‘I’ve read extensively about mind control in the last few years,’ Sir Colin continued, his food growing cold as he talked. ‘I know far more than I did in the beginning about the techniques the UHC are using, and how effective they are. Kevin told me a lot of what goes on in there and it’s classic cult manipulation: restriction of information, control of thoughts and emotions and so on. I understand now why Will changed so rapidly. He’s literally not in his right mind.’
‘He can’t be,’ agreed Ed. ‘Not to come when Mum was dying, not to attend her funeral. James and his wife had twin boys last year, and he’s never even met them.’
‘So what exactly are you looking to achieve in hiring us?’ asked Strike.
Sir Colin set down his knife and fork to reach under his chair for an old black briefcase, from which he extracted a slim folder.
‘Before the UHC’s lawyers made Kevin bowdlerise his blog, I printed out copies. There are also two long emails from Kevin in here, which explain his family’s involvement in the church and some incidents he witnessed or was involved in. He mentions people and places, and makes at least one criminal allegation about Jonathan Wace, the UHC’s founder. If any of the other people Kevin mentions in these documents could be persuaded to talk, or even to testify, especially about coercion or mind control, I might be able to do something, legally. At a bare minimum, I’d like to persuade the UHC to let me see Will again.’
‘But ideally, you’d like to get him out?’
‘Of course,’ said Sir Colin, ‘but I accept that might not be realistic.
‘Patterson Inc’s report’s in here, too, for what it’s worth. They focused mainly on observing Will’s movements and the comings and goings at Rupert Court and Chapman Farm. Their idea was to get abusive or intimidating behaviour on camera, or an indication from Will that he was unhappy or being coerced. A couple of their people approached him in the street, undercover, and tried to engage him in conversation, but he insisted he was perfectly happy and tried to recruit them or persuade them to hand over cash… so: what do you think?’ said Sir Colin, looking from Strike to Robin and back again. ‘Is our case hopeless?’
Before Strike could answer, Robin had held out her hand for the documents Sir Colin had brought with him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘We’d be very happy to help.’
5
Six in the fifth place means:
Giving duration to one’s character through perseverance.
This is good fortune for a woman…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
‘It’s fine,’ said Strike an hour later, in response to Robin’s apology for accepting the case without consulting him. ‘I’d’ve said it myself, but I had a mouthful of potato.’
The two partners had retired to a nearby pub after leaving the Edensors. The Golden Lion was small, Victorian and ornately decorated, and they were sitting on high leather barstools at a round table.
‘I was looking at the UHC’s website last night,’ said Robin, who was drinking orange juice, because she needed to leave for her surveillance job shortly. ‘They own a lot of prime real estate. That place in Rupert Court must’ve cost them a fortune, bang in the middle of the West End, and that’s before you get to the temples and centres in Birmingham and Glasgow. Can they be making all that money legally?’
‘Well, they’re flogging self-realisation courses up and down the country at five hundred quid a day and prayer retreats at a grand a time. They’ve got ten thousand-odd members collecting money for them, donating a fifth of their salaries and making legacies in their favour. All that’ll mount up. You’d think the Inland Revenue would be all over them, so either they’re clean, or they’ve got a shit-hot accountant who knows how to hide the dodgy stuff. But taking cash from idiots isn’t a crime, unfortunately.’
‘You agree with James, do you? Will’s an idiot?’
Strike took a sip of beer before answering.
‘I’d say people who join cults generally have something missing.’
‘What about Giles Harmon? Rich, successful writer, really clever…’
‘I’m with Orwell,’ said Strike. “Some ideas are so stupid, only intellectuals believe them”… you know, I can’t see any way of doing this properly other than getting someone into Chapman Farm undercover.’
Robin had spent the last couple of days preparing for this very conversation.
‘That means attending the Rupert Court Temple first. I’ve looked into it: you can’t just turn up at Chapman Farm, you have to be invited there, which means being recruited at one of the temples. Whoever turns up at Rupert Court will need a fully worked-up persona with backstory, which they use from their first contact with church members, and I think they should look as though they’ve got a lot of money, to make them a really attractive prospect for recruitment.’
Strike, who knew perfectly well he was listening to a pitch, said, ‘And I’m guessing you don’t think Barclay, Shah or Littlejohn would be convincing as wealthy God-botherers.’
