Page 340 of The Running Grave

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I think our gunman came back last night,’ Robin said, bending down to retrieve her coat.

‘What?’

‘Black jacket, hood up – they lurked in those basement steps opposite for a bit and when the street was clear, they crossed the street and tried to get in through our front door, but this time, they couldn’t.’

‘Did you call the police?’

‘It happened too fast. They must have realised the lock had changed, because they left. I watched them to the end of Denmark Street, but I was afraid they might be waiting for me on Charing Cross Road. I didn’t fancy risking it, so I slept here.’

At this moment, the alarm on Robin’s mobile went off, making her jump again.

‘Good thinking,’ said Strike. ‘Very good thinking. Were the lights on when they arrived?’

‘Until I spotted the black jacket and the hood on the opposite pavement, then I turned them off. It’s possible they didn’t notice, and thought the office was empty, but they might have known someone was here and been determined to get in anyway. Don’t look like that,’ said Robin, ‘the lock worked, and I didn’t take any chances, did I?’

‘No. That’s good. Don’t suppose you got any pictures?’

‘I did,’ said Robin, bringing them up on her mobile and handing it to Strike. ‘It was a tricky angle, because they were directly beneath me, obviously, when they were trying to get in.’

‘Yeah, that looks like the same person… same jacket, anyway… face carefully hidden… I’ll pass these to the police, too. With luck, they took down their hood and were caught on CCTV once they were out of here.’

‘Did you get my text about Will, Flora and Prudence?’ said Robin, trying to detangle her hair with her fingers, without much success. ‘Pat’s fine with us going over there this morning, which is good of her, given it’s Saturday.’

‘I did, yeah,’ said Strike, moving to the kettle. ‘Excellent work that, Ellacott. Want a coffee? We’ve got time. I only came in here to put my notes in the file, from last night.’

‘Oh God, of course!’ said Robin, who in her exhaustion had briefly forgotten where Strike had been. ‘What happened?’

Strike gave Robin a full account of the UHC meeting and his subsequent interview with Wace while they drank their coffees. When he’d finished, Robin said,

‘You told him you’d “burn his church to the fucking ground”?’

‘Might’ve got a bit carried away there,’ admitted Strike. ‘I was on a roll.’

‘Don’t you think that’s a bit… declaration of all-out war?’

‘Not really. Come on, they already knew we’re investigating them. Why else does everyone we want to talk to get warning phone calls?’

‘We don’t know for sure the church is behind those calls.’

‘We don’t know for sure the people in pig masks lived at Chapman Farm, either, but I think it’s safe to hazard a guess. I’d’ve liked to say a damn sight more than I did, but Deirdre Doherty drowning drags in Flora Brewster, Daiyu going out of the window incriminates Emily Pirbright, and if I’d told Harmon I knew he was fucking underage girls, it would’ve put Lin in the firing line. No, the only new information they got from me last night was that we think Daiyu’s death is fishy, and I said that deliberately, to see the reactions.’

‘And?’

‘Shock, outrage; exactly what you’d expect. But I warned them what’s going to happen if Rosie Fernsby turns up dead, which was the main point of the exercise, and I’ve told them we know they’re keeping tabs on us, however ineptly, so as far as I’m concerned, job done. Er… if you want a shower or anything, you can go upstairs.’

‘That’d be great, thanks,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll be quick.’

Her reflection in Strike’s bathroom mirror looked just as bad as Robin felt: a large crease had been pressed into the side of her face and her eyes were puffy. Trying not to visualise Strike standing naked in exactly the same spot she was now occupying in the tiny bathroom, Robin showered, pinched some of his deodorant, put yesterday’s clothes back on, brushed her hair, applied lipstick to make herself look less washed out, wiped it off because she thought it made her look worse, and returned downstairs.

Robin usually drove when the two of them were out together, but today, in deference to her tiredness, Strike volunteered. The BMW, being automatic, wasn’t nearly as hard for a man with a prosthetic to drive as the Land Rover would have been. Robin waited until they were on their way to Kilburn before saying,

‘I actually had a couple of thoughts myself last night, going through the UHC file.’

Robin outlined her theory that Rosie Fernsby had been the other teenager in the dormitory, the night before Daiyu had drowned. Strike drove for a minute, thinking.

‘I quite like it—’