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‘I might be wrong,’ said Strike, ‘but I could’ve sworn I saw Phillipa Delaunay in the audience at Wace’s meeting. Daiyu’s aunt – brother of the Stolen Prophet.’
‘Why on earth would she be there?’
‘Good question. Mind you, as I say, I could be wrong. Hearty blondes in pearls all blur into one to me. Dunno how their husbands tell them apart.’
‘Pheromones?’ suggested Robin.
‘Maybe. Or some kind of special call. Like penguins.’
Robin laughed.
114
What has been spoiled through man’s fault can be made good again through man’s work.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
As they admitted to each other afterwards, for the first hour Strike and Robin spent talking to Will in Pat’s house in Kilburn, each privately thought their mission was doomed. He was implacably opposed to meeting Flora Brewster and insisted he didn’t want immunity from prosecution, because he deserved jail. All he wanted was for Lin to be found, so she could look after Qing once he’d handed himself over to the police.
Pat had taken Will’s daughter to the shops to allow them to talk in peace. The room in which they were sitting was small, neat, smelled strongly of stale Superkings and was cluttered with family photographs, although Pat also had an unsuspected weakness for crystal animal figurines. Will was wearing a new green sweater which, though it hung loosely on his still very thin frame, both suited and fitted him better than his filthy UHC tracksuit. His colour had improved, the shadows under his eyes had gone, and for a full sixty minutes, he made no mention of the Drowned Prophet.
However, when Strike, starting to lose patience, pushed Will on why he didn’t want to at least talk to another ex-member with a view to joining forces and freeing as many people as possible from the church, Will said,
‘You can’t free them all. She wants to keep them. She’ll let some go, like me, who aren’t any good—’
‘Who’s “she”?’ said Strike.
‘You know who,’ muttered Will.
They heard the front door open. Strike and Robin assumed Pat and Qing had returned, but instead a pudgy, bespectacled, fair-haired man of around seventy appeared. He was wearing a Queens Park Rangers football strip, brown trousers of the kind Strike was used to seeing on Ted, and had a copy of the Daily Mail under his arm.
‘Ah. You’ll be the detectives.’
‘That’s us,’ said Strike, standing up to shake hands.
‘Dennis Chauncey. Everyone all right for tea? I’m having some, it’s no trouble.’
Dennis disappeared into the kitchen. Robin noticed that he was limping slightly, possibly due to the fall he’d suffered while demonstrating levitation.
‘Look, Will—’ Strike began.
‘If I talk to Flora before the police, I’ll never get to the police,’ said Will, ‘because she’ll come for me before I can—’
‘Who’ll come for you?’ Dennis, who evidently had sharp hearing, had reappeared at the door of the sitting room, munching on a chocolate bourbon. ‘Drowned Prophet, is it?’
Will looked sheepish.
‘I’ve told you, son.’ Dennis tapped his temple. ‘It’s in your head. It’s all in your head.’
‘I’ve seen—’
‘You’ve seen tricks,’ said Dennis, not unkindly. ‘That’s all you’ve seen. Tricks. They’ve done a right number on you, but it’s tricks, that’s all.’
He disappeared again. Before Strike could say anything else, they heard the front door open for a second time. Shortly afterwards, Pat entered the room.
‘Walked her around and she fell asleep,’ she said in the growl that passed for her whisper. ‘I’ve left her in the hall.’
She wriggled out of her jacket, pulled a pack of Superkings out of its pocket, lit one, sat down in the armchair and said,
