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‘Come in, come in! It’s so nice to meet you,’ said Prudence, beaming as she shook Robin’s hand.
‘You, too. My hair isn’t usually like this,’ Robin said, and then wished she hadn’t. She’d just caught sight of her reflection in Prudence’s hall mirror. ‘It’s all part of my cover.’
‘Well, it looks great,’ said Prudence, before turning to Strike and hugging him.
‘Blimey, bruv, well done. There’s less of you every time I see you.’
‘If I’d known it would make everyone this happy, I’d’ve got the other leg amputated.’
‘Very funny. Come on through to the sitting room. I’ve just opened some wine.’
She led the two detectives into a large room of exquisite taste. Beautifully proportioned, with large black and white photographs on the walls, stacked bookcases and a low, dark leather sofa on a tubular metal frame, it managed to be simultaneously stylish and welcoming.
‘So,’ said Prudence, gesturing Strike and Robin to the sofa and settling into a large cream armchair before pouring two extra glasses of wine, ‘clothes. Do I get to ask what they’re for?’
‘Robin needs to look like a rich girl who’s at enough of a loose end to joint a cult.’
‘A cult?’
‘Well, that’s what some people would say it is,’ temporised Robin. ‘They’ve got a kind of compound in the countryside, and I’m hoping to be recruited so I can get in there.’
To both detectives’ surprise, Prudence’s smile disappeared and was replaced with a look of concern.
‘This wouldn’t be the UHC, would it?’
Startled, Robin glanced at Strike.
‘That’s a very swift bit of deduction,’ he said. ‘Why d’you think it would be them?’
‘Because it started in Norfolk.’
‘You’ve got a client who was in there,’ said Strike, on a sudden hunch.
‘I don’t bandy around clients’ identifying details, Cormoran,’ said Prudence, her voice mock-stern as she pushed his glass towards him across the coffee table.
‘Pity,’ said Strike lightly. ‘We need to find ex-members.’
Prudence looked intently at him for a moment or two, then said,
‘Well, as I’ve got a duty of confidentiality, I can’t—’
‘I was being glib,’ Strike reassured her. ‘I’m not after a name and address.’
Prudence took a sip of wine, her expression grave. Finally, she said,
‘I don’t think you’ll find it very easy, getting ex-members to talk. There’s a lot of shame attached to having been coerced in that way, and often significant trauma.’
Seeing them face to face, Robin spotted her partner’s resemblance to Jonny Rokeby for the first time. He and his half-sister shared the same defined jaw, the same spacing of the eyes. She wondered – she who had three brothers, all of the same parentage – what it felt like, to make a first acquaintance with a blood relative in your forties. But there was something more there than a faint physical resemblance between brother and sister: they appeared, already, to have established an unspoken understanding.
‘All right,’ said Prudence, under Strike’s semi-jocular questioning, ‘I do treat an ex-UHC member. As a matter of fact, when they first disclosed what had happened to them, I didn’t think I was the right person to help them. It’s specialised work, deprogramming people. Some over-indulge in things they were deprived of inside – food and alcohol, for instance. Some indulge in risky behaviours, as a reaction to being so controlled and monitored. Readjusting to a life of freedom isn’t easy, and being asked to disinter things they suffered, or were forced to do, can be immensely distressing.
‘Luckily, I knew of an American therapist who’s worked with a lot of cult survivors, so I got in touch with him. He did a few virtual sessions with the client, which helped hugely, and I’ve now taken over, with some continued assistance from the American. That’s how I know about the UHC.’
‘How did the client get out?’ asked Strike.
‘Why? Is that what you’ve been hired to do, get someone out?’
Strike nodded.
