The I Ching or Book of Changes
Robin’s neck felt exposed and chilly as she travelled by train to Prudence’s house in Strawberry Hill the following evening. She sincerely hoped the accountant would let her claim at least half the cost of her new haircut as a business expense, because it was the most expensive she’d ever had. Chin-length, with a long, graduated fringe, with the ends bleached and then dyed pale blue. After one look of shock, Murphy had beamed and told her he liked it upon meeting the previous evening, which, true or not, had made her feel slightly less self-conscious as they entered the Duke of York Theatre, to watch The Father.
‘Blue, eh?’ were Strike’s first words, when Robin got into the BMW outside Strawberry Hill station. ‘Looks good.’
‘Thanks. I’m hoping it also says, “Hi, I’ve got more money than sense.”’
‘Maybe once you’ve got the posh clothes on,’ said Strike, pulling out of the car park.
‘How was Bigfoot?’ Robin asked, as they drove past a long line of solid Edwardian villas.
‘Disappointingly celibate,’ said Strike. ‘But for a man who’s worth a couple of million, you’d think he could afford a comb.’
‘You really don’t like scruffiness, do you?’ said Robin, amused.
‘Not in people who have a choice. How hard is it to bloody wash?’
Strike took a right turn before saying,
‘Dev found the bloke Shanker’s after, by the way.’
‘Oh good,’ said Robin. While she was under no illusions about Shanker’s deeply criminal nature, he happened to have once helped her escape an assault by a large murder suspect, for which she remained grateful. ‘How’s the little girl doing?’
‘He didn’t say, but hopefully seeing her dad will cheer her up… here we go…’
Earlier than Robin had expected, they turned into the drive of a particularly large Edwardian house, which not only made Robin feel slightly intimidated, but also made her think ruefully of her own flimsily built flat, in which she had to endure the almost constant noise of the music from the man upstairs.
The front door opened before they reached it, revealing Strike’s half-sister, who was the daughter of a well-known actress and the rock star who’d also fathered Strike. Prudence was wearing a plain black dress that looked unexceptional to Strike, but which Robin guessed would have cost the equivalent of her own monthly mortgage repayment.
Like Sir Colin Edensor, Prudence had the kind of face it was hard to dislike, or so thought Robin. Though not quite as beautiful as her actress mother, she was very attractive, with freckled skin and long, wavy black hair. Eyes that slanted upwards at the corners and a small, smiling mouth added a slightly Puckish look. Though by no means overweight, she was curvy, something Robin, who’d been afraid she’d be stick thin and flat-chested, saw with relief.
‘Come in, come in! It’s so nice to meet you,’ said Prudence, beaming as she shook Robin’s hand.
‘You, too. My hair isn’t usually like this,’ Robin said, and then wished she hadn’t. She’d just caught sight of her reflection in Prudence’s hall mirror. ‘It’s all part of my cover.’
‘Well, it looks great,’ said Prudence, before turning to Strike and hugging him.
‘Blimey, bruv, well done. There’s less of you every time I see you.’
‘If I’d known it would make everyone this happy, I’d’ve got the other leg amputated.’
‘Very funny. Come on through to the sitting room. I’ve just opened some wine.’
She led the two detectives into a large room of exquisite taste. Beautifully proportioned, with large black and white photographs on the walls, stacked bookcases and a low, dark leather sofa on a tubular metal frame, it managed to be simultaneously stylish and welcoming.
‘So,’ said Prudence, gesturing Strike and Robin to the sofa and settling into a large cream armchair before pouring two extra glasses of wine, ‘clothes. Do I get to ask what they’re for?’
‘Robin needs to look like a rich girl who’s at enough of a loose end to joint a cult.’
‘A cult?’
‘Well, that’s what some people would say it is,’ temporised Robin. ‘They’ve got a kind of compound in the countryside, and I’m hoping to be recruited so I can get in there.’
To both detectives’ surprise, Prudence’s smile disappeared and was replaced with a look of concern.
‘This wouldn’t be the UHC, would it?’
Startled, Robin glanced at Strike.
‘That’s a very swift bit of deduction,’ he said. ‘Why d’you think it would be them?’
‘Because it started in Norfolk.’
‘You’ve got a client who was in there,’ said Strike, on a sudden hunch.
‘I don’t bandy around clients’ identifying details, Cormoran,’ said Prudence, her voice mock-stern as she pushed his glass towards him across the coffee table.
‘Pity,’ said Strike lightly. ‘We need to find ex-members.’
