‘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
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:
Cormoran Strike, who was sitting with his arms folded and a look of profound boredom on his face, admitted nothing whatsoever.
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.
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.
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.
