Page 323 of The Running Grave

Robin found it hard to judge whether Strike’s silence was ominous, because she was walking along Kensington High Street with a finger in her free ear, to block out the noise of traffic.

‘—I made a hard pitch for Prudence not standing in the way of Flora going to the police, or agreeing to testify against the church in court. I told her I thought immunity could be arranged. I said it might be good for Flora to let it all out.

‘I also asked whether Prudence would be prepared to help somebody who’s just got out of the church, seeing as she’s got experience of what the UHC does to people. It’s probably safer if Will doesn’t visit her house, in case the church is trying to find him, but they could FaceTime or something. If he knows Prudence is your sister, and completely unconnected to his own family, he might agree to speak to her. And if we managed to get Flora and Will talking to each other, they might, I don’t know, find it therapeutic. It might even make them braver, don’t you think?’

Silence was Strike’s only response.

‘Can you hear me?’ said Robin, raising her voice over the rumble of a passing double-decker.

‘What happened,’ said Strike, ‘to me being a chippy, brutal bastard who needs to back right off Brewster, and let her keep drawing pictures for Pinterest?’

‘What happened,’ said Robin, ‘is that I heard Will saying he’s convinced the Drowned Prophet’s going to come and get him. And I can’t get Jacob out of my head. We’ve got to find witnesses who’ll testify against the church. I suppose I’ve come round to your way of thinking. This is the job.’

She was almost at the station. When Strike didn’t speak, she drew aside and leaned up against the wall, phone still pressed to her ear.

‘You’re pissed off I went to Prudence behind your back, aren’t you? I just thought it was easier if she ended up hating me instead of you. I did tell her I was there on my own account. She knows you didn’t ask me to do it.’

‘I’m not pissed off,’ said Strike. ‘If you get results, bloody hell, that’ll be the first ray of light we’ve had in a long time. With Brewster as a witness to what happened to Deirdre Doherty, we might have enough to get police in there, even if Will’s still determined to let the Drowned Prophet get him. Where are you?’

‘Kensington,’ said Robin, who was immensely relieved Strike wasn’t angry.

‘Any red Corsas about?’

‘None,’ she said. ‘I did think a big guy was following me earl—’

‘What?’

‘Calm down, he wasn’t, it was just my imagination. I moved aside and he walked right past me, muttering.’

Now scowling, Strike got to his feet and peered down into Denmark Street again. The green-eyed man was still there, now talking on his phone.

‘Might’ve realised you were wise to him. There’s been a bloke with dreadlocks hanging around outside for about – oh, hang on, he’s off,’ said Strike, watching as the man ended his call and walked away towards Charing Cross Road.

‘You think he was watching the office?’

‘I did, yeah, but he was doing it bloody badly if the aim was to keep undercover. Mind you,’ said Strike, once again letting the Venetian blinds fall, ‘the aim might be to let us know we’re being watched. Little bit of intimidation. What did this large bloke following you look like?’

‘Balding, fifties – I honestly don’t think he was following me, not really. I’m just jumpy. But listen: something weird happened just now, while I was having coffee with Prudence. I got a call from Rufus Fernsby, Walter’s son. The one who slammed the phone down on me, two days ago.’

‘What did he want?’

‘For me to go and visit him at his office tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘No idea. He sounded quite tense, and just said, if I wanted to talk to him about his father, I could meet him at the office at a quarter to one and he’d speak to me… why aren’t you saying anything?’

‘It’s just odd,’ said Strike. ‘What’s happened to make him change his mind?’

‘No idea.’

There was another pause, in which Robin had time to reflect upon how tired she felt, and the fact that she still had an hour-long journey home. Since leaving Chapman Farm, she’d both craved and dreaded sleep, because it came punctuated with nightmares.

‘I thought you’d be angry about Prudence and pleased about Rufus,’ she told Strike.

‘I might yet be pleased about both of them,’ said Strike. ‘I just find the volte face strange. OK, I’ll rejig the rota so you can go and interview him at lunchtime. You heading home now?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin.