Page 23 of The Running Grave

‘“The night before”… the night before… I can’t read the rest…’

‘Nor can I. What d’you make of that?’

Strike was pointing at something on the wall over the unmade bed. As both leaned in to look closer, Strike’s hair brushed Robin’s and she felt another small electric shock in the pit of her stomach.

‘It looks,’ she said, ‘as though someone’s tried to scrub something off… or… have they chipped away the plaster?’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Strike. ‘Looks to me like someone’s literally gouged some of the writing off the wall, but they didn’t take it all. Wardle told me Pirbright’s neighbour came banging on the door after hearing his music stop. Possibly that persuaded the killer to leave via the window, before they’d had time to remove the whole thing.’

‘And they left that,’ said Robin, looking at the last remnant of what seemed to have been a sentence or phrase.

Written in capitals and circled many times was a single, easily legible word: PIGS.

10

Six in the second place means:

Contemplation through the crack of the door.

Furthering for the perseverance of a woman.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Largely because of Prudence’s warnings, Strike spent the next two evenings reading Combatting Cult Mind Control in his attic flat. As a result, he insisted on Robin spending longer than usual on creating her undercover persona before making her first appearance at the Rupert Court Temple. While he had total confidence in Robin’s ability to think on her feet, some of what he’d read, and particularly Prudence’s warning that the church sought out weak places in members’ psyches the better to manipulate them, had left him feeling uneasy.

‘There shouldn’t be any points of resemblance between your own life and Rowena’s,’ he told her, Rowena Ellis being the pseudonym Robin had chosen (it was always easier, especially when exhausted or caught off guard, to have a pseudonym that was vaguely familiar). ‘Don’t go drawing on your real past. Stick with pure fiction.’

‘I know,’ said Robin patiently, ‘don’t worry, I’ve thought about that already.’

‘And don’t change your accent too much. That’s the kind of thing that slips when you’re knackered.’

‘Strike, I know,’ she said, half-irritated, half-amused. ‘But if I don’t get in there soon, this haircut’s going to have grown out and I’ll have to get it redone.’

On the Friday before her planned appearance in character at the UHC’s London temple, Strike insisted on testing Robin at the office by asking questions about Rowena’s schooling, university career, family, friends, hobbies, pets, ex-fiancé and the details of her supposedly cancelled wedding, all of which Robin answered without pausing or hesitating. Finally, Strike asked why ‘Rowena’ had come to the Rupert Court Temple.

‘A friend of mine showed me an interview with Noli Seymour,’ said Robin, ‘all about universality and diversity, so I agreed to come. It seemed interesting. I’m not committing to anything, of course!’ she added, with a convincing show of nerves. ‘I’m only here to have a look!’

‘Bloody good,’ admitted Strike, sitting back in his chair at the partners’ desk and reaching for his mug of tea. ‘All right: all systems go.’

So the following morning, Robin rose early in her flat in Walthamstow, ate breakfast, dressed in a pair of Valentino trousers, an Armani shirt and a Stella McCartney jacket, slung a Gucci bag over her shoulder, then set off for central London, feeling both nervous and excited.

Rupert Court, as Robin already knew, having worked in the area for years, was a narrow alleyway hung with glass lamps that connected Rupert Street and Wardour Street at the point where Chinatown and Soho converged. On one side of the passageway were various small businesses, including a Chinese reflexologist. Most of the other side was taken up by the temple. It had probably once been a nondescript commercial building housing restaurants or shops, but the lower windows and doors had been blocked up, leaving only one massive entrance. As far as Robin could see over the heads of the many people queuing patiently to get in, the heavy double doors had been given an ornate, carved and embellished frame of red and gold, the colours echoing the Chinese lanterns strung across Wardour Street behind her.

As she shuffled closer to the door with the rest of the crowd, she covertly examined her fellow temple-goers. Although there was a smattering of older worshippers, the average age seemed to be between twenty and thirty. If some looked a little eccentric – there was one young man with blue dreadlocks – most were remarkable only for their ordinariness: no fanatical glares, no vacant stares, no outré garb or strange mutterings.

Once close enough to see the entrance clearly, Robin saw that the red and gold carvings surrounding the door represented animals: a horse, a cow, a rooster, a pig, a pheasant, a dog and a sheep. She’d just had time to wonder whether this was an oblique reference to the UHC’s agricultural birthplace when she spotted the dragon with bright gold eyes.

‘Welcome… welcome… welcome…’ two smiling young women were saying, as congregants passed over the threshold. Both were wearing orange sweatshirts emblazoned with the church’s logo, which comprised the letters ‘UHC’ displayed within two black hands which were making the shape of a heart. Robin noticed how the two women were scrutinising the approaching faces, and wondered whether they were trying to match up mental images with those they considered undesirables, like Will Edensor’s family.

‘Welcome!’ sang the blonde girl on the right, as Robin passed her.

‘Thanks,’ said Robin, smiling.

The interior of the temple, of which Robin had already seen pictures online, was even more impressive in reality. The aisle leading between rows of cushioned pews was carpeted in scarlet, and led to a raised stage behind which was a large screen almost the size of a cinema’s. This was currently showing a static image of tens of thousands of people wearing different colours, predominantly red and orange, standing in front of what looked like a holy building or palace in India.

Whether or not the aureate glow emanating from the walls and cornices was due to genuine gold leaf, Robin didn’t know, but it reflected the light from low-hanging orbs of glass, which contained multiple bulbs, like bunches of glowing grapes. Naive figures had been hand-painted all around the upper portion of the walls, holding hands like the paper dolls Robin’s mother had once taught her to cut out, as a child. Every ethnicity was represented there, and Robin was reminded of Disneyland Paris, which she’d visited in 2003 with her then boyfriend, later husband, Matthew, and the ride called ‘It’s a Small World’, in which barges rolled mechanically around canals, and dolls from all over the world sang canned music at the visitors.

The pews were already filling rapidly, so Robin slid into an available space beside a young black couple. The man looked tense, and his partner was whispering to him. While Robin couldn’t hear everything the girl was saying, she thought she caught the words, ‘keep an open mind’.