Page 331 of The Running Grave

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.

… 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.