The Running Grave, page 14
‘Yeah, I saw that on their website.’
‘Yeah, so, she said the kids collecting have got to get a hundred quid before they’re allowed to sit down or eat. She told me nobody knew where it all ended up, but old Papa J does himself very well. He’s rumoured to have a property in Antigua, where the Principals go for spiritual retreats. No bloody Chapman Farm for them.’
‘So you held some stuff back because it was too hot to print, did you?’
‘Had to. I wanted to protect the source. I knew people would think she was a loon if I used everything she was claiming.’
‘Would this have been supernatural stuff?’
‘Already know about that, do you?’ said Robertson, jaws still working hard on his nicotine gum. ‘Yeah, exactly. Drowned Prophet.’
‘Ex-members seem pretty scared of the Drowned Prophet.’
‘Well, she comes after them if they leave, see.’
‘Comes after them,’ repeated Strike.
‘Yeah. The membership’s taught if they reveal the Divine Secrets, she’ll come and get them.’
‘What are the Divine Secrets?’
‘She wouldn’t tell me.’
Robertson now downed the rest of his beer.
‘Two days after she talked to me, she saw the Drowned Prophet floating outside her bedroom window in the early hours of the morning. She rang me, hysterical, saying she’d said too much and the Drowned Prophet had come to get her, but I should still print the story. I tried to talk her down. Told her she needed a therapist, but she was having none of it. She kept saying, “There’s something you don’t know, there’s something you don’t know.” Got off the phone, locked herself in her parents’ bathroom and slit her wrists in the bath. She survived – just.’
‘Shit,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah. Her father blamed me, the fucking prick – he was still being a shit to her for joining the cult and giving them all her money, so on the one side I had the source’s family claiming I tipped her into suicide, and on the other, UHC threatening to bankrupt the paper for what they say are fake claims, and I’m stuck in the middle with my job hanging by a thread.’
‘Where’s the girl now?’
‘New Zealand, last I heard. The suicide attempt panicked her family, the father finally stopped bullying her and got her some help. Packed her off to some relatives down under. Fresh start.’
‘Did you put it to her that whatever supernatural stuff she’d seen in the church must’ve been faked?’
‘Yeah, but she wouldn’t have it.’ Robertson now extracted a large ball of chewed gum out of his mouth, pressed it into one of the empty slots in the packet, took out a fresh piece and began chewing again. ‘She swore she’d seen ghosts and magic – but they didn’t call it magic, obviously. Pure spirits, that was the terminology. Pure spirits could do supernatural stuff.’
‘So what was too hot to print?’
‘I could use another pint,’ said Robertson, pushing his empty glass towards the detective.
Strike heaved a sigh, but got back to his feet, his hamstring throbbing.
When he’d returned to the table and set down the fresh pint in front of Robertson, the journalist said,
‘D’you know who Margaret Cathcart-Bryce was?’
‘Rich old woman, left her entire fortune to the UHC in 2004, buried at Chapman Farm, now known as the Golden Prophet.’
‘That’s the one,’ said Robertson. ‘Well, it wasn’t a good death.’
‘Meaning?’
‘They don’t believe in medicine in the UHC. My source told me Cathcart-Bryce died in fucking agony, begging for a doctor. She said the Waces were scared that if they let one in to see her, she’d’ve been taken into hospital, which would’ve meant next of kin being alerted. They didn’t want some distant relative showing up and persuading her to change her will. If I could’ve proved that… but no corroboration. You can’t sling something like that in without checking it out. I tried to get hold of some of Cathcart-Bryce’s relatives, but the closest she had was a great-nephew in Wales. He’d already resigned himself to the fact he wasn’t getting a sniff of her money and didn’t give a fuck what had happened to her. Hadn’t seen the old dear in years.’
Strike made a note of all this, before asking,
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah,’ said Robertson. He glanced around and lowered his voice. ‘Sex.’
‘Go on,’ said Strike.
