Page 238 of The Running Grave

In truth, his anger at Midge had abated somewhat during the last few days. Little though he wanted to admit it, he knew he’d overreacted about her getting caught on camera at Tasha Mayo’s house, because of his own anxiety about the fallout from Honbold’s divorce. He’d been toying with the idea of telling Midge she could go back on the Frank case as long as there was no more fraternising with the client, but the news that she’d been complaining to Pat aggravated him.

‘I knew another lesbian, once,’ said Pat.

‘Yeah?’ said Strike, as the kettle lid began to rattle. ‘Did she bitch behind her boss’s back, as well?’

‘No,’ said Pat. ‘She was the boss. Nice woman. People took her for hard as nails, but she was soft underneath. Very kind when I had my divorce.’

‘Is this a thinly veiled suggestion I should grovel for hurting Midge’s feelings?’

‘Nobody said anything about grovelling.’

‘Just as well, because that’s not going to happen,’ said Strike.

‘No need to be snappy,’ said Pat. ‘Anyway, Rhoda’s done what you asked.’

It took Strike a couple of seconds to remember that this was Pat’s daughter.

‘You’re kidding?’ he said, turning back towards her.

‘No,’ said Pat. ‘She’s got into that Carrie Curtis Woods’ Facebook page.’

‘Best news I’ve had all day,’ said Strike. ‘Want a cuppa?’

Once both had tea, Pat logged onto Facebook with her daughter’s details, and navigated to the account of the woman Strike hoped had been Cherie Gittins twenty-one years previously. Turning the monitor so Strike could view it, Pat puffed on her e-cigarette, watching him peruse the page.

Strike scrolled slowly downwards, carefully examining the many pictures of Carrie Curtis Woods’ two little blonde girls. The pictures of Carrie herself showed a woman who was heavier than in her profile picture. There was no indication of her having a job, though plenty of mention of her volunteering at her daughters’ school. Then—

‘It’s her,’ Strike said.

The picture, which had been posted to mark Carrie Curtis Woods’ anniversary, showed her wedding day, when she’d been at least two dress sizes smaller. There, unmistakeably, was the blonde with the simpering smile who’d once been an inmate of Chapman Farm: older, wearing less eyeliner, cinched into a tight lace dress, her curly blonde hair pulled up into a bun, beside a thickset man with heavy eyebrows. A little further down the page was a phone number: Carrie Curtis Woods was offering swimming lessons to toddlers.

‘Pat, you’ve played a blinder.’

‘It was Rhoda, not me,’ said Pat gruffly.

‘What does she drink?’

‘Gin.’

‘I’ll get her a bottle or two.’

A further five minutes’ scrolling helped Strike identify Carrie Curtis Woods’ husband, Nathan Woods, who was an electrician, and her home town.

‘Where the hell’s Thornbury?’ he muttered, switching to Google maps.

‘Gloucestershire,’ said Pat, who was now washing up mugs in the sink. ‘My Dennis’ cousin lives over that way.’

‘Shit,’ said Strike, now reading Carrie Curtis Woods’ most recent posts. ‘They’re off to Andalusia on Saturday.’

Having checked the weekly rota, Strike called Shah to ask him to pick up Robin from Chapman Farm the following night.

‘I think,’ said Strike, having hung up, ‘I’ll go down to Thornbury on Friday. Catch Carrie before she goes on holiday. Robin’ll be knackered, she’s not going to be up for a trip to Gloucestershire right after getting out.’

Privately, he was thinking that if he could manage the trip in a day, he’d have an excuse to go over to Robin’s that evening for a full debrief, a very cheering thought, given that he knew Murphy was still in Spain. Feeling slightly happier, Strike logged out of Facebook, picked up his tea and headed into his own office carrying the brown envelope left by Littlejohn.

Inside was a tiny Dictaphone tape, wrapped in a sheet of paper with a scrawled date on it. The recording had been made nearly a month after Sir Colin and Kevin had fallen out over the latter’s heckling at Giles Harmon’s book reading and five days before Kevin’s murder. Strike took a Dictaphone out his desk drawer, inserted the tape and pressed play.

He understood at once why Patterson hadn’t handed over the tape to Sir Colin Edensor: because it would have been hard to imagine a poorer advertisement for his agency’s surveillance skills. For a start, there were far better devices for this kind of work than a Dictaphone, which had to be concealed. The recording was of extremely poor quality: whichever pub Farah had taken Kevin to had been crowded and noisy, a rookie error for which Strike would have severely reprimanded any of his own subcontractors. It was, he thought, the kind of thing his now departed, unlamented hireling Nutley would have done.