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‘I’m not gonna lie. Two of them died. I bought replacements. That one –’ he pointed at the philodendron which Strike had bought Robin as a housewarming present ‘– must be bloody hard to kill. It’s the sole survivor.’
‘Well, I appreciate the replacements,’ said Robin, ‘and thank you for saving Phyllis.’
‘Did they all have names?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, though this wasn’t actually true. ‘But I won’t be calling the new ones after dead ones. Too morbid.’
She now noticed Murphy’s laptop sitting on the table, beside the curry and plates.
‘Are the videos on there?’
‘Yeah,’ said Murphy.
‘Have you watched them?’
‘Yeah. D’you want to wait until after we’ve had dinner to—?’
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I’d rather get it over with. We can watch while we’re eating.’
So they sat down together at the table. As Murphy poured her a glass of wine and Robin heaped her plate with chicken and rice, he said,
‘Listen, before we watch – what they’re saying is clearly bullshit.’
‘Weirdly, I already know that,’ said Robin, trying to sound light-hearted.
‘No, I mean, it’s clearly bullshit,’ said Murphy. ‘They aren’t convincing – there’s only one who sounds like she might be for real, but then she goes off on a bloody weird tangent.’
‘Who?’
‘Becca some—’
‘Pirbright,’ said Robin. Her pulse had started racing again. ‘Yes, I’m sure Becca’s convincing.’
‘She just speaks more naturally than the others. If she didn’t go off into the batshit stuff at the end, you’d think she was credible. You’ll see what I mean when we watch it.’
‘Who else gave statements?’
‘An older woman called Louise and a younger one called Vivienne.’
‘Louise gave evidence against me?’ said Robin furiously. ‘I’d have expected it of Vivienne, she’s desperate to be a spirit wife, but Louise?’
‘Look, with both of them, it’s like they’re working off a script. I couldn’t get footage of the kid accusing you, my contact wouldn’t hand it over. Can’t really blame him – it’s a seven-year-old. I shouldn’t even have these. But I’m told the kid behaved as though he’d been coached.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, taking a large swig of wine. ‘Show me Becca.’
Murphy clicked on a folder, then on one of the video files inside, and Robin saw a police interview room, viewed from above. The camera was fixed in a corner near the ceiling. A large, solid-looking policeman was visible, back to the camera, so that his tonsure-like bald patch caught the light.
‘I think that’s one of the guys who interviewed me at Felbrigg Lodge,’ said Robin.
Murphy pressed play. A female officer led Becca into the room and gestured her towards an empty chair. Becca’s dark hair was as shiny as ever, her creamy skin unblemished, her smile diffident and humble. In her clean blue tracksuit and very white trainers, she might have been a youth leader at some harmless summer camp.
The male officer told Becca the interview was being recorded and she nodded. He asked for her full name, and then how long she’d lived at Chapman Farm.
‘Since I was eight,’ said Becca.
‘And you look after the children?’
‘I’m not often involved directly in childcare, but I oversee our home-schooling programme,’ said Becca.
