Page 373 of The Running Grave

127

Heaven has the same direction of movement as fire, yet it is different from fire…

The I Ching or Book of Changes

It took Strike forty-five minutes to reach the fire station where Abigail was working that evening. It was a large, Art Deco building of grey stone, with the usual large, square openings below for the fire trucks.

Upon entering, Strike found a man in his forties scribbling a note at a desk in an otherwise deserted reception area. When Strike enquired whether Abigail Glover was currently on the premises, he said yes, she was upstairs. When Strike said his business was urgent, the fireman called upstairs on a wall-mounted phone, his expression amused. Strike wondered whether he had, again, been mistaken for one of Abigail’s boyfriends.

She descended the stairs a few minutes later, looked disconcerted and irritable, for which Strike couldn’t blame her; he, too, preferred not to be disturbed at work. She was wearing the regulation firemen’s overalls, though without the jacket. Her black top was tight-fitting, and he assumed she’d been mid-way through changing when he’d interrupted her.

‘Why’re you ’ere?’

‘I need your help,’ said Strike.

‘People norm’lly dial 999,’ said Abigail, to a snigger from her colleague.

‘It’s about Birmingham,’ said Strike.

‘Birmingham?’ Abigail repeated, frowning.

‘Yeah. Shouldn’t take long, but I think you’re the only person who can clarify a couple of points.’

Abigail cast a look behind her.

‘Earwiggin’, Richard?’

‘No,’ said the man. He disappeared upstairs perhaps a little faster than he’d have done otherwise.

‘All right,’ Abigail said, turning back to Strike, ‘but you’re gonna ’ave to ’urry up, ’cause my shift’s ended and I’ve got a date.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Strike.

She led him through a door to the right, which was evidently used for talks and meetings, because a number of steel-legged plastic chairs were stacked in corners. Abigail proceeded to a small table near a whiteboard at the far end, lifting down a chair for herself on the way.

‘It’s you, innit?’ she said to Strike, over her shoulder. ‘’Oo’s caused the shitstorm at Chapman Farm?’

‘Ah, you’ve seen,’ said Strike.

‘It’s all over the fuckin’ news, ’course I ’ave.’

‘I’d like to take credit,’ said Strike, also picking up a chair and taking it to the table, ‘but that’s mostly down to my detective partner.’

‘Did she get your client’s relative out, before she torched the place?’ asked Abigail, as both sat down.

‘She did, yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Blimey. You don’ wanna let ’er go in an ’urry.’

‘I don’t intend to,’ said Strike.

‘It’s gonna mean the press coming for me, though, innit?’ said Abigail, looking tense as she pulled a pack of nicotine gum out of her pocket and put a piece in her mouth.

‘Probably,’ said Strike. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘When Dick called just now, I fort, “This is it. A journalist’s come”… go on, then. What about Birmingham?’

‘We’ve found out your father was supposed to be taking Rosie Fernsby up to Birmingham the morning Daiyu disappeared, but he changed his plans.’