‘They called it “spirit bonding”, which basically means fucking whoever you’re told to fuck. The girls prove they’ve above material considerations by putting out for anyone they’re told to.’
‘Really?’ said Strike.
‘It only starts happening once you’re in properly. Don’t want to scare them off too early. But my source told me, once they’re full members, they’re not supposed to refuse anyone who wants it. I went as close to talking about it as I could, in the piece – plenty of “it is rumoured” and “sources claim” – but my editor didn’t want any of the better-known members suing us for saying they were raping anyone, so I had to take all that out.’
Strike made a further note before saying,
‘Was your source the only ex-member you could persuade to talk?’
‘Yeah,’ said Robertson. ‘Everyone else I tried told me to fuck off. Some of them were ashamed,’ he said, taking another sip of beer, ‘embarrassed they ever fell for it. They’ve gone back to normal lives and don’t want their pasts all over the papers. You can’t blame them. Others were still a real mess. There were a couple I couldn’t trace. Might’ve died.’
‘Don’t s’pose you kept a list of ex-members?’
‘I did, yeah,’ said Robertson.
‘Have you still got it?’
‘Might have it somewhere… quid pro quo, though, right? I get the scoop, if you get a story?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘All right, I’ll see if I can dig it out…’
Robertson chomped on his gum for a brief spell, before saying,
‘So, when did Sir Colin Edensor hire you?’
‘I don’t identify my clients to journalists,’ said Strike, with no change of expression.
‘Worth a punt,’ said Robertson, eyes twinkling. ‘Edensor’s been pretty vocal about the church in the last couple of years.’
‘Has he?’
‘I s’pose there might some other rich kids in there, though,’ said Robertson, watching Strike closely. ‘Other than Will Edensor.’
‘S’pose there might,’ said Strike non-committally, looking over his notes. ‘She told you, “There’s something you don’t know”? And this was something other than Cathcart-Bryce being denied a doctor, was it?’
‘Yeah, she’d already told me about the old girl,’ said Robertson, who now flipped open his laptop again. ‘Sure you haven’t got a view on Brexit? How would it affect the private detective trade, if we leave the EU?’
‘Not at all,’ said Strike, getting to his feet.
‘So I can put down Cormoran Strike as a Brexiteer, can I?’
‘You can fuck off, is what you can do,’ said Strike, and he left the journalist chuckling behind him.
15
In friendships and close relationships an individual must make a careful choice. He surrounds himself either with good or with bad company; he cannot have both at once.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
‘God, it’s horrible out there,’ were Robin’s first words to Strike the next time they met, which was on Easter Monday.
Storm Katie was currently ravaging London, knocking down trees and pylons, and Robin’s colour was high, her hair windblown. The windows of the office were gently rattling as the wind howled down Denmark Street.
‘I did text you, offering to catch up by phone,’ said Strike, who’d just put the kettle on.
‘I was probably already on the Tube,’ said Robin, tugging off her coat and hanging it up. ‘I didn’t mind coming in. Quite bracing, really.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d got smacked in the head by a flying bin,’ said Strike, who’d just been watching plastic cones tumbling down Charing Cross Road. ‘Coffee?’
‘Great,’ said Robin, trying to detangle her hair with her fingers. ‘Pat got the day off?’
‘Yeah. Bank holiday. One good thing about this weather, it’ll probably keep the Frank brothers in.’
‘Hopefully,’ agreed Robin. ‘In other good news, I think I’m getting closer to being recruited.’
‘Really?’ said Strike, looking round.
‘Yes. That blonde woman I met last time made a beeline for me the moment I walked in on Saturday. “Oh, I’m so glad you came back!” I told her I’d read their pamphlet and found it interesting—’
‘Was it?’
‘No. It’s mostly generalities about self-fulfilment and changing the world. I’m still playing it cool. I told her friends of mine were trying to warn me off the UHC, telling me there were rumours circulating about the place, about it not being what it seemed.’
