“Dennis Creed’s still alive, you know,” said Strike, watching trees blur out of the window. “I was reading about him online this morning.”
“Where is he?” asked Robin.
“Broadmoor,” said Strike. “He went to Wakefield initially, then Belmarsh, and was transferred to Broadmoor in ’95.”
“What was the psychiatric diagnosis?”
“Controversial. Psychiatrists disagreed about whether or not he was sane at his trial. Very high IQ. In the end the jury decided he was capable of knowing what he was doing was wrong, hence prison, not hospital. But he must’ve developed symptoms since that to justify medical treatment.
“On a very small amount of reading,” Strike went on, “I can see why the lead investigator thought Margot Bamborough might have been one of Creed’s victims. Allegedly, there was a small van seen speeding dangerously in the area, around the time she should have been walking toward the Three Kings. Creed used a van,” Strike elucidated, in response to Robin’s questioning look, “in some of the other known abductions.”
The lamps along the motorway had been lit before Robin, having finished her Yorkie, quoted:
“‘She lies in a holy place.’”
Still smoking, Strike snorted.
“Typical medium bollocks.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I bloody think,” said Strike. “Very convenient, the way people can only speak in crossword clues from the afterlife. Come off it.”
“All right, calm down. I was only thinking out loud.”
“You could spin almost anywhere as ‘a holy place’ if you wanted. Clerkenwell, where she disappeared—that whole area’s got some kind of religious connection. Monks or something. Know where Dennis Creed was living in 1974?”
“Go on.”
“Paradise Park, Islington,” said Strike.
“Oh,” said Robin. “So you think the medium did know who Anna’s mother was?”
“If I was in the medium game, I’d sure as hell Google clients’ names before they showed up. But it could’ve been a fancy touch designed to sound comforting, like Anna said. Hints at a decent burial. However bad her end was, it’s purified by where her remains are. Creed admitted to scattering bone fragments in Paradise Park, by the way. Stamped them into the flower-beds.”
Although the car was still stuffy, Robin felt a small, involuntary shudder run through her.
“Fucking ghouls,” said Strike.
“Who?”
“Mediums, psychics, all those shysters… preying on people.”
“You don’t think some of them believe in what they’re doing? Think they really are getting messages from the beyond?”
“I think there are a lot of nutters in the world, and the less we reward them for their nuttery, the better for all of us.”
The mobile rang in Strike’s pocket. He pulled it out.
“Cormoran Strike.”
“Yes, hello—it’s Anna Phipps. I’ve got Kim here, too.”
Strike turned the mobile to speakerphone.
“Hope you can hear us all right,” he said, over the rumble and rattle of the Land Rover. “We’re still in the car.”
“Yes, it is noisy,” said Anna.
“I’ll pull over,” said Robin, and she did so, turning smoothly onto the hard shoulder.
“Oh, that’s better,” said Anna, as Robin turned off the engine. “Well, Kim and I have talked it over, and we’ve decided: we would like to hire you.”
Robin felt a jolt of excitement.
“Great,” said Strike. “We’re very keen to help, if we can.”
“But,” said Kim, “we feel that, for psychological and—well, candidly, financial—reasons we’d like to set a term on the investigation, because if the police haven’t solved this case in nigh on forty years—I mean, you could be looking for the next forty and find nothing.”
“That’s true,” said Strike. “So—”
“We think a year,” said Anna, sounding nervous. “What do you—does that seem reasonable?”
“It’s what I would have suggested,” said Strike. “To be honest, I don’t think we’ve got much chance in anything under twelve months.”
“Is there anything more you need from me to get started?” Anna asked, sounding both nervous and excited.
“I’m sure something will occur to me,” said Strike, taking out his notebook to check a name, “but it would be good to speak to your father and Cynthia.”
The other end of the line became completely silent. Strike and Robin looked at each other.
“I don’t think there’s any chance of that,” said Anna. “I’m sorry, but if my father knew I was doing this, I doubt he’d ever forgive me.”
“And what about Cynthia?”
“The thing is,” came Kim’s voice, “Anna’s father’s been unwell recently. Cynthia is the more reasonable of the two on this subject, but she won’t want anything to upset Roy just now.”
“Well, no problem,” said Strike, raising his eyebrows at Robin. “Our first priority’s got to be getting hold of the police file. In the meantime, I’ll email you one of our standard contracts. Print it out, sign it and send it back, we’ll get going.”
“Thank you,” said Anna and, with a slight delay, Kim said, “OK, then.”
They hung up.
“Well, well,” said Strike. “Our first cold case. This is going to be interesting.”
“And we’ve got a year,” said Robin, pulling back out onto the motorway.
“They’ll extend that if we look as though we’re onto something,” said Strike.
“Good luck with that,” said Robin sardonically. “Kim’s prepared to give us a year so she can tell Anna they’ve tried everything. I’ll bet you a fiver right now we don’t get any extensions.”
“I’ll take that bet,” said Strike. “If there’s a hint of a lead, Anna’s going to want to see it through to the end.”
The remainder of the journey was spent discussing the agency’s four current investigations, a conversation that took them all the way to the top of Denmark Street, where Strike got out.
“Cormoran,” said Robin, as he lifted the holdall out of the back of the Land Rover, “there’s a message on your desk from Charlotte Campbell. She called the day before yesterday and asked you to ring her back. She said she’s got something you want.”
There was a brief moment where Strike simply looked at Robin, his expression unreadable.
“Right. Thanks. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. No, I won’t,” he instantly contradicted himself, “you’ve got time off. Enjoy.”
And with a slam of the rear door he limped off toward the office, head down, carrying his holdall over his shoulder, leaving an exhausted Robin no wiser as
