Career of Evil

Strike had not come up through the Special Investigation Branch of the Royal Military Police without learning to manage the emotional consequences of an investigation. The previous evening had been full of self-directed anger, but even as he castigated himself for not seeing what was right in front of him he had acknowledged the killer’s brazen brilliance. There had been artistry in the way that he had used Strike’s background against him, forcing Strike to second guess and question himself, undermining his trust in his own judgment.

The fact that the killer was indeed one of the men whom he had suspected from the first was cold comfort. Strike could not remember ever being in such agony of mind over an investigation as he was now. Alone in his deserted office, convinced that the conclusion he had reached had neither been given credence by the officer in whom he had confided it, nor passed on to Carver, Strike felt, however unreasonably, that if another killing occurred it would indeed be his fault.

Yet if he went near the investigation again—if he started staking out or tailing his man—Carver would almost certainly see him in court for interfering with the course of a police investigation or obstructing the police in their inquiries. He would have felt the same way himself, had he been in Carver’s shoes—except, thought Strike with a rush of pleasurable anger, that he would have listened to anyone, however infuriating, if he thought they had a shred of credible evidence. You did not solve a case as complex as this by discriminating against witnesses on the grounds that they have previously outwitted you.

Only when his stomach rumbled did Strike remember that he was supposed to be going out for di

Alone, smoking in his office, Strike contemplated the forthcoming evening with a dispassion he was no longer able to bring to the thought of the Shacklewell Ripper. On the plus side, there would be excellent food, which was an enticing prospect given the fact that he was skint and had last night dined on baked beans on toast. He supposed that there would be sex too, in the pristine whiteness of Elin’s flat, the soon-to-be-vacated home of her disintegrating family. On the minus side—he found himself staring the bald fact in the face as he had never done before—he would have to talk to her, and talking to Elin, he had finally admitted to himself, was far from one of his favorite pastimes. He always found the conversation especially effortful when it came to his own work. Elin was interested, yet strangely unimaginative. She had none of the i

Then there were those two ominous words “my treat.” The increasing imbalance in their respective incomes was about to become painfully obvious. When Strike had met Elin, he had at least been in credit. If she thought that he was going to be able to return the treat with di

Strike had spent sixteen years with another woman who had been far richer than he was. Charlotte had alternately brandished money as a weapon and deplored Strike’s refusal to live beyond his means. Memories of Charlotte’s occasional fits of pique that he could not or would not fund treats on which she had set her capricious heart made his hackles rise when Elin spoke of having a decent di

His state of mind was not entirely propitious, therefore, when he headed off to Mayfair at eight o’clock that evening, wearing his best Italian suit, thoughts of a serial killer still chasing each other around his overtired brain.

Upper Brook Street comprised grand eighteenth-century houses and the frontage of Le Gavroche, with its wrought iron canopy and ivy-covered railings, the expensive solidity and security implied by its heavy mirrored front door, was dissonant to Strike’s uneasy frame of mind. Elin arrived shortly after he had been seated in the green and red dining room, which was artfully lit so that puddles of light fell only where needed onto snow-white tablecloths, over gilt-framed oil paintings. She looked stu

“This makes a nice change,” she said, smiling, as she sank down onto the curved, upholstered bench at their round table.

They ordered. Strike, who craved a pint of Doom Bar, drank burgundy of Elin’s choosing and wished, despite having smoked more than a pack that day, that he could have a cigarette. Meanwhile, his di

As Elin discussed the various pros and cons of a move to Camberwell, Strike drank in silence. He even begrudged the wine’s deliciousness, throwing it back like the cheapest plonk, trying to blunt the edges of his resentment with alcohol. It did not work: far from dissolving, his sense of alienation deepened. The comfortable Mayfair restaurant with its low lighting and its deep carpet felt like a stage set: illusory, ephemeral. What was he doing here, with this gorgeous but dull woman? Why was he pretending to be interested in her expensive lifestyle, when his business was in its death throes and he alone in London knew the identity of the Shacklewell Ripper?

Their food arrived and the deliciousness of his fillet of beef did something to assuage his resentment.

“So what have you been up to?” asked Elin, punctiliously polite as usual.

Strike now found himself presented with a stark choice. Telling her the truth about what he had been up to would necessitate an admission that he had not kept her abreast of any of the recent events that would have been deemed enough news for a decade in most people’s lives. He would be forced to reveal that the girl in the newspapers who had survived the Ripper’s latest attack was his own business partner. He would have to tell her that he had been warned off the case by a man whom he had previously humiliated over another high-profile murder. If he were making a clean breast of all that he had been up to, he ought also to add that he now knew exactly who the killer was. The prospect of relating all this bored and oppressed him. He had not once thought to call her while any of these events had unfolded, which was revealing enough in itself.

Playing for time while he took another sip of wine, Strike came to the decision that the affair had to end. He would make an excuse not to go back to Clarence Terrace with her tonight, which ought to give her early warning of his intentions; the sex had been the best part of the relationship all along. Then, next time they met, he’d tell her it was over. Not only did he feel it would be churlish to end things over a meal for which she was paying, there was a remote chance that she would walk out, leaving him with a bill that his credit card company would undoubtedly refuse to process.

“I haven’t been up to much, to be honest,” he lied.

“What about the Shackle—”

Strike’s mobile rang. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and saw that the number had been withheld. Some sixth sense told him to answer it.