‘Well,’ said Robin, ‘I doubt Barclay would last an hour before starting to take the piss out of it all. Littlejohn would be perfect if the church was a silent order—’
Strike laughed.
‘—and Dev’s got small kids, so he’s not going to want to be away for weeks. Midge is a possibility, but she’s never gone undercover before. I know I haven’t, not like this,’ Robin said quickly, before Strike could make that point, ‘but I’ve never had a cover broken, not even when I was being Venetia Hall every day, in the House of Commons.’
‘And what if the job lasts weeks?’ said Strike.
‘Then it lasts weeks,’ said Robin, with a slight shrug.
It so happened that Strike had already decided Robin was the best person for the job, but he had a secondary motive for accepting her proposal. A few weeks’ enforced separation while she was at Chapman Farm might just put a bit of strain on her relationship with Ryan Murphy, and there was little Strike wanted more than that. However, as he didn’t want to agree too readily, lest he be suspected of an ulterior motive, he merely nodded and said, ‘OK, well, that could work. It needs thinking through, though.’
‘I know. I can’t wear a wig at Chapman Farm, so I’m thinking of a radical haircut.’
‘Really?’ said Strike, without thinking. He liked her hair.
‘I’ll have to, I’ve been walking around in the vicinity of Rupert Court for a few years now. The last thing we need is anyone recognising me, especially if they’ve seen me coming in and out of the office.’
‘OK, fair point,’ said Strike, ‘but no need to shave your head.’
‘I’m not trying to get into the Hare Krishnas,’ said Robin. ‘I was thinking maybe short and a nice bold colour. A privately educated girl who wants to look a bit alternative, but not so radical it’ll scare her parents into stopping footing her bills. Maybe she’s had a recent bad break-up and, you know, now she wants a sense of purpose and something to fill the space where she thought a wedding was going to be.’
‘You have given this a lot of thought,’ said Strike, with a grin.
‘Of course I have. I want the job.’
‘Why?’ asked Strike. ‘Why d’you want it so much?’
‘I’ve always been interested in mind control. We touched on it on my course at uni.’
Robin had been studying psychology before she dropped out of university. Their uncompleted degrees were one of the things she and Strike had in common.
‘OK, well, that all sounds good. Work out a full cover and we can readjust the rota so you prioritise Saturday mornings at temple.’
‘The only problem is clothes,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t look like I’ve got loads of money, clothes-wise.’
‘You always look great,’ said Strike.
‘Thank you,’ said Robin, flushing slightly, ‘but if I’m going to convince the UHC I’ve got a lot of money, stuff like this,’ she held up her shoulder bag, which was six years old, ‘won’t cut it. I s’pose I could hire a couple of designer outfits and handbags. I’ve never done it, but I know you can.’
‘Might be able to help with that,’ said Strike, unexpectedly. ‘You could borrow stuff from Pru.’
‘Who?’
‘My sister,’ said Strike. ‘Prudence. The therapist.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin, intrigued.
She’d only ever met two of Strike’s eight half-siblings, and those only briefly. His family was, to say the least, complicated. Strike was the illegitimate son of a rock star he’d met only twice, and a deceased mother habitually described in the press as a super-groupie. While Robin knew Strike had finally agreed to meet his half-sister Prudence for the first time some months previously, she’d had no idea they were now on such terms that she might lend expensive clothing to his detective partner.
‘I think you’re about the same…’ Strike made a vague gesture rather than say ‘size’. ‘I’ll ask her. You might have to go round to her house to try it on.’
‘No problem,’ said Robin, slightly taken aback. ‘That’d be great, if Prudence won’t mind lending stuff to a total stranger.’
‘You’re not a total stranger, I’ve told her all about you,’ said Strike.
‘So… it’s going well, then?’ said Robin. ‘You and Prudence?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. He took another sip of beer. ‘I like her a lot more than any of my father’s other kids – low bar, admittedly.’
‘You like Al,’ said Robin.
‘Vaguely. He’s still pissed off at me because I wouldn’t go to that bloody party for Rokeby. Where’re you heading after this?’
‘Taking over from Dev in Bexleyheath,’ said Robin, as she checked the time on her phone. ‘Actually, I should get going. What about you?’
‘Afternoon off. I’ll scan this stuff back at the office and email it to you,’ said Strike, indicating the cardboard folder of documents Colin Edensor had handed Robin.