Page 356 of The Running Grave

‘Yeah,’ said Will faintly.

A group of young men were walking up the dark street towards them.

‘You’ve got a crack in your windscreen, love,’ said one of them, to hearty guffaws from his mates.

‘You all right?’ Strike asked Robin.

‘Better than you,’ she answered, looking at the cut on his face.

‘Windscreen, not bullet,’ said Strike, drawing out his mobile and keying in 999.

‘D’you think they got him?’ Robin asked, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the sirens.

‘We’ll find out soon enough. Police,’ he told the operator.

119

Nine in the fifth place means:

Resolute conduct.

Perseverance with awareness of danger.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

‘This is the fifth time we’ve spoken to the police about the UHC and suspicious activity around our office,’ said Strike. ‘I appreciate that you don’t have all that information immediately to hand, I know I’m giving you a lot of back story you might think is irrelevant, but I’m not going to lie: I’d appreciate it if you stopped looking at me like I’m a fucking idiot.’

It was two o’clock in the morning. It had taken an hour for Strike’s heart rate to slow to an appropriate rate for a stationary forty-one-year-old male. He was still sitting in the small police interview room he’d been taken to upon arrival at the local station. Having been asked whether he knew why someone might want to shoot him, Strike had given a full account of the agency’s current investigation into the UHC, advised his interrogator to look up Kevin Pirbright’s murder, explained that a gun-toting intruder had tried to break into their office a week previously and informed the officer this was the second time he and Robin had been tailed in a car in the last couple of weeks.

The sheer scale of Strike’s story seemed to aggravate PC Bowers, a long-necked man with an adenoidal voice. As Bowers became more openly sceptical and incredulous (‘A church has got it in for you?’) Strike had been provoked into open irritability. Aside from everything else, he was now exceptionally hungry. A request for food had led to the production of three plain biscuits and a cup of milky tea, and given that he was the victim of the shooting rather than a suspect, Strike felt he was owed a little more consideration.

Robin, meanwhile, was dealing with a different kind of problem. She’d finished giving her statement to a perfectly friendly and competent female officer, but had declined a lift home, instead insisting that Will be driven back to Pat’s. Having seen Will into the police car, Robin returned to the waiting room and, with a sense of dread but knowing she had no choice, called Murphy to tell him what had happened.

His reaction to her news was, understandably, one of alarm and well-justified concern. Even so, Robin had to bite back angry retorts to what she considered Murphy’s statements of the obvious: that extra security measures would now be necessary and that the police would need every scrap of information Strike and Robin could provide them about the UHC. Unknowingly echoing Strike, Robin said,

‘This is literally the fifth time we’ve spoken to police about the church. We haven’t been hiding anything.’

‘No, I know, I get that, but bloody hell, Robin – wish I could come and pick you up. I’m stuck with this bloody stabbing in Southall.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Robin, ‘there isn’t a mark on me. I’ll call an Uber.’

‘Don’t call an Uber, for Christ’s sake, let one of the cops take you home. Can’t believe they haven’t nicked the shooter.’

‘Maybe they have, by now.’

‘It shouldn’t be taking them this bloody long!’

‘They radioed ahead to a couple of cars to try and cut him off, but I don’t know what happened – either they didn’t get there in time, or he knew a detour.’

‘They’ll must have him on camera, though. A316, bound to have.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin. She felt slightly jittery, perhaps a result of coffee on an empty stomach. ‘Listen, Ryan, I’ll have to go.’

‘Yeah, OK. I’m bloody glad you’re safe. Love you.’

‘I love you too,’ murmured Robin, because she’d just seen movement out of the corner of her eye, and sure enough, as she hung up, Strike emerged at last from his interview room, looking extremely grumpy.

‘You’re still here,’ said Strike, cheering up at the sight of her. ‘Thought you might’ve gone. Aren’t you knackered?’