The pain in his leg turned his thoughts back to that evening. He supposed two and a half hours of mindless conversation had been justified in light of the ten minutes of frills-free sex that had followed. She’d looked better than she felt – her impressive breasts, as he’d discovered in the bedroom, were fake – but the upside of finding her obnoxious was a total absence of guilt about his lack of response to the three texts she’d sent him since, all of which had been strewn with emojis. His oldest friend, Dave Polworth, would have called that breaking even, and Strike was inclined to agree.
On entering the Westminster Arms, Strike spotted Fergus Robertson, who he’d Googled earlier, sitting in a corner at a table for two, typing on a laptop. A short, rotund and almost entirely bald man whose shining pate reflected the light hanging over the table, Robertson was currently in his shirtsleeves, vigorously chewing gum as he worked. Strike fetched himself a drink, noting a junior minister at the bar, before heading for Robertson, who kept typing until Strike arrived at the table.
‘Ah,’ said the journalist, looking up. ‘The famous detective.’
‘And the fearless reporter,’ said Strike, sitting down.
They shook hands across the table, Robertson’s curious blue eyes scanning Strike. He gave off an air of rough good humour. A pack of Nicorette chewing gum lay beside the laptop.
‘You know Dominic Culpepper, I hear,’ Robertson said, referring to a journalist who Strike disliked.
‘I do, yeah. He’s a tit.’
Robertson laughed.
‘I heard you shagged his cousin.’
‘Can’t remember that,’ lied Strike.
‘Got a view on Brexit?’
‘None whatsoever,’ said Strike.
‘Shame,’ said Robertson. ‘I need another three hundred words.’
He flipped down the screen on his laptop.
‘So… going after the UHC, are you?’ Robertson sat back in his chair, still chewing, lacing his short fingers together over a large beer belly. ‘Do I get exclusive rights to the story if you find a body under the temple floor?’
‘Can’t guarantee that,’ said Strike.
‘Then what’s in it for me?’
‘The satisfaction of a good turn done,’ said Strike.
‘Do I look like a Boy Scout?’
‘If I find out anything newsworthy that doesn’t compromise my client,’ said Strike, who’d anticipated this conversation, ‘you can have it.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said Robertson, unlacing his fingers to pop another piece of nicotine gum out of its packet, shoving it in his mouth and then drinking more beer.
‘You haven’t been scared off writing about them, then?’ said Strike.
‘Not if you can get me some solid information. They’re a bunch of cunts. I’d be fucking delighted to help bring them down.’
‘They gave you a hard time, I gather?’
‘Nearly lost my job over that piece,’ said Robertson. ‘Lawyers up my arse, paper shitting itself, my ex-wife getting anonymous calls to the house—’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yeah. And you should’ve seen what the fuckers did to my Wikipedia page.’
‘Got a Wikipedia page, have you?’ said Strike, surprised.
‘I didn’t have before I tangled with them, but after my piece went out, the UHC made one for me. “Disgraced journalist Fergus Robertson.” “Notorious alcoholic Fergus Robertson.” “Domestic abuser F—” I never laid a finger on my ex,’ added Robertson, a little defensively. ‘So, yeah: if you get anything provable, I’ll fucking print it and they’ll rue the fucking day they went after me.’
Strike took out his notebook and pen.
‘What made you look into them in the first place?’
‘I started digging into the fat cats and the celebs who’ve joined.’
‘What’s in it for them?’
‘For the fat cats, they get to rub shoulders with the celebs. For the latter, the UHC lines up photo ops: no work needed, just turn up an’ get your picture taken with young carers or the homeless. People like Noli Seymour like to look spiritual, you know. Then you’ve got Dr Zhou.’
‘I hadn’t heard of him until I read your article.’
‘Take it you don’t watch breakfast TV?’
Strike shook his head.
‘He’s got a regular slot on one of the shows. Looks like Bruce Lee, if he’d been in a car accident. He’s got a clinic in Belgravia where he sees people with more money than sense. All kinds of bullshit. Cupping. Hypnosis. Past life regression.’
‘You said in the piece he was recruiting for the UHC from his clinic.’
‘I think he’s one of the main points of entry for the big donors. That was one of the things the UHC lawyers made me retract.’
‘The ex-member you talked to for the article—’
‘Poor little cow,’ sighed Robertson, not unkindly. ‘She was the only one I could get to talk.’
‘How long was she in there?’
‘Five and a half years. Tagged along to a meeting with a male schoolfriend. The friend left after the first week and she stayed. She’s a lesbian,’ said Robertson, ‘and Daddy didn’t like her liking women. The UHC was selling itself as being all about inclusivity, so you can see how she fell for it. She’s from a very wealthy family. The church milked her of most of her inheritance before they spat her out again.’
‘And she told you she’d been beaten?’
‘Beaten, starved, made to go with men, yeah – but I couldn’t get any of it corroborated, which is why every other word is “alleged”.’ Robertson took another sip of beer, then said, ‘I couldn’t use a lot of what she told me, because I knew the paper would have a massive lawsuit on its hands. ’Course, that nearly happened anyway. Should’ve slung the whole lot in, it would’ve come to the same.’
‘She claimed funds were being misappropriated?’
‘Yeah, mainly cash. She told me that if they were collecting on the street, they had to make a certain amount before they were allowed to stop. Bear in mind they’ve got people out doing that in London, Birmingham, Glasgow, Munich, San Francisco – did you know they’re in Germany and the States, as well?’
‘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.’