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For another minute he stood contemplating the pictures of individuals who’d met unnatural deaths, two by drowning, one by beating, and one by a single gunshot to the head. His gaze moved again to the Polaroids of the four young people in pig masks. Then he sat back down at the desk, and scribbled a few more questions for Jordan Reaney.
56
Six at the beginning means…
Even a lean pig has it in him to rage around.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
The following morning, Strike’s bathroom scales informed him that he was now a mere eight pounds off his target weight. This boost to his morale enabled him to resist the temptation of stopping for a doughnut at the service station en route to HMP Bedford.
The prison was an ugly building of red and yellow brick. After queuing to present his visiting permit, he and the rest of the families and friends were shown into a visitors’ hall that resembled a white and green gym, with square tables set at evenly spaced intervals. Strike recognised Reaney, who was already seated, from across the room.
The prisoner, who was wearing jeans and a grey sweatshirt, looked what he undoubtedly was: a dangerous man. Over six feet tall, thin but broad-shouldered, his head was shaven and his teeth a yellowish brown. Almost every visible inch of his skin was tattooed, including his throat, which was covered by a tiger’s face, and part of his gaunt face, where an ace of spades adorned most of his left cheek.
As Strike sat down opposite him, Reaney glanced towards a large black prisoner watching him in silence from a table away, and in those few seconds Strike noticed a series of tattooed lines, three broken, three solid, on the back of Reaney’s left hand, and also saw that the ace of spades tattoo was partially concealing what looked like an old facial scar.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ said Strike, as the prisoner turned to look at him.
Reaney grunted. He blinked, Strike noticed, in an exaggerated fashion, keeping his eyes closed a fraction longer than was usual. The effect was strange, as though his large, thick-lashed, bright blue eyes were surprised to find themselves in such a face.
‘As I said on the phone,’ said Strike, drawing out his notebook, ‘I’m after information on the Universal Humanitarian Church.’
Reaney folded his arms across his chest, and placed both hands beneath his armpits.
‘How old were you when you joined?’ asked Strike.
‘Seven’een.’
‘What made you join?’
‘Needed somewhere to kip.’
‘Bit out of your way, Norfolk. You grew up in Tower Hamlets, right?’
Reaney looked unhappy that Strike knew this.
‘I was on’y in Tower ’Amlets from when I was twelve.’
‘Where were you before that?’
‘Wiv me mum, in Norfolk.’ Reaney swallowed, and his prominent Adam’s apple caused the tiger tattooed on his throat to ripple. ‘After she died I ’ad to go to London, live wiv me old man. Then I was in care, then I was ’omeless for a bit, then I went to Chapman Farm.’
‘Born in Norfolk, then?’
‘Yeah.’
This explained how a young man of Reaney’s background had ended up in deep countryside. Strike’s experience of Reaney’s type was that they rarely, if ever, broke free of the gravitational pull of the capital.
‘Did you have family there?’
‘Nah. Jus’ fancied a change.’
‘Police after you?’
‘They usually were,’ said Reaney, unsmiling.
‘How did you hear about Chapman Farm?’
