no toiletries. Those are all provided,’ said Robin.
‘You can’t even take your own deodorant?’ said Midge indignantly.
‘They don’t want you reminded of your life outside,’ said Robin. ‘They don’t want you thinking of yourself as an individual.’
A few seconds’ silence followed this remark.
‘You’re gonnae be all right, are ye?’ said Barclay.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. But if anything goes wrong, I’ve got you lot, haven’t I? And my trusty rock.’
‘Dev’s going to drive up there tonight and put the rock in position,’ said Strike. ‘You might have to feel around a bit to find it. We want to make it look like it’s been there forever.’
‘Right,’ said Barclay, slapping his thighs before getting to his feet, ‘I’m off tae take over from Littlejohn. Frank One should be ready for a bit o’ light stalking once he’s had his lunch.’
‘Yeah, I should go relieve Dev,’ said Midge, checking her watch. ‘See what Bigfoot’s up to.’
‘Has he met anyone yet?’ said Robin, who’d been buried so deep in her preparation for Chapman Farm, and research on ex-UHC members, that she hadn’t had time to read the Bigfoot file.
‘He’s been to Stringfellows,’ said Midge dismissively, ‘but the wife’s not going to get half his business just because he had a lap dance… not that I’m really arsed about her getting it, snotty cow.’
‘We’re Team Client, even if they’re bastards,’ said Strike.
‘I know, I know,’ said Midge, heading for the outer office, where her leather jacket was hanging up, ‘but you get bored of helping out people who’ve never done a day’s bloody work in their lives.’
‘When I find a starving orphan who can afford to hire us, I’ll pass them straight to you,’ said Strike.
Midge returned a sardonic salute, then said to Robin,
‘If I don’t see you before you go in, good luck.’
‘Thanks, Midge,’ said Robin.
‘Aye, best o’ luck,’ said Barclay. ‘An’ if the worst comes tae the worst, an’ ye’re on the verge of gettin’ brainwashed, take a rusty nail and dig it intae the palm of your hand. Worked for Harry Palmer in the The Ipcress File.’
‘Good advice,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll try and smuggle one in.’
The two subcontractors left the office.
‘I had something else to tell you,’ Robin told Strike, now sitting down on her usual side of the partners’ desk. ‘I think I’ve found Jordan Reaney. The guy who was forced to whip himself across the face with the leather flail? He was using his middle name at Chapman Farm. His real name’s Kurt.’
She typed ‘Kurt Reaney’ and swung the screen of her PC round to face Strike, who was confronted with the mugshot of a heavily tattooed man. An ace of spades was inked onto his left cheek, and a tattooed tiger covered his throat.
‘He was sentenced to ten years for armed robbery and aggravated assault. Kurt Jordan Reaney,’ said Robin, rolling her chair around the desk to contemplate the mugshot alongside Strike. ‘He’ll have been in his late teens when Sheila knew him, which fits. I’ve trawled through all the usual online records, and got as many addresses for him as I can find. There’s a gap in online records from ’93 to ’96, then he reappears in a flat in Canning Town. We know the UHC Jordan was frightened of the police, because Kevin Pirbright said that’s what Mazu was threatening him with, while she was making him whip himself.’
‘Sounds like our guy,’ said Strike, ‘but you can’t just ring up a bloke in jail.’
‘Maybe a letter?’ said Robin, though without much conviction.
‘“Dear Mr Reaney, having seen your mugshot, you strike me as the kind of bloke who’d very much like to help a criminal investigation…”’
Robin laughed.
‘What about next of kin?’ said Strike.
‘Well, there’s a woman with the same surname living at his last address.’
‘I’ll try and get at him through her. What about the other kid who got beaten up?’ said Strike. ‘The one with the low IQ?’
‘Paul Draper? Haven’t found any trace of him yet. Cherie Gittins seems to have vanished off the face of the earth too.’
‘OK, I’ll keep digging on them while you’re at Chapman Farm. I’ve left a message at Abigail Glover’s fire station, as well.’
‘Wace’s daughter?’
‘Exactly.’
Strike now moved to the door separating the inner office from the outer, where Pat sat typing, and closed it.
‘Listen,’ he said.
Robin braced herself, trying not to look exasperated. Murphy had said ‘listen’ in exactly that tone on Friday night, five minutes after ejaculating, and immediately before embarking on his prepared speech about the risks of going under deep cover.
‘I wanted to tell you something, before you go in there.’
He looked serious, but hesitant, and Robin felt a tiny electric shock in the pit of her stomach, just as she had when Prudence said Robin was the most important person in Strike’s life.
‘There’s a slight chance – very slight, actually, but it’s still better you know – that someone in there might say something about me, so I wanted to forewarn you, so you don’t look shocked and give yourself away.’
Now Robin knew what was coming, but said nothing.
‘I was at the Aylmerton Community for six months, with my mum and Lucy, back in 1985. I’m not saying people will remember me, I was just a kid, but my mother was a minor celebrity. Well, she’d been in the papers, anyway.’
For a few seconds, Robin debated what best to say, and decided on honesty.
‘Actually, Sheila Kennett remembered you and your mum. I didn’t want to say anything,’ she added, ‘unless you told me yourself.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Right.’
They looked at each other.
‘Fucking terrible place,’ said Strike bluntly, ‘but nothing happened to me in there.’
He’d unintentionally placed a slight emphasis on the word ‘me’.
‘I’ve got another reason for telling you this,’ said Strike. ‘That Mazu woman. Don’t trust her.’
‘I won’t, she sounds really—’
‘No, I mean, don’t assume there’s any sense of – ’ he groped for the right word ‘– you know – sisterhood there. Not when it comes to spirit bonding. If she wants to take you to some bloke—’
There came a knock on the door.
‘What?’ called Strike, with a trace of impatience.
Pat’s monkeyish face appeared, scowling. She said to Strike, in her deep, gravelly voice,
‘There’s a woman on the phone, wanting to talk to you. Name of Niamh Doherty.’
‘Put her through,’ said Strike at once.
He moved around to his side of the desk, and the phone began to ring within seconds.
‘Cormoran Strike.’
‘Hello,’ said a tentative woman’s voice. ‘Er – my name’s Niamh Doherty? You left a message with my husband, asking whether I’d answer some questions about the Universal Humanitarian Church?’