‘What did she say to that?’
‘That she was sure I wasn’t closed-minded enough not to give the church a fair hearing and that she could tell I was a free thinker and a very independent person.’
‘Very astute of her,’ said Strike, with a smirk. ‘Papa J there?’
‘No. Apparently I got very lucky seeing him last time, because he doesn’t often appear in person these days. We got Becca Pirbright instead – Kevin’s older sister.’
‘Yeah?’ said Strike, as he opened the fridge and took out milk. ‘What’s she like?’
‘Very polished and chirpy. Perfect teeth – she looks American. You definitely wouldn’t know her brother was shot through the head a few months ago. If she hadn’t been wearing orange robes, you’d have thought she was a motivational speaker. Pacing up and down, lots of big gestures.
‘Oh, and Noli Seymour was there. The actress. That caused a bit of excitement, when she walked in. Lots of whispering and pointing.’
‘Special treatment?’
‘Very. One of the temple attendants went running towards her and tried to lead her to a seat at the front. She made kind of a fuss about not taking it and sliding into a space in the middle. Very humble. She made such a fuss about being humble, everyone was looking at her by the time she took her seat.’
Strike grinned.
‘I read your note about your meeting with Fergus Robertson,’ Robin went on.
‘Good,’ said Strike, handing Robin a mug and leading the way through to the inner office. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that.’
Robin thought she knew what was coming. One of the reasons she’d been so determined to battle her way through Storm Katie to talk to Strike face to face was a suspicion that he was about to suggest – notwithstanding the hours of work she’d put in to create Rowena Ellis’s persona, and the expensive new haircut – that one of the subcontractors should go undercover at Chapman Farm, instead of her.
‘So, you read about the spirit bonding stuff?’ Strike asked, as both took their seats opposite each other at the partners’ desk.
‘We’re using the UHC’s euphemism, are we?’ said Robin, eyebrows raised.
‘All right, if you prefer: did you read about women being coerced into sleeping with whoever the church says they should sleep with?’
‘I did, yes,’ said Robin.
‘And?’
‘And I still want to go in.’
Strike said nothing, but stroked his chin, looking at her.
‘They’re using emotional coercion, not physical force,’ Robin said. ‘I won’t be indoctrinated, will I? So that’s not going to work on me.’
‘But if you’re shut up in there, and that’s the condition of maintaining your cover—’
‘If it comes to actual attempted rape, I’ll leave and go straight to the police,’ said Robin calmly. ‘Mission accomplished: we’ve got something on the church.’
Strike, who’d expected this attitude, still didn’t like it.
‘What’s Murphy’s view on this?’
‘What the hell’s it got to do with Ryan?’ said Robin, with an edge to her voice.
Recognising his strategic error, Strike said, ‘Nothing.’
There was a brief silence, in which rain pounded against the window and wind whistled through the guttering.
‘All right, well, I thought we should divide up these ex-members so we can work our way through them, see if any will talk,’ said Strike, breaking eye contact to open a file on his computer. ‘I’ve sent you the census names already. Robertson sent me his list last night. There was only one name I didn’t already have: Cherie Gittins. He never managed to trace her, but I found out a bit about her online. She was the girl who took Daiyu Wace swimming on the day she drowned, but I can’t find any trace of her after 1995.’
‘Want me to have a look?’ said Robin, flipping open her notebook.
‘Couldn’t hurt. In better news, I’ve found the Doherty family – the dad who left with three of the kids, and the mother who was expelled later.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, but I’ve had a hard “no” to an interview from the father and two of the kids. The father was bloody aggressive about it. The other kid – I say kid, they’re all adults now – hasn’t got back to me yet. That’s Niamh, the eldest. I can’t find any trace of the mother, Deirdre, and I’m wondering whether she’s changed her name or gone abroad. No death certificate that I can find. I haven’t had much luck with Jordan, either – that’s the bloke Kevin Pirbright claims was whipped across the face with a leather flail. He’s not on any of the census reports, so he must’ve come and gone between censuses.
