The Running Grave, page 84
About a fifth of the crowd were already wearing UHC tracksuits of royal blue. These church members were wholesome-looking people in the main, though noticeably thinner than those who wore civilian clothes. They wore no jewellery, didn’t dye their hair and had no visible tattoos, nor were there any family groups among the tracksuit-wearers. If they were grouped at all, it was by age, and as he drew nearer to the entrance, he found himself following in the wake of a bunch of twenty-somethings talking excitedly in German, a language of which Strike knew just enough (having been stationed in Germany during his military career) to understand that one of their number had never yet heard Papa J speak in person.
Around twenty young men in UHC tracksuits, all of whom appeared to have been selected for size, strength or both, were standing just outside the doors, their eyes swivelling constantly as they scanned the crowd. Remembering that Patterson’s operative had been turned away from the Rupert Court Temple on sight, Strike assumed they were looking out for known troublemakers. He therefore made sure to stand up a little straighter, separating himself as far as was possible from the German group, and deliberately caught the crooked eye of a short, heavy-set man with fuzzy hair, who recalled Robin’s description of Jiang Wace. Borne on by the crowd, he didn’t have time to see any reaction.
The venue’s security men were searching bags just inside the doors. Strike was funnelled towards the pre-bought ticket queue rather than the row of pretty young UHC women selling tickets to the less organised. He made sure to smile broadly at the young woman who checked his own ticket. She had short, spiky black hair, and he didn’t think he imagined the sudden widening of her eyes.
As he walked onwards, Strike heard the strains of a rock song he didn’t recognise, which grew steadily louder as he approached the Great Hall.
… another dissident,
Take back your evidence…
As he’d needed only one seat, Strike had managed to buy one in the second row of what was a rapidly filling hall. Edging with apologies past a line of young people in tracksuits, he finally reached the seat and sat down between a young blonde in a blue tracksuit, and an elderly woman chewing stoically on a toffee.
Seconds after he’d sat down, the girl on his right, who he guessed to be twenty at most, said, revealing herself to be American,
‘Hi, I’m Sanchia.’
‘Cormoran Strike.’
‘First time at a service?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Wow. You’ve chosen a really auspicious day to come. You wait.’
‘Sounds promising,’ said Strike.
‘What made you interested in the UHC, Cormoran?’
‘I’m a private detective,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve been hired to look into the church, particularly with regard to sexual abuse and suspicious deaths.’
It was as though he’d spat in her face. Mouth open, she stared at him unblinkingly for a few seconds, then looked quickly away.
The rock song was still playing loudly over speakers.
… sometimes it’s hard to breathe, Lord
at the bottom of the sea, yeah yeah…
In the centre of the floor, beneath a high curved ceiling of white-painted iron and glass, was a shining, black pentagonal stage. Above this were five enormous screens that would doubtless enable even those in the furthest seats to see Jonathan Wace close up. Higher still were five bright blue banners bearing the UHC’s heart-shaped logo.
After a bit of whispering to her companions, Sanchia vacated her seat.
The excitement in the hall mounted as it filled. Strike estimated that there were at least five thousand people here. A different song now began to play: REM’s ‘It’s The End of the World as We Know It’. With five minutes to go until the official start of the service, and almost every seat filled, the lights began to dim, and a premature wave of applause broke out, along with several screams of excitement. These re-erupted when the screens over the pentagonal stage came to life, so that everybody in the hall could watch a short procession of robed people walking in spotlights down an aisle, towards the front seats on the opposite side of the hall. Strike recognised Giles Harmon, who was comporting himself with the dignity and gravity appropriate to a man about to receive an honorary degree; Noli Seymour, whose robes had a discreet amount of glitter and looked as though they’d been tailored for her; the tall, handsome and scarred Dr Andy Zhou; a glossy-haired, wholesome-looking young woman with perfect teeth Strike recognised from the church website as Becca Pirbright, and several others, among them a frog-eyed MP whose name Strike wouldn’t have known, had Robin not put it in a letter from Chapman Farm, and a packaging multimillionaire, who was waving at the cheering crowds in a manner Strike would have categorised as gormless. These, he knew, were the church Principals, and he took a photograph on his phone, noting the absence of Mazu Wace, and also of the overweight, rat-faced Taio, who he’d smashed over the head with the wire-cutters at the perimeter of Chapman Farm.
Right behind Dr Zhou, and captured in the edge of the spotlight onscreen as the doctor sat down, was a middle-aged blonde whose hair was tied back in a velvet bow. As Strike was staring at this woman, the screen changed to black, projecting a written request to turn off all mobile phones. As Strike obeyed, his American neighbour came back down the row, retook her seat and bent away from him to whisper to some of her companions.
The lights dimmed still further, heightening the crowd’s anticipation. Now they began to clap rhythmically. Calls of ‘Papa J!’ filled the air and at last, as the opening bars of ‘Heroes’ began to play, the hall went black, and with screams echoing off the high metal ceiling, five thousand people (with the exception of Cormoran Strike) scrambled to their feet, whistling and applauding.
