Page 71 of The Running Grave

Catching the expression on Robin’s face, Strike added,

‘I’m not saying I think any of those arguments would be fair or valid. I’m just being realistic about Deirdre’s odds of convincing a jury.’

‘Why did she write about the rape in her journal at all?’ asked Robin. ‘She knew the journal would be read by a higher-up, which doesn’t really tally with the way Niamh described her mother. It doesn’t feel like the act of a passive woman.’

‘Maybe she was desperate,’ said Strike. ‘Maybe she hoped the journal was going to be read by someone she thought would help her.’ He took a bite of bread, then said, ‘I’ll keep trying to track Deirdre down while you’re at the farm. She’d be a bloody good witness, if we can find her.’

‘Of course, she needn’t have been murdered,’ said Robin, still following her own train of thought. ‘If she had a weak heart before going to Chapman Farm and was made to work without adequate food, she could have died of natural causes.’

‘If that happened, and they didn’t register the death, we’ve got a crime. Trouble is, to prove it, we need a body.’

‘It’s farmland,’ said Robin. ‘She could have been buried anywhere, over acres.’

‘And we’re not going to get the authority to dig up all the fields on an evidence-free hunch.’

‘I know,’ said Robin. ‘There’s also that thing about no calendars and watches—’

‘Yeah, I was going to talk to you about that,’ said Strike.

‘Even if we manage to find people who’re prepared to talk, they’re going to have credibility problems,’ Robin continued. ‘“When did this happen?” “I have literally no idea.” It’d make faking alibis a piece of cake. Only the people at the top know what time of day it is – literally.’

‘Yeah, but the more immediate problem is, you’re going to have to find a way of keeping track of the days without anyone knowing you’re doing it.’

‘I’ll think of something,’ said Robin, ‘but if you could put dates and days of the week on your notes to me, that’ll help keep me orientated.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Strike, pulling out his notebook and making a note to this effect.

‘And,’ said Robin, feeling slightly awkward about asking this, ‘if I put the odd note for Ryan in the rock, along with my report for you, would you mind passing it on?’

‘No problem,’ said Strike, making a further note, his expression impassive. ‘Do me a return favour, though: if you get a chance to get the blood-stained hatchet out of the hollow tree, be sure and take it.’

‘OK, I’ll try,’ said Robin, smiling.

‘Do your family know what you’re about to do, by the way?’

‘No details,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve just said I’ll be undercover for a bit. I haven’t told them where I’m going. Ryan’s going to call them with updates… I really hope Abigail Glover decides to talk to you,’ Robin added, again keen to get off the subject of Murphy, ‘because I’d love to hear some more background on her father. There isn’t much about Wace’s past out there, have you noticed?’

‘Yeah, I have, though I note he doesn’t mind people knowing he was educated at Harrow.’

‘No, but after that it all gets sketchy, doesn’t it? His father was a “businessman”, but no detail on what kind of business, and his first wife dies tragically, he finds religion and founds the UHC. That’s basically it.’

Their food arrived. Strike, who was still abstaining from chips, looked so enviously at Robin’s that she laughed.

‘Have some. I only ordered them because I’m going to be on starvation rations from tomorrow.’

‘No,’ said Strike gloomily, ‘I still need to get another stone off.’

He’d just cut into his chicken breast when his mobile rang again, this time, from an unknown London number. Setting down his knife and fork again, he answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh – ’iya,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Are you Cameron Strike?’

‘That’s me,’ said Strike, who rarely bothered to correct the mistake. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Ava Reaney. You left a message for me to call you?’

‘Yes,’ said Strike, scribbling Reaney wife on his notebook and turning it to face Robin. ‘I did. I was actually wondering whether you could get a message to your husband for me, Mrs Reaney.’