Page 333 of The Running Grave

In spite of diligently searching all available records, Robin had found no evidence that Rosie had ever owned property in the UK under either of her known names. She’d never married and had no children. She was now nearing forty. Converted to Hinduism. Possibly in India. Silly crazes. Bikram yoga. Incense.

A vague picture was forming in Robin’s mind of a woman who saw herself as a free spirit, but who might, perhaps, have suffered emotional or financial reverses (would many solvent thirty-year-olds voluntarily go and live with their father, as Rosie had done before her name change, unless they had no alternative?). Perhaps Rosie was in India, as her brother had suggested? Or was Rosie one of those chaotic people who left little trace of themselves in records, flitting, perhaps, between sub-lets and squats, rather as Leda Strike had done?

The ringing of her mobile made Robin jump.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi,’ said Prudence’s voice. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘You?’

‘Not bad… so, um… I had a session with Flora this afternoon.’

‘Oh,’ said Robin, bracing herself.

‘I’ve told her – I had to – who the person was, who’d contacted her about her Pinterest pictures. I apologised, I said it was my fault Corm worked it out, even though I didn’t name her.’

‘Right,’ said Robin.

‘Anyway… we talked about your investigation, and I told her somebody else has managed to get out of Chapman Farm, and that you helped them do it, and… long story short… she’d like to meet that person.’

‘Really?’ said Robin, who realised she’d been holding her breath.

‘She’s not committing to anything beyond that, at the moment, OK? But if you and Cormoran are agreeable, she says she’s prepared to meet your ex-UHC person, with me present – and for the other individual to have someone there for support, too.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ said Robin. ‘That’s wonderful, Prudence, thank you. We’ll talk to our client’s son, and see whether he’d like to meet Flora. I’m sure he’d find it helpful.’

After Prudence had rung off, Robin checked the rota, then texted Pat.

Sorry to disturb you after working hours Pat, but would it be ok for Strike and me to come over to your house tomorrow morning at 10am to talk to Will?

Pat, as was her invariable habit, called Robin back five minutes later, rather than texting.

‘You want to come and see him?’ she asked, in her usual baritone. ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’

‘How is he?’

‘Still chanting a bit. I tell him, “Stop doing that and give me a hand with the washing up,” and he does. I got him more clothes. He’s seemed happier, being out of that tracksuit. He’s playing chess with Dennis just now. I’ve just put Qing to bed. Right little chatterbox, all of a sudden. I read her the Hungry Caterpillar. She wanted it five times in a row.’

‘Pat, we really can’t thank you enough for this.’

‘No trouble. He’s well brought up, you can tell. He’ll be a nice enough boy, once he’s got all their rubbish out of his system.’

‘Has he mentioned the Drowned Prophet at all?’ asked Robin.

‘Yeah, last night,’ said Pat unemotionally. ‘Dennis said to him, “You don’t believe in ghosts, intelligent bloke like you?” Will said Dennis would, if he’d seen what Will’s seen. Said he’d seen people levitate. Dennis said, “How high did they go?” Few inches, said Will. So Dennis showed him how they fake it. Silly sod nearly fell over onto our gas fire.’

‘How does Dennis know how to fake levitation?’ asked Robin, diverted.

‘Mate of his, when he was young, used to do stuff like that to impress girls,’ said Pat laconically. ‘Some girls are bloody silly, let’s face it. When does anyone need a man who can rise two inches into the air?’

Robin laughed, thanked Pat again, and wished her a good evening. Having hung up, she found herself in a considerably improved state of mind. She now had both a new theory and a potentially crucial meeting to tell Strike about when he returned. She checked her watch. Strike would now have been in Wace’s meeting for over an hour, but Robin knew Papa J: he’d probably just be getting started. Perhaps she’d order some food, to be delivered to the office while reviewing the UHC file.

She got to her feet, mobile in hand, and moved to the window, wondering what kind of pizza she fancied. The sun was falling and Denmark Street was now in shadow. The shops were closed, many of their windows covered in metal blinds.

Robin had just decided she wanted something with capers on it, when she spotted somebody tall, bulky and dressed all in black walking along the street. Bizarrely, for a mild evening in August, they had their hood up. Robin raised her phone and switched it to camera mode, recording the figure as it walked down the steps in front of the music shop opposite, disappearing into the basement area below.

Perhaps they knew the shop owner? Maybe they’d been instructed to go to the door beneath street level?