Page 140 of The Running Grave

– because I haven’t really got anything Colin Edensor can use. Hopefully I’ll get something this week. I swear I’m trying.

Still haven’t had to do Revelation. I’ll feel happier once I’ve got that out of the way.

R x

PS Please keep the chocolate coming.

47

Nine at the beginning means:

When ribbon grass is pulled up, the sod comes with it.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Strike waited to read Robin’s most recent dispatch from Chapman Farm before finishing an interim report for Sir Colin Edensor. The question that was vexing him most was whether or not to reveal the possibility that Will had fathered a child with an underage girl at Chapman Farm. The overheard conversation Robin had mentioned didn’t, in Strike’s view, rise to the standard of proof, and he was wary of increasing Sir Colin’s anxiety without being certain of his facts. He therefore omitted mention of Will’s alleged paternity, and concluded:

Proposed Next Steps

We now have RE’s eyewitness account of physical coercion and injuries, plus her first-hand experience of underfeeding, enforced lack of sleep and a ‘therapeutic’ technique I think legitimate psychologists would agree is abusive. RE believes she may yet uncover evidence of more serious/criminal activity at Chapman Farm. Given that none of the church members RE and I have interviewed so far are willing to testify against the church, or likely to be credible witnesses given the length of time they’ve been out, I recommend RE staying undercover for the present.

I’ll be interviewing another ex-member of the UHC on the twenty-eighth of May and am actively searching for more. Identifying the subjects of the photographs RE found is a priority, as they suggest sexual abuse has been used as a form of discipline.

If you have any questions, please get in touch.

Having emailed the password-protected report to Sir Colin, Strike drank the last of his mug of tea, then sat for a few moments staring out of the window of his attic kitchen, contemplating several of his current dilemmas.

As he’d foreseen, the Private Eye article had led to phone calls from three different journalists, all of whose publications had tangled with Andrew Honbold QC in court and were consequently eager to wring as much newsprint as possible out of his extra-marital affair. On Strike’s instructions, Pat had responded with a one-line statement denying any involvement with Honbold or anyone associated with him. Honbold himself had issued a statement vehemently denying the Eye story and threatening legal action. Bijou’s name hadn’t appeared in the press, but Strike had a nasty feeling that there might yet be further repercussions from his ill-advised dalliance, and was keeping a weather-eye out for any opportunistic journalist who might be watching the office.

Meanwhile he still hadn’t managed to track down any of the former church members he was most eager to talk to, remained saddled with Littlejohn and was plagued by worries about his Uncle Ted, whom he’d called the previous evening and who appeared to have forgotten that he’d seen his nephew recently.

Strike turned his attention back to the laptop lying open on his kitchen table. More in hope than in expectation, he navigated to Torment Town’s Pinterest page, but there were no additional pictures, nor was there any response to his enquiry as to whether the artist drew from imagination.

He’d just got to his feet to wash up his mug when his mobile rang with a call transferred from the office. He picked up and had barely got his name out when a furious, high-pitched voice said,

‘I’ve had a fucking live snake posted through my front door!’

‘What?’ said Strike, completely nonplussed.

‘A fucking SNAKE! One of those total fuckers has put a fucking snake through my letter box!’

In rapid succession Strike realised that he was talking to the actress the Franks were stalking, that he’d momentarily forgotten her name, and that his team must have fucked up very badly indeed.

‘Did this happen this morning?’ he said, dropping back into his kitchen chair and opening the rota on his laptop to see who was on the Franks.

‘I don’t know, I’ve only just fucking found it in my sitting room, it could’ve been here for days!’

‘Have you called the police?’

‘What’s the point in calling the police? This is what I’m paying you to stop!’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Strike, ‘but the immediate problem is the snake.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said, thankfully no longer shouting. ‘I’ve put it in the bath. It’s only a corn snake. I used to have one, I’m not scared of them. Well,’ she added heatedly, ‘I’m not scared of them until I see them slithering out from beneath the sofa when I didn’t know they were there.’

‘Don’t blame you,’ said Strike, who’d just found out that Barclay and Midge were currently on the Franks. ‘It’d be good to get an approximate idea of when you think it might have arrived, because we’re keeping the brothers under constant surveillance and they haven’t been anywhere near your front door since the older one dropped your birthday card in. I’ve seen the video and there definitely wasn’t a snake in his hand.’

‘So you’re telling me I’ve got a third nutter after me?’