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‘Any other thoughts on Carrie Curtis Woods?’ said Strike, hoping to distract her.
‘Um…’ said Robin, forcing herself to concentrate, ‘yes, actually. Carrie asking what had happened to Becca was odd. She didn’t seem to remember any of the other kids.’
Strike, who hadn’t particularly registered this point at the time, said,
‘Yeah, now you mention it – remind me how old was Becca, when Daiyu died?’
‘Eleven,’ said Robin. ‘So she wouldn’t have been in the kids’ dormitory that night. Too old. And then we’ve got “It wasn’t a joke, it wasn’t pretend”, haven’t we?’
Yet again, both sat in silence, but this time, their thoughts were running on parallel tracks.
‘I think Carrie knows or believes Daiyu’s dead,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t know… maybe it really was an accidental drowning?’
‘Two drownings, in exactly the same place? No body? Possibly drugged drinks? An escape through a window?’
Strike pulled his seat belt back across himself.
‘No,’ he said, ‘Daiyu was either murdered, or she’s still alive.’
‘Which are very different possibilities,’ said Robin.
‘I know, but if we can prove it either way, the Drowned Prophet – pun intended – is dead in the water.’
99
This line is the representative of the evil that is to be rooted out.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Robin arrived at Murphy’s flat in Wanstead at ten past eight that evening. Like her own, Murphy’s dwelling was cheap, one-bedroomed and came with unsatisfactory neighbours, in his case below, rather than above. It lay in an older and smaller block than Robin’s, with stairs rather than a lift.
Robin climbed the familiar two flights, carrying her overnight bag and a bottle of wine she thought she might need, given that the centrepiece of the night’s entertainment was to be watching videoed interviews accusing her of child abuse. She very much hoped the smell of curry was coming from Murphy’s flat, because she was craving hot food after a day eating sandwiches and peanuts.
‘Oh, wonderful,’ she sighed, when Murphy opened the door and she saw the takeaway cartons laid out on the table.
‘Me or the food?’ asked Murphy, bending to kiss her.
‘You, for getting the food.’
When they’d first started going out together, Robin had found the interior of Murphy’s flat frankly depressing, because except for the fact that there were no cardboard boxes and his clothes were hung up in the wardrobe, it looked as though he’d just moved in. Of course, Strike’s flat was the same, in that there were no decorative objects there at all, except for the school photo of his nephews Lucy never failed to send him, which was updated yearly. However, the fact that Strike lived under the eaves gave his flat a certain character, which was entirely lacking in Murphy’s identikit dwelling. It had taken a couple of visits to Robin’s own flat for Murphy to comment aloud, with an air of faint surprise, that pictures and plants made a surprising difference to a space, which had made Robin laugh. However, she hadn’t made the slightest attempt to change Murphy’s flat: no gifted cushions or posters, no helpful suggestions. She knew such things might be interpreted as a proprietorial statement of intent, and with all its drawbacks, her own flat was dear to her for the independence it gave her.
However, the sitting room was looking less barren than usual tonight. Not only were Robin’s three houseplants, which she’d asked Murphy to keep alive while she was at Chapman Farm, standing on a side table, there was also a single framed print on the wall, and lit candles on the table among the foil trays of food.
‘You’ve decorated,’ she said.
‘D’you like it?’ he said.
‘It’s a map,’ said Robin, moving to look at the picture.
‘An antique map.’
‘Of London.’
‘But it’s antique. Which makes it classy.’
Robin laughed and turned to look at her plants.
‘And you’ve kept these really—’
