Page 279 of The Running Grave

‘Fuckin’ Patrick told me! Me lodger. I’ve ’ad enough. I’ve told Patrick to get the fuck out of my flat. It’s all a fuckin’ game to them, pair of bastards,’ she added, and Strike could hear distress as well as anger now. ‘I’m sick an’ fuckin’ tired of bein’ their fuckin’ reality show!’

‘I think a new lodger’s a good move.’

‘So what did Baz tell you? ’Ow I’ll fuck anyfing that moves except ’im, was it?’

‘He certainly struck me as a man with a grievance,’ said Strike. ‘But since you’re on the line, I wondered whether you could answer a couple more questions?’

‘You don’—’

Her voice was momentarily drowned out, as two articulated lorries roared past the stationary Land Rover.

‘Sorry,’ said Strike, his voice raised. ‘I’m on the A40, I missed most of that.’

‘I said,’ she shouted, ‘you don’ wanna believe anyfing that bastard says abou’ me – except that I freatened ’im. I did freaten ’im. I’d ’ad a coupla drinks, an’ ’e was buttin’ in on me an’ Darryl, this guy from my gym, an’ I lost it.’

‘Understandable,’ said Strike, ‘but when you told Saxon the church had guns, was that to frighten him, or true?’

‘To frighten ’im,’ said Abigail. After a slight hesitation she added, ‘but I migh’ – they migh’ not’ve been real. I dunno. I couldn’t swear to it in court tha’s wha’ I saw.’

‘So you did see a gun, or guns?’

‘Yeah. Well – that’s what they looked like.’

Robin now turned her head to look at the phone in Strike’s hand.

‘Where were these guns?’ Strike asked.

‘Mazu ’ad ’em. I wen’ in ’er study one day to tell ’er sumfing an’ I saw the safe open an’ she slammed the door. It looked like two guns. She’s weird about Chapman Farm, I toldja. It’s ’er private kingdom. She usedta talk about when the police come, when the Crowthers were there. When I saw them guns, I fort, she’s not gonna be caught out again – but I dunno, they might not ’ave been real, I on’y saw ’em for a second.’

‘No, I appreciate that,’ said Strike. ‘While I’ve got you, I also wanted to ask—’

‘Did Baz tell you about my nightmare?’ asked Abigail, in a deadened voice.

Strike hesitated.

‘Yes, but that isn’t what I was going to ask about, and let me emphasise, as far as I’m concerned, the fact that you and your friend tried to prevent a whipping says far more—’

‘Don’ do that,’ said Abigail. ‘Don’t fuckin’ – don’t try an’ make – bastards. I’m not even allowed to ’ave private fuckin’ nightmares.’

‘I appreciate—’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Abigail. ‘Just fuck off. You don’t “appreciate”. You don’t know nuffing.’

Strike could tell she was now crying. Between the small noises coming out of the phone and his partner’s stony stare from the seat beside him, he didn’t feel particularly good about himself.

‘Sorry,’ he said, though not very sure what he was apologising for, unless it was letting Barry Saxon into his office. ‘I wasn’t going to mention any of that. I was going to ask you about Alex Graves’ sister, Phillipa.’

‘What about ’er?’ said Abigail, in a thickened voice.

‘You told me your father had her eating out of his hand, when we met.’

‘’E did,’ said Abigail.

‘She hung around the farm a bit, then, did she?’

‘Coming to see ’er bruvver, yeah,’ said Abigail, who was clearly trying to sound natural. ‘Wha’re you doing on the A40?’

‘Going to Thornbury.’