Page 263 of The Running Grave

‘But you don’t object to me interviewing Cherie Gittins?’

‘No,’ said Sir Colin slowly, ‘but I wouldn’t want this investigation to devolve into a probe into Daiyu Wace’s death. After all, it was ruled an accident, and you’ve no proof it wasn’t, have you?’

Strike, who couldn’t blame his client for this scepticism, reassured Sir Colin that the agency’s aim remained extracting his son from the UHC. The lunch concluded amicably, with Strike promising to pass on any new developments promptly, particularly as regarded the police investigation into the mistreatment of Jacob.

Nevertheless, it was the deaths of Daiyu Wace and Kevin Pirbright about which Strike was thinking as he set off back to Denmark Street. Sir Colin Edensor was correct in saying that Strike still had no concrete evidence to support his suspicions. It might indeed be overambitious to think that he’d be able to destroy the myth of the Drowned Prophet, which had survived uncontested for twenty-one years. But after all, thought the detective, still hungry after his meagre meal of fish, yet noticing how much more easily he was walking without the several stone he’d already shed, it was sometimes surprising what concerted effort in pursuit of a worthwhile goal could achieve.

91

Nine in the fourth place means:

Joyousness that is weighed is not at peace.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

While Strike was having coffee with Sir Colin Edensor, Robin was drinking a mug of tea at the table in her sitting room, her laptop and notebook open in front of her, hard at work and savouring the temporary peace. The man upstairs, whose music was usually audible, was at work, and she’d managed to get her parents out of the flat by asking them to do some food shopping.

Robin’s adjustment from life at Chapman Farm to her flat in London was proving far more difficult than she’d anticipated. She felt agitated, disorientated and overwhelmed, not only by her freedom, but also by her mother’s constant vigilance which, while kindly meant, was aggravating Robin, because it reminded her of the unrelenting surveillance she’d just escaped. She realised now, when it was too late, that what she’d really needed on returning to London was silence, space and solitude in which to reground herself in the outside world, and to concentrate on the long report for Strike in which she was tabulating everything she hadn’t yet told him about life at Chapman Farm. Guilt about her parents’ four months of anxiety on her behalf had made her agree to their visit but, much as she loved them, all she wanted now was their return to Yorkshire. Unfortunately, they were threatening to stay another week, ‘to keep you company’ and ‘to look after you’.

With a sinking heart, she now heard the lift doors out on the landing. As she got up to let her parents back in, the mobile on the table behind her started to ring.

‘Sorry,’ she said to her mother, who was laden with heavy Waitrose bags, ‘I need to get that, it might be Strike.’

‘You’re supposed to be taking time off!’ said Linda, a comment Robin ignored. Sure enough, on returning to her phone she saw her partner’s number, and answered.

‘Hi,’ said Robin, as Linda said, deliberately loudly,

‘Don’t be long, we’ve bought cakes. You should be eating and putting your feet up.’

‘Bad time?’ said Strike.

‘No,’ said Robin, ‘but could you give me two minutes? I’ll ring you back.’

She hung up and headed to the doorway of the cramped kitchen, where her parents were putting the shopping away.

‘I’m just going to nip out and get some fresh air,’ said Robin.

‘What aren’t we allowed to hear?’ said Linda.

‘Nothing, he’s just giving me an update I asked for,’ said Robin, keeping her tone light with some difficulty. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

She hurried out of the flat, keys in hand. Having reached Blackhorse Road, which offered exhaust fumes rather than clean air, she called Strike back.

‘Everything OK?’

‘It’s fine, I’m fine,’ said Robin feverishly. ‘My mother’s just driving me up the wall.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike.

‘I’ve told her about a hundred times it was my choice to go Chapman Farm, and my choice to stay in that long, but—’

Robin bit back the end of the sentence, but Strike knew perfectly well what she’d been about to say.

‘She thinks it’s all on me?’

‘Well,’ said Robin, who hadn’t wanted to say it, but was yearning to unburden herself, ‘yes. I’ve told her I had to argue you into letting me do the job, and that you wanted me to come out earlier, I’ve even told her she should be bloody grateful you were there when I ran for it, but she… God, she’s infuriating.’

‘You can’t blame her,’ said Strike reasonably, remembering how appalled he’d been at Robin’s appearance when he’d first seen her. ‘It’s your parents, of course they’re going to be worried. How much have you told them?’