Strike had known before arriving at Olympia late on Friday afternoon that the Universal Humanitarian Church had spread internationally and that the church had tens of thousands of members. He was also well aware, having watched a couple of YouTube videos of Jonathan Wace preaching, that the man was possessed of undeniable charisma. Nevertheless, he found himself taken aback by the sheer numbers of people heading for the Victorian façade of the enormous events centre. All ages were represented in the crowd, including families with children.
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.
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.
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.