‘But I might have found Jonathan Wace’s older daughter, Abigail. If I’m right, she switched to using her mother’s maiden name, Glover, after she left the church, and she’s a firefighter.’
‘A literal—?’
‘Hose, siren, the works, if I’ve got the right woman. Unmarried, no kids that I can see, and she’s living in Ealing. I also think I’ve identified the gay girl who joined up in her teens, the one Robertson spoke to for his article.’
‘Already?’
‘Yeah. She’s on the census for 2001 and her name’s Flora Brewster. Age and dates tally. Her Facebook page is full of pictures of New Zealand and she comes from a very wealthy family. Her grandfather started a massive construction company: Howson Homes.’
‘“You’ll-Be-Oh-So-Happy-in-a-Howson-Home”?’ said Robin, as the jingle from a nineties advert she didn’t know she’d remembered came back to her.
‘Until the dividing walls fall down, yeah. Not famous for being well built, Howson Homes.’
‘Have you contacted her?’
‘No, because her Facebook account’s inactive; she hasn’t posted anything there for over a year, but I have found a guy called Henry Worthington-Fields, who’s a Facebook friend of hers living in London. I think it’s possible he’s the guy who got her into it, who only stayed a week. He talks about having an old friend the church nearly destroyed. Very angry, very bitter, dark hints about criminality. I’ve sent him a message, but nothing back so far. If he’s willing to talk, I might be able to find out what lay behind Flora’s comment to Fergus Robertson, “There’s something you don’t know.”’
‘I was thinking about that girl – Flora – after I read your email,’ said Robin. ‘That makes two people who killed themselves, or tried to, right after leaving the church. It’s as though they leave with invisible suicide vests on them. Then the Drowned Prophet shows up and makes them detonate it.’
‘Fanciful way of putting it,’ said Strike, ‘but yeah, I know what you mean.’
‘Did I tell you Alexander Graves is painted on the temple ceiling with a noose around his neck?’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘It’s sick, isn’t it? They’re close to glorifying suicide, putting that on the ceiling. Equating it to martyrdom for the church.’
‘I’d imagine it suits the UHC fine to have quitters finish themselves off. Self-solving problem.’
‘But it adds weight to what Prudence said, doesn’t it? About not taking Will Edensor out too quickly, not expecting him to just snap back to—’
At that moment, they heard a jingle on the landing, and the door to the outer office opened. Strike and Robin both looked round, surprised: nobody else should have been there, given that that Midge was on holiday and all other subcontractors on jobs.
There in the doorway stood Clive Littlejohn, stocky and solid in his rain-speckled coat, his crewcut unchanged by the high winds. His heavy-lidded eyes blinked at the partners visible through the open inner door. Otherwise, he remained expressionless and stationary.
‘Morning,’ said Strike. ‘Thought you were on the new client’s husband?’
‘Ill,’ said Littlejohn.
‘Is he?’
‘She texted.’
‘So… you needed something?’
‘Receipts,’ said Littlejohn, putting his hand into the inside of his coat and drawing out a small wad of paper, which he laid on Pat’s desk.
‘Right,’ said Strike.
Littlejohn stood for another second or two, then turned and left the office, closing the glass door behind him.
‘It’s like he gets taxed per syllable,’ said Robin quietly.
Strike said nothing. He was still frowning towards the glass door.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Robin.
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is. Why are you looking like that?’
‘How was he planning to get in? I changed the rota last night so we could have a catch-up, otherwise I’d’ve been tailing Frank Two and you wouldn’t have had any reason to be here – especially during a near hurricane,’ Strike added, as the rain thumped against the window.
‘Oh,’ said Robin, now looking blankly after Littlejohn as well. ‘Did you hear keys before the door opened?’
‘He hasn’t got a key,’ said Strike. ‘Or he shouldn’t have.’
