‘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.’