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‘They gave you a hard time, I gather?’
‘Nearly lost my job over that piece,’ said Robertson. ‘Lawyers up my arse, paper shitting itself, my ex-wife getting anonymous calls to the house—’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yeah. And you should’ve seen what the fuckers did to my Wikipedia page.’
‘Got a Wikipedia page, have you?’ said Strike, surprised.
‘I didn’t have before I tangled with them, but after my piece went out, the UHC made one for me. “Disgraced journalist Fergus Robertson.” “Notorious alcoholic Fergus Robertson.” “Domestic abuser F—” I never laid a finger on my ex,’ added Robertson, a little defensively. ‘So, yeah: if you get anything provable, I’ll fucking print it and they’ll rue the fucking day they went after me.’
Strike took out his notebook and pen.
‘What made you look into them in the first place?’
‘I started digging into the fat cats and the celebs who’ve joined.’
‘What’s in it for them?’
‘For the fat cats, they get to rub shoulders with the celebs. For the latter, the UHC lines up photo ops: no work needed, just turn up an’ get your picture taken with young carers or the homeless. People like Noli Seymour like to look spiritual, you know. Then you’ve got Dr Zhou.’
‘I hadn’t heard of him until I read your article.’
‘Take it you don’t watch breakfast TV?’
Strike shook his head.
‘He’s got a regular slot on one of the shows. Looks like Bruce Lee, if he’d been in a car accident. He’s got a clinic in Belgravia where he sees people with more money than sense. All kinds of bullshit. Cupping. Hypnosis. Past life regression.’
‘You said in the piece he was recruiting for the UHC from his clinic.’
‘I think he’s one of the main points of entry for the big donors. That was one of the things the UHC lawyers made me retract.’
‘The ex-member you talked to for the article—’
‘Poor little cow,’ sighed Robertson, not unkindly. ‘She was the only one I could get to talk.’
‘How long was she in there?’
‘Five and a half years. Tagged along to a meeting with a male schoolfriend. The friend left after the first week and she stayed. She’s a lesbian,’ said Robertson, ‘and Daddy didn’t like her liking women. The UHC was selling itself as being all about inclusivity, so you can see how she fell for it. She’s from a very wealthy family. The church milked her of most of her inheritance before they spat her out again.’
‘And she told you she’d been beaten?’
‘Beaten, starved, made to go with men, yeah – but I couldn’t get any of it corroborated, which is why every other word is “alleged”.’ Robertson took another sip of beer, then said, ‘I couldn’t use a lot of what she told me, because I knew the paper would have a massive lawsuit on its hands. ’Course, that nearly happened anyway. Should’ve slung the whole lot in, it would’ve come to the same.’
‘She claimed funds were being misappropriated?’
‘Yeah, mainly cash. She told me that if they were collecting on the street, they had to make a certain amount before they were allowed to stop. Bear in mind they’ve got people out doing that in London, Birmingham, Glasgow, Munich, San Francisco – did you know they’re in Germany and the States, as well?’
‘Yeah, I saw that on their website.’
‘Yeah, so, she said the kids collecting have got to get a hundred quid before they’re allowed to sit down or eat. She told me nobody knew where it all ended up, but old Papa J does himself very well. He’s rumoured to have a property in Antigua, where the Principals go for spiritual retreats. No bloody Chapman Farm for them.’
‘So you held some stuff back because it was too hot to print, did you?’
‘Had to. I wanted to protect the source. I knew people would think she was a loon if I used everything she was claiming.’
‘Would this have been supernatural stuff?’
