Page 337 of The Running Grave

‘You know,’ said Strike, ‘I always think it’s a mistake to diversify too far away from the core brand. I’m sure Dr Zhou would agree,’ he added, looking over at the doctor. ‘Just because a man knows how to market enemas to idiots, doesn’t mean he knows shit about pig farming – to take a random example.’

‘I’m sure there’s meaning in that cryptic statement,’ said Wace, looking entertained, ‘but I must confess, I can’t find it.’

‘Well, let’s say a failed car salesman finds out he’s supremely good at flogging liquid bullshit to the masses. Would he be smart to try parcelling up solid chunks for the likes of me?’

‘Ah, you’re cleverer than everyone else in this room, are you?’ said Wace. Though still smiling, it was as though his large blue eyes had become a little more opaque.

‘On the contrary. I’m just like you, Jonathan,’ said Strike. ‘Every day, I get up, look myself in the mirror and ask, “Cormoran, are you a righteous vessel for truth and justice?”’

‘You’re disgusting!’ burst out Noli Seymour.

‘Noli,’ said Wace, making a small version of the gesture with which he’d quelled the crowd’s applause. ‘Remember the Buddha.’

‘“Conquer anger with non-anger”?’ asked Strike. ‘Always thought that’d make a pretty substandard fortune cookie, personally.’

Becca was now looking at him with a little smile, as though she’d seen many like him before. A muscle flickered at the scarred corner of Zhou’s mouth. Joe Jackson had folded his long arms, looking down at Strike with a slight frown. Mazu was so motionless, the screen might have frozen.

‘Now, I’m the first to admit, I wouldn’t be any good at what you do, Jonathan,’ said Strike. ‘But you seem to think you’ve got a flair for my game.’

‘What does that mean?’ said Wace, with a puzzled smile.

‘Surveillance of our office. Tailing us by car.’

‘Cormoran,’ said Wace slowly, ‘I can’t tell whether you know you’re inventing things, or not.’

‘As I say,’ said Strike, ‘it’s all about diversifying from the core brand. You’re top notch at picking out people who’re happy to be sucked dry of all their worldly goods, or slave on the farm for no wages, but less good, if you don’t mind me saying, at picking people to stake out premises, or follow targets discreetly. Bright red Vauxhall Corsas aren’t discreet. Unless you meant to let us know what you’re up to, I’m here to tell you: this isn’t your forte. You can’t just pick some random guy who’s fucked up this year’s carrot crop to stand opposite my office, staring up at the windows.’

‘Cormoran, we’re not watching you,’ said Wace, smiling. ‘If these things have indeed happened, you must have offended someone who takes a less tolerant view of your activities than we do. We choose – like the Buddha—’

‘The bullet through Kevin Pirbright’s brain was shot in non-anger, was it?’

‘I’m afraid I have no idea what emotions Kevin was feeling when he shot himself.’

‘Any interest in who murdered your brother?’ Strike said, turning to Becca.

‘What you don’t perhaps realise, Mr Strike, is that Kevin had a guilty conscience,’ said Becca sweetly. ‘I forgive him for what he did to me, but apparently he couldn’t forgive himself.’

‘How d’you choose the people making the phone calls?’ Strike said, looking back at Wace. ‘Obviously, a woman had to pretend to be Reaney’s wife to persuade the authorities to let the call through, but who spoke to him once he’d picked up? You?’

‘I have literally no idea who or what you’re talking about, Cormoran,’ said Wace.

‘Jordan Reaney. Overslept the morning he was supposed to be on the vegetable run, conveniently leaving room for Daiyu in the front of the truck.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw the smile vanish from Becca’s face. ‘Currently in jail. Got a call after I interviewed him, which appears to have precipitated a suicide attempt.’

‘This all sounds very upsetting and unfortunate and more than a little strange,’ said Wace, ‘but I promise you, I don’t have the slightest knowledge about any phone calls to any prison.’

‘You remember Cherie Gittins, of course?’

‘I’m hardly likely to forget her,’ said Wace quietly.

‘Why were you so careful to keep track of her, after she left?’

‘We did no such thing.’

Strike turned again to Becca, and he gained some satisfaction from her sudden look of panic.

‘Miss Pirbright here knows Cherie had daughters. She told the police so. Volunteered the information, for some reason. Went right off script, talking about how what seems devilish may, in fact, be divine.’

Some women blush becomingly, but Becca wasn’t one of them. She turned a purplish red. In the short silence that followed, both Noli Seymour and Joe Jackson turned their heads to look at Becca.