Prudence looked intently at him for a moment or two, then said,
‘Well, as I’ve got a duty of confidentiality, I can’t—’
‘I was being glib,’ Strike reassured her. ‘I’m not after a name and address.’
Prudence took a sip of wine, her expression grave. Finally, she said,
‘I don’t think you’ll find it very easy, getting ex-members to talk. There’s a lot of shame attached to having been coerced in that way, and often significant trauma.’
Seeing them face to face, Robin spotted her partner’s resemblance to Jonny Rokeby for the first time. He and his half-sister shared the same defined jaw, the same spacing of the eyes. She wondered – she who had three brothers, all of the same parentage – what it felt like, to make a first acquaintance with a blood relative in your forties. But there was something more there than a faint physical resemblance between brother and sister: they appeared, already, to have established an unspoken understanding.
‘All right,’ said Prudence, under Strike’s semi-jocular questioning, ‘I do treat an ex-UHC member. As a matter of fact, when they first disclosed what had happened to them, I didn’t think I was the right person to help them. It’s specialised work, deprogramming people. Some over-indulge in things they were deprived of inside – food and alcohol, for instance. Some indulge in risky behaviours, as a reaction to being so controlled and monitored. Readjusting to a life of freedom isn’t easy, and being asked to disinter things they suffered, or were forced to do, can be immensely distressing.
‘Luckily, I knew of an American therapist who’s worked with a lot of cult survivors, so I got in touch with him. He did a few virtual sessions with the client, which helped hugely, and I’ve now taken over, with some continued assistance from the American. That’s how I know about the UHC.’
‘How did the client get out?’ asked Strike.
‘Why? Is that what you’ve been hired to do, get someone out?’
Strike nodded.
‘Then you need to be very careful,’ said Prudence seriously. ‘If they’re anything like my client, they’ll be exceptionally fragile and you’ll do more harm than good if you’re heavy-handed. You’ve got to understand: people in cults have been rewired. Expecting them to just snap back to normal isn’t realistic.’
‘How did your client manage it?’
‘They… didn’t leave by choice,’ said Prudence hesitantly.
‘You mean they were expelled?’
‘It wasn’t a question of… they had health issues,’ said Prudence, ‘but I can’t say more than that. Suffice to say, the UHC doesn’t let members leave through the front door unless they’ve stopped being of use. You’ll need to be very careful, Robin. Have you ever read Robert Jay Lifton? Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism? Or Combatting Cult Mind Control, by Steven Hassan?’
Robin shook her head.
‘I’ll lend you my copies. I’ll give them to you before you go. Being able to identify their techniques will help you resist them.’
‘Robin’s smart,’ said Strike. ‘She’s not going to buy whatever they’re selling.’
‘Being clever’s no protection, not on its own,’ said Prudence. ‘Restricted food, enforced chanting, rigid control over your physical environment, digging into your psyche for the places they can apply most pressure, love-bombing you one minute, tearing you down the next… nobody’s invulnerable to that, clever or not…
‘Anyway,’ said Prudence, standing up, ‘let’s try on some clothes.’
‘This is really kind of you, Prudence,’ Robin said, as the therapist led her upstairs.
‘It isn’t,’ said Prudence, now smiling again. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you, given that you’re clearly the most important person in Corm’s life.’
The words gave Robin a sensation like an electric shock in the pit of her stomach.
‘He’s – he’s really important to me, too.’
They passed the open door of a very messy bedroom, which Robin could tell belonged to a teenager even before a black-haired girl in a mini-skirt came bounding out of it, clutching a leather jacket in one hand, and a satchel in the other.
‘Ooh,’ she said, blinking at Robin. ‘Cool hair!’
Without waiting for a response she hurried past them, running downstairs. Prudence called after her,
‘Text me when you need picking up!’
‘I will,’ shouted the girl, and they heard her call, ‘Laters, new uncle,’ before the front door slammed.
‘That was Sylvie,’ said Prudence, leading Robin into a large bedroom of luxurious simplicity, and then into a mirrored dressing room lined with clothing racks. ‘Corm said you’d need two or three outfits?’
‘Ideally,’ said Robin. ‘I promise I’ll be very careful with them.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ve got far too many clothes… it’s my weakness,’ Prudence admitted, with a guilty smile. ‘Sylvie’s just got old enough to start borrowing stuff I can’t get away with any more, so I’m kind of hanging off giving it all to charity. What size shoes do you take?’