Jonathan Wace appeared in a spotlight, already standing on the stage. Wace, whose face now filled the screens, waved to every corner of the stadium, pausing every now and then to wipe his eyes; he shook his head while pressing his hand to his heart; he bowed and bowed again, his hands pressed together, namaste-style. Nothing was overdone: the humility and self-deprecation seemed entirely authentic, and Strike, who as far as he could see was the only person in the hall not clapping, found himself impressed by the man’s acting abilities. Handsome and fit, with his thick, dark, barely silvered hair and square jaw, had he been wearing a tuxedo rather than long, royal blue robes, he’d have fitted in on any red carpet in the world.
The ovation lasted five minutes and died away only after Wace had made a calming, dampening gesture with his hands. Even then, when a near silence had fallen, a woman screamed,
‘I love you, Papa J!’
‘And I love you!’ said a smiling Wace, at which there was a further eruption of screams and applause.
At last, the crowd retook their seats, and Wace, who was wearing a headset microphone, began to walk slowly clockwise around the pentagonal stage, looking out into the crowd.
‘Thank you… thank you for that welcome,’ he said. ‘You know… before every super service, I ask myself… am I a worthy vehicle? No!’ he said seriously, because there were further screams of adoration. ‘I ask, because it’s no light matter, to put yourself forward as the Blessed Divinity’s vessel! Many men before me have proclaimed to the world that they’re conduits of light and love, have perhaps even believed it, but have been wrong…
‘How arrogant of any human to call themselves a holy man! Don’t you think so?’ He looked around, smiling, as a hail of ‘no’s rained down upon him.
‘You ARE a holy man!’ bellowed a man somewhere up in the higher seats, and the crowd laughed, as did Wace.
‘Thank you, my friend!’ he called back. ‘But this is the question that confronts every honest man when he ascends a stage like this. It’s a question certain members of the press –’ a storm of boos broke out ‘– ask of me often. No!’ he said, smiling and shaking his head, ‘don’t boo! They’re right to ask the question! In a world full of charlatans and conmen – although some of us might wish they’d focus a little more on our politicians and our captains of capitalism –’ a deafening round of applause ‘– it is perfectly fair to ask by what right I stand before you, saying that I have seen Divine Truth, and that I seek nothing more than to share it with all who are receptive.
‘So all I ask of you this evening – to those who’ve already joined the Universal Humanitarian Church, and to those who haven’t, to the sceptics and the non-believers – yes, perhaps especially to them,’ he said with a little laugh, which the crowd obligingly echoed ‘is to make one simple statement, if you feel you can. It commits you to nothing. It requires nothing but an open mind.
‘Do you think it possible that I’ve seen God, that I know God as well as I know my closest companions, and that I have proof of everlasting life? Is that possible? I ask no more than this – no belief, no blind acceptance. If you think you can say it, then I ask you to say the following to me now…’
The screens changed to black, with four words written on them in white.
‘Together!’ said Jonathan Wace, and the crowd roared the four words back at him:
‘I admit the possibility!’
Cormoran Strike, who was sitting with his arms folded and a look of profound boredom on his face, admitted nothing whatsoever.
111
… the second place may be that of the woman, active within the house, while the fifth place is that of the husband, active in the world without.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Robin was in the Denmark Street office. Pat had already left, and Robin had half a mind to stay until Strike returned from Wace’s meeting, because Murphy was working tonight.
Her anxiety made it hard to concentrate on anything. Wace’s meeting would be well underway by now. Robin was worried about Strike, picturing things she knew to be unlikely if not irrational: Strike being met by police, who’d been informed of some false charge against him, concocted by the church; Strike being dragged onto a UHC minibus, just as he’d suggested she might be kidnapped off the street, a few days ago.
You’re being completely ridiculous, she told herself, yet her nerves remained.
Even though there were two top-grade, skeleton-key-proof locks between her and the street, she felt far more frightened than at any time since she’d left Chapman Farm. Right now, she understood how those who’d been truly indoctrinated remained consumed by dread of the Drowned Prophet even after they’d recognised that the church’s other beliefs were fallacies. A nonsensical notion had her in its grip: that, merely by inserting himself boldly into the same physical space as Jonathan Wace, Strike would reap some kind of supernatural penalty. Intellectually, she knew Wace to be a crook and a conman, but her fear of his influence couldn’t be dismantled by her intellect alone.
Moreover, in her solitude, it was impossible to stop those memories she kept trying to suppress intruding into her thoughts. She seemed to feel Jonathan Wace’s hand between her legs again. She saw Will Edensor, penis in hand, advancing on her, and felt the punch. She remembered – and it was almost as shameful a recollection as the others – kneeling to kiss Mazu’s foot. Then she remembered Jacob, wasting away, untreated, in that filthy attic room, and that the police remained entirely silent about whether she was going to be charged for child sex abuse. Stop thinking about it all, she told herself firmly, heading for the kettle.
Having made herself what was probably her eighth or ninth coffee of the day, Robin took the mug through to the inner office, to stand in front of the noticeboard. Determined to do something productive rather than brood, she scrutinised the six Polaroids of naked teenagers she’d found in the biscuit tin at Chapman Farm far more closely than she’d done before. This was far easier to do without Strike present.
