Page 370 of The Running Grave

The hour’s journey back towards Denmark Street seemed interminable. Robin kept shuffling through different scenarios in her mind, trying to see possible routes to their murderer in the light of Mills’ evidence, which confirmed Strike’s theory and would add substance to whatever other testimony they could get. However, she still saw pitfalls ahead, especially if the plastic-wrapped objects in the office safe yielded nothing useable.

She and Strike had concluded during the sleepless night they’d spent at the office that there were four people, aside from Isaac Mills, whose combined testimony might reveal exactly what happened to Daiyu, even if the originator of the plan denied it. However, all had strong reasons for not talking, and two of them probably didn’t realise that what they knew was significant. It was by no means certain they’d be able to take an axe to the roots of Jonathan Wace’s dangerous and seductive religion.

A little over an hour later, Robin arrived in Denmark Street, sweaty and dishevelled from haste, but on reaching the second landing her heart sank: the office door was locked and the lights were out. Then she heard movement above her.

‘What the fuck happened?’ said Strike, descending the stairs.

‘What d’you mean?’ said Robin, taken aback.

‘I’ve been worried fucking sick, I thought someone had grabbed you off the fucking street!’

‘My phone died!’ said Robin, who didn’t much appreciate this welcome, having just jogged up the street to see her partner. ‘And I was in Wandsworth in broad daylight – don’t start about guns,’ she said, correctly anticipating Strike’s next sentence. ‘You’d have heard the bang, wouldn’t you?’

As this was precisely what he’d been telling himself for the last sixty minutes, Strike bit back a retort. Nevertheless, finding it hard to shift gears immediately from acute anxiety to a normal conversational tone, he said angrily,

‘You need a new fucking phone.’

‘Thanks,’ said Robin, now almost equally cross, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

A reluctant grin replaced Strike’s scowl, though Robin wasn’t that easily appeased.

‘You were asking me if I’d seen something when I got cut off,’ she said coolly. ‘I haven’t got long, I’m supposed to be meeting Ryan.’

Strike supposed he deserved that.

‘Come up here,’ he said, pointing towards his flat. ‘They raided Chapman Farm at six this morning.’

‘What?’ gasped Robin, climbing the stairs to the attic behind him.

‘A dozen coppers, Met and local force. Wardle’s with them. He called me at two. Couldn’t talk long, because they’re still interviewing people. They’ve already released a severely dehydrated and traumatised Emily Pirbright from a locked wooden box in the farmhouse basement.’

‘Oh no.’

‘She’ll be OK. They’ve taken her to hospital. It gets better,’ said Strike, as they entered the attic. ‘Shah’s just seen roughly the same number of coppers entering the Birmingham centre. No word on Glasgow yet, but I’m assuming it’s happening there, too.’

He led her through to his bedroom, a spartan place, like the rest of the small flat. The television at the foot of the bed had been paused on Sky News: a female reporter was frozen, open mouthed, in what Robin recognised as Lion’s Mouth. Behind her was the entrance to Chapman Farm, which now had two uniformed officers standing outside it.

‘Someone at the Met’s leaked,’ said Strike, picking up the remote. ‘Said there’d be glory in it, didn’t I?’

He pressed play.

‘… already seen an ambulance leaving,’ said the reporter, gesturing down the lane. ‘Police haven’t yet confirmed the reasons for the investigation, but we do know officers are here in large numbers and a forensic team arrived just over an hour ago.’

‘Jenny, some have called the UHC controversial, haven’t they?’ said a male voice.

‘Cautious,’ said the smirking Strike, as the female reporter nodded, finger pressed to her earpiece.

‘Yes, Justin, mainly in regard to its financial activities, though it must be said the church has never been convicted of any wrongdoing.’

‘Give it time,’ said Strike and Robin simultaneously.

‘And, of course, it’s got some very high-profile members,’ said the invisible Justin. ‘Novelist Giles Harmon, actress Noli Seymour – are any of them currently on the grounds, do you know?’

‘No, Justin, we’ve had no confirmation of who’s at the farm right now, although locals estimate there are at least a hundred people living here.’

‘And has there been any official statement from the church?’

‘Nothing as yet—’