‘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.’
Before either could say anything else, Robin’s mobile rang.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Strike, on checking it. ‘It’s Ryan.’
Strike got up and headed into the outer office. His ruminations on Littlejohn’s strange behaviour were disrupted by Robin’s voice, and her burst of laughter. Evidently evening plans were being changed, due to the weather. Then his own mobile rang.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said Ilsa’s voice. ‘How are you?’