Page 249 of The Running Grave

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Knowing he couldn’t remain in the vicinity of Chapman Farm by daylight without getting his car caught on camera, and certain Robin wouldn’t be able to reach the perimeter until night fell again, Strike had checked himself into one of the guest cabins of nearby Felbrigg Lodge, the only hotel for miles around. He’d intended to catch a few hours’ sleep, yet he, who was usually able to nap on any surface, including floors, found himself far too tightly wound to relax even when lying on the four-poster bed. It felt too incongruous to be lying in a comfortable, genteel room with leaf-patterned cream wallpaper, tartan curtains, a plethora of cushions and a ceramic stag head over the mantelpiece, when his thoughts were this agitated.

He’d talked blithely of ‘coming in the front’ if Robin was out of contact this long, but the absence of the plastic rock made him fear that she’d been identified as a private detective and had now been taken hostage. Taking out his phone, he looked up satellite pictures of Chapman Farm. There were a lot of buildings there, and Strike thought it odds on that some of them had basements or hidden rooms.

He could, of course, contact the police, but Robin had voluntarily entered the church and he might have to jump through a lot of procedural hoops to persuade them it was worth getting a warrant. Strike hadn’t forgotten that there were also UHC centres in Birmingham and Glasgow to which his partner might have been relocated. What if she became the new Deirdre Doherty, of whom no trace could be found, even though the church claimed she’d left thirteen years previously?

Strike’s mobile rang: Barclay.

‘What’s happening?’

‘She didn’t show up last night, either.’

‘Fuck,’ said Barclay. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘I’ll give it tonight, but if she doesn’t show, I’ll call the police.’

‘Aye,’ said Barclay, ‘ye’d better.’

When Barclay had hung up, Strike lay for a while, still telling himself he should sleep while he could, but after twenty minutes he gave up. Having made himself a cup of tea with the kettle provided, he stood for a few minutes looking out of one of the windows, through which he could see a wooden hot tub belonging to his cabin.

His mobile rang again: Shanker.

‘What’s up?’

‘You owe me a monkey.’

‘You’ve got intel on Reaney’s phone call?’

‘Yeah. It was made from a number wiv area code 01263. Woman contacted the prison, said she was ’is wife and it was urgent—’

‘It was definitely a woman?’ said Strike, scribbling down the number.

‘Screw says it sounded like one. They agreed a time for ’er to call ’im. Claimed she wasn’t at ’ome and didn’t want ’im ’aving ’er friend’s number. ’S’all I could get.’

‘All right, the monkey’s yours. Cheers.’

Shanker rang off. Glad to have something to do for a few minutes other than agonise about what had happened to Robin, Strike looked up the area code in question. It covered a large area including Cromer, Lion’s Mouth, Aylmerton, and even the lodge he was currently sitting in.

Having removed a few cushions, Strike sat down on the sofa, vaping, drinking tea and willing the hours to pass quickly, so he could return to Chapman Farm.

86

Six in the fourth place means:

Waiting in blood.

Get out of the pit.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Robin had been sitting with Jacob all day. He had, indeed, had a fit: she’d tried to stop him hurting himself against the cot bars, and finally he’d grown limp and she’d laid him gently back down. She’d changed his nappy three times, putting the soiled ones into the black bin bag sitting there for that purpose, and tried to give him water, but he seemed unable to swallow.

At midday she’d been brought food by one of the teenage girls who’d stood vigil outside the temple four nights previously. The girl said nothing to her, and kept her eyes averted from Jacob. Barring this one interruption, Robin was left entirely alone. She could hear people moving around in the farmhouse below, and knew she was only allowed this solitude because it would be impossible for her to creep back down the farmhouse stairs without being apprehended. Her fatigue kept threatening to overwhelm her; several times, she nodded off in the hard wooden chair and jerked awake as she slid sideways.

As the hours wore on, she took to reading pages of the newspaper spread over the floor in an attempt to stay awake. Thus she learned that the Prime Minister, David Cameron, had resigned after the country had voted to leave the EU, that Theresa May had now taken his place and that that Chilcot Inquiry had found that the UK had entered the Iraq War before peaceful options for disarmament had been exhausted.

The information Robin had been denied for so long, information unfiltered by Jonathan Wace’s interpretation, had a peculiar effect on her. It felt as though it came from a different galaxy, making her feel her isolation even more acutely, yet at the same time, it pulled her mentally back towards the outer world, the place where nobody knew what ‘flesh objects’ were, or dictated what you wore and ate, or attempted to regulate the language in which you thought and spoke.