Page 320 of The Running Grave

‘Make myself a heroine in his eyes? If we’re taking cheap shots, I might say your secondary motive for telling us you had a client who was just out of the UHC was because you wanted to increase intimacy with your new brother.’

Before Prudence could articulate the undoubtedly furious speech germinating behind her brown eyes, Robin continued,

‘There’s a child at Chapman Farm. He’s called Jacob. I don’t know his surname – it should be Wace or Pirbright, but they probably never registered his birth…’

Robin told the story of her ten hours looking after Jacob. She described the boy’s convulsions, his laboured breathing, his attenuated limbs, his pitiful fight to remain alive in spite of starvation and neglect.

‘Somebody’s got to hold them accountable,’ Robin said. ‘Credible people – and more than one. I can’t do it alone, I’m too compromised by the job I went in to do. But if two or three intelligent people were to take the stand, and say what goes on in there, what happened to them and what they witnessed happening to others, I’m certain others would come forward. It would snowball.’

‘So you want me to ask Flora to back up your client’s relative?’

‘And he’d back her up,’ said Robin. ‘There’s also a chance of two more witnesses, if we can get them out. They both want to leave.’

Prudence took a large gulp of red wine, but half of it dribbled out of the side of her mouth.

‘Shit.’

She dabbed at the stain with her napkin. Robin watched, unmoved. Prudence could afford the dry-cleaning, and indeed a new dress, if she wanted it.

‘Look,’ said Prudence, chucking down her wine-stained napkin and lowering her voice again, ‘you don’t realise: Flora’s deeply troubled.’

‘Maybe it would help her to testify.’

‘That’s an incredibly glib thing to say.’

‘I’m speaking from personal experience,’ said Robin. ‘I became agoraphobic and clinically depressed after I was raped, strangled and left for dead when I was nineteen. Testifying was important in my recovery. I’m not saying it was easy, and I’m not saying it was the only thing that helped, but it did help.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Prudence, startled, ‘I didn’t know—’

‘Well, I’d rather you still didn’t know,’ said Robin bluntly. ‘I don’t really enjoy talking about it, and people have a tendency to think you’re using it, when you bring it up in discussions like this.’

‘I’m not saying you’re—’

‘I know you’re not, but most people would rather not hear it, because it makes them uncomfortable, and some people think it’s indecent to mention it at all. I’m trying to tell you that I can very much sympathise with Flora not wanting the worst time in her life to define her forever – but the fact is, it’s already defining her.

‘I got back a sense of power and self-worth from getting that rapist sent down. I’m not claiming it was easy, because it was horrible – it was hard, and to be honest, I frequently felt like I didn’t want to live any more, but it still helped, not while I was going through it, but afterwards, because I knew I’d helped stop him doing it to anyone else.’

Prudence now looked deeply conflicted.

‘Look, Robin,’ she said, ‘obviously I sympathise with you wanting to take the church to court, but I can’t say what I’d like to say, because I’ve got a duty of confidentiality – which,’ she added, ‘as you’ve already pointed out, it might be argued I’ve broken merely by telling you and Corm I’ve got a client who’s ex-UHC.’

‘I never said you’d broken—’

‘Fine, maybe that’s my guilty conscience talking!’ said Prudence, with sudden heat. ‘Maybe I felt bad, after you and Corm left, that I’d said that much! Maybe I did wonder whether I hadn’t said it for exactly the reason you’ve just suggested: to bind myself closer to him, to be part of the investigation, somehow.’

‘Wow,’ said Robin. ‘You must be a really good therapist.’

‘What?’ said Prudence, disconcerted.

‘To be that honest,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve had therapy. To be totally honest, I only liked one of them. Sometimes there’s a… a smugness.’

She drank more Prosecco, then said,

‘You’re wrong about me wanting to be a heroine in Corm’s eyes. I’m here because I thought he’d mess it up if he did it, and he might get personal.’

‘What does that mean?’ said Prudence, looking tense.

‘You’ll have noticed he’s got a massive chip on his shoulder about people with unearned wealth. He’s down on Flora for not working, for – as he sees it – sitting at home doing drawings of what she experienced, rather than reporting it. I was worried, if you pushed back at him the way you’re pushing back now, he’d start having a go at you for – oh, you know.’