The dark, naked, chubby girl – Rosalind Fernsby, assuming their identification was correct – was the only person in the pictures who featured alone. Had it been the only photo, Robin might almost have believed Rosie had posed willingly, except for the deliberate degradation of the pig mask. Robin, of course, had a particular aversion to animal masks. Her rapist had worn a latex gorilla’s face to commit his serial crimes.
The next photo showed Carrie being penetrated from behind by Paul Draper, recognisable by his wispy hair.
In the third picture, Draper was being sodomised by Joe Jackson, assuming this identification, too, was correct. Jackson was dragging Draper’s head back by his hair, and the sinews were rigid in Draper’s neck, and Robin could almost see the grimace of pain on the moon face of the teenager pictured, looking timid, in the old newspaper article, at the top right of the board. The camera flash had illuminated the edge of something that looked like a vehicle in this picture. The UHC’s lawyers, of course, would probably argue that many vehicles were stored in many barns up and down the country.
The fourth Polaroid showed the dark girl being penetrated by Skull Tattoo from the front, her legs splayed, and now Robin noticed a deep graze on her left knee that hadn’t been there in the first picture. Either these Polaroids came from more than one photographic session, or she’d sustained the injury during it.
In the fifth picture, blonde Carrie had pushed up her mask far enough to give Draper oral sex while Skull Tattoo entered her from behind. The flash had illuminated the edge of something that looked like a wine bottle. Having read Strike’s notes on his interview with Henry Worthington-Fields, Robin knew Joe Jackson had later recruited Henry in a bar, in spite of the church’s prohibition on alcohol.
In the sixth and last picture, the dark girl was giving Skull Tattoo oral sex, and Draper was penetrating her vaginally. Now Robin noticed something she hadn’t seen before. What she’d thought was a shadow wasn’t: Skull Tattoo appeared to be wearing a black condom.
Self-disgust seized Robin, and she turned away from the pictures. They weren’t, after all, mere puzzle pieces. Joe Jackson, towards whom she could muster no pity, might now be flourishing in the church, but Carrie and Paul were both dead in dreadful circumstances and Rosie, though she almost certainly didn’t know it yet, was being hunted, all because she’d once been naive enough to trust whoever had lured her into the barn.
Robin sat back down in Strike’s chair, picturing the teenage Rosie creeping out of the farm with her father and brother, mere hours before the vegetable truck left Chapman Farm with Daiyu on board…
An idea came to Robin so suddenly she sat up straight in her chair as though called to attention. There should have been a second person in the children’s dormitory that night… could it have been Rosie? Had the girl performed the old trick of hiding pillows under her blankets, to convince Carrie she was present, before sneaking out of the farm forever? That would explain why Emily hadn’t seen a second supervisor, and it might also explain why Carrie had been curiously averse, before she saw the Polaroids and knew there was no hiding what had happened in the barn, to identifying the other person who ought to have been on duty, because if found, she might talk, not only about child duty, but pig masks and sodomy.
Robin returned to the outer office, unlocked the filing cabinet and took out the UHC case file. Back at the partners’ desk, she ran her eye back over the notes she’d made during her interview with Rufus, then checked the printouts of the housing records for the Fernsby family again. Walter no longer owned property. Rosie’s mother lived in Richmond, whereas Rufus and his wife lived in Enfield.
In spite of diligently searching all available records, Robin had found no evidence that Rosie had ever owned property in the UK under either of her known names. She’d never married and had no children. She was now nearing forty. Converted to Hinduism. Possibly in India. Silly crazes. Bikram yoga. Incense.
A vague picture was forming in Robin’s mind of a woman who saw herself as a free spirit, but who might, perhaps, have suffered emotional or financial reverses (would many solvent thirty-year-olds voluntarily go and live with their father, as Rosie had done before her name change, unless they had no alternative?). Perhaps Rosie was in India, as her brother had suggested? Or was Rosie one of those chaotic people who left little trace of themselves in records, flitting, perhaps, between sub-lets and squats, rather as Leda Strike had done?
The ringing of her mobile made Robin jump.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi,’ said Prudence’s voice. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘You?’
‘Not bad… so, um… I had a session with Flora this afternoon.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin, bracing herself.
‘I’ve told her – I had to – who the person was, who’d contacted her about her Pinterest pictures. I apologised, I said it was my fault Corm worked it out, even though I didn’t name her.’
‘Right,’ said Robin.
‘Anyway… we talked about your investigation, and I told her somebody else has managed to get out of Chapman Farm, and that you helped them do it, and… long story short… she’d like to meet that person.’
‘Really?’ said Robin, who realised she’d been holding her breath.
‘She’s not committing to anything beyond that, at the moment, OK? But if you and Cormoran are agreeable, she says she’s prepared to meet your ex-UHC person, with me present – and for the other individual to have someone there for support, too.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Robin. ‘That’s wonderful, Prudence, thank you. We’ll talk to our client’s son, and see whether he’d like to meet Flora. I’m sure he’d find it helpful.’
After Prudence had rung off, Robin checked the rota, then texted Pat.
