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‘You’ve been to the police about this masked intruder?’ said Sir Colin.
‘Naturally,’ said Strike, ‘but they’ve got nothing so far. Whoever it was was well disguised, right down to a balaclava, and dressed all in black – and that description tallies with the only sighting of Kevin Pirbright’s shooter.’
‘Dear God,’ muttered Ed.
James, who’d refilled his own mug without offering coffee to anyone else, now advanced on the table.
‘So, Will’s potentially put all of us in danger? My wife? My kids?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Strike.
‘Oh, wouldn’t you?’
‘They’ve never yet gone after the families of ex-members, except—’
‘Online,’ said Sir Colin. ‘Yes, I’ve seen my new Wikipedia page. Not that I care—’
‘You might not,’ said James loudly, ‘but I bloody well do! So what’s your solution to this mess?’ James threw at Strike. ‘Keep Will in hiding for a decade, while my father single-handedly funds an investigation into the whole fucking church?’
Strike deduced from this comment that Sir Colin had confided his doubts about the Daiyu line of enquiry to his elder son.
‘No,’ he began, but before he could elaborate on any course of action, Ed piped up.
‘It seems to me—’
‘Will you piss off with the bloody psychotherapy?’ spat James. ‘If they’re following and shooting people—’
‘I was going to say,’ said Ed, ‘that if this girl Lin’s prepared to give evidence against the church—’
‘She’s Wace’s daughter, she’s not going to—’
‘How the hell do you know?’
‘I know enough to know I don’t want to be beholden to her—’
‘We’ve got a duty of care—’ began Sir Colin.
‘No, we bloody don’t,’ shouted James. ‘Neither she, nor her bloody misbegotten child, are of any interest to me. That stupid little shit’s dragging Jonathan Wace’s people into our lives in place of our mother, who wouldn’t be bloody dead but for the UHC, and as far as I’m concerned, Will, this Lin and their bloody kid can go drown themselves—’
James swung his coffee mug towards the distant river, so that an arc of near-boiling black liquid hit Robin across the chest.
‘—and join his fucking prophet!’
Robin let out a shriek of pain; Strike yelled ‘Oi!’ and stood up; Ed also attempted to stand, but his weak leg gave way; Sir Colin said, ‘James!’ and while Robin was pulling scalding fabric away from her skin and looking frantically around for something to wash herself off with, Ed pushed himself back up on a second attempt and shouted at his elder brother, leaning on the table with both hands:
‘You’ve got this fucking narrative in your head – it was inoperable by the time they found it, it had been there since before Will joined the fucking church! You want to blame someone, blame me – she didn’t get herself checked because she was sitting next to me in hospital for five bloody months!’
With the two brothers yelling at each other so loudly nobody else could hear themselves speak, Robin left the table to grab some kitchen roll, which she ran under the cold tap then pressed beneath her shirt to relieve the burning on her skin.
‘Be quiet – BE QUIET!’ shouted Sir Colin, getting to his feet. ‘Miss Ellacott, I’m so sorry – are you…?’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ said Robin, who, preferring not to mop hot coffee off her breasts with four men watching, turned her back on them.
James, who didn’t seem to have realised he was responsible for the large black stain across Robin’s cream shirt, began again.
‘As far as I’m concerned—’
‘Not going to apologise, then?’ snarled Strike.
