Page 62 of The Running Grave

‘When I find a starving orphan who can afford to hire us, I’ll pass them straight to you,’ said Strike.

Midge returned a sardonic salute, then said to Robin,

‘If I don’t see you before you go in, good luck.’

‘Thanks, Midge,’ said Robin.

‘Aye, best o’ luck,’ said Barclay. ‘An’ if the worst comes tae the worst, an’ ye’re on the verge of gettin’ brainwashed, take a rusty nail and dig it intae the palm of your hand. Worked for Harry Palmer in the The Ipcress File.’

‘Good advice,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll try and smuggle one in.’

The two subcontractors left the office.

‘I had something else to tell you,’ Robin told Strike, now sitting down on her usual side of the partners’ desk. ‘I think I’ve found Jordan Reaney. The guy who was forced to whip himself across the face with the leather flail? He was using his middle name at Chapman Farm. His real name’s Kurt.’

She typed ‘Kurt Reaney’ and swung the screen of her PC round to face Strike, who was confronted with the mugshot of a heavily tattooed man. An ace of spades was inked onto his left cheek, and a tattooed tiger covered his throat.

‘He was sentenced to ten years for armed robbery and aggravated assault. Kurt Jordan Reaney,’ said Robin, rolling her chair around the desk to contemplate the mugshot alongside Strike. ‘He’ll have been in his late teens when Sheila knew him, which fits. I’ve trawled through all the usual online records, and got as many addresses for him as I can find. There’s a gap in online records from ’93 to ’96, then he reappears in a flat in Canning Town. We know the UHC Jordan was frightened of the police, because Kevin Pirbright said that’s what Mazu was threatening him with, while she was making him whip himself.’

‘Sounds like our guy,’ said Strike, ‘but you can’t just ring up a bloke in jail.’

‘Maybe a letter?’ said Robin, though without much conviction.

‘“Dear Mr Reaney, having seen your mugshot, you strike me as the kind of bloke who’d very much like to help a criminal investigation…”’

Robin laughed.

‘What about next of kin?’ said Strike.

‘Well, there’s a woman with the same surname living at his last address.’

‘I’ll try and get at him through her. What about the other kid who got beaten up?’ said Strike. ‘The one with the low IQ?’

‘Paul Draper? Haven’t found any trace of him yet. Cherie Gittins seems to have vanished off the face of the earth too.’

‘OK, I’ll keep digging on them while you’re at Chapman Farm. I’ve left a message at Abigail Glover’s fire station, as well.’

‘Wace’s daughter?’

‘Exactly.’

Strike now moved to the door separating the inner office from the outer, where Pat sat typing, and closed it.

‘Listen,’ he said.

Robin braced herself, trying not to look exasperated. Murphy had said ‘listen’ in exactly that tone on Friday night, five minutes after ejaculating, and immediately before embarking on his prepared speech about the risks of going under deep cover.

‘I wanted to tell you something, before you go in there.’

He looked serious, but hesitant, and Robin felt a tiny electric shock in the pit of her stomach, just as she had when Prudence said Robin was the most important person in Strike’s life.

‘There’s a slight chance – very slight, actually, but it’s still better you know – that someone in there might say something about me, so I wanted to forewarn you, so you don’t look shocked and give yourself away.’

Now Robin knew what was coming, but said nothing.

‘I was at the Aylmerton Community for six months, with my mum and Lucy, back in 1985. I’m not saying people will remember me, I was just a kid, but my mother was a minor celebrity. Well, she’d been in the papers, anyway.’

For a few seconds, Robin debated what best to say, and decided on honesty.