Career of Evil

“How’s Platinum? Raven checked in?”

As Raven had just called, Robin was able to inform Strike that there was, as ever, no news. Platinum was popular with punters and had so far that day given three lap dances that had proceeded, judged by the rules of the establishment, in total propriety.

“Read the stories?” he asked, pointing at an abandoned Mirror on a nearby table.

“Only online,” said Robin.

“Hopefully it’ll bring in some information,” said Strike. “Someone must’ve noticed they’re missing a leg.”

“Ha ha,” said Robin.

“Too soon?”

“Yes,” said Robin coldly.

“I did some digging online last night,” said Strike. “Brockbank might’ve been in Manchester in 2006.”

“How d’you know it was the right man?”

“I don’t, but the guy was around the right age, right middle initial—”

“You remember his middle initial?”

“Yeah,” said Strike. “It doesn’t look like he’s there anymore, though. Same story with Laing. I’m pretty sure he was at an address in Corby in 2008, but he’s moved on. How long,” Strike added, staring across the street, “has that bloke in the camouflage jacket and shades been in that restaurant?”

“About half an hour.”

As far as Strike could tell, the man in sunglasses was watching him back, staring out across the street through two windows. Broad-shouldered and long-legged, he looked too large for the silver chair. With the sliding reflections of traffic and passersby refracting off the window Strike found it difficult to be sure, but he appeared to be sporting heavy stubble.

“What’s it like in there?” Robin asked, pointing towards the double doors of Spearmint Rhino under their heavy metallic awning.

“In the strip club?” asked Strike, taken aback.

“No, in the Japanese restaurant,” said Robin sarcastically. “Of course in the strip club.”

“It’s all right,” he said, not entirely sure what he was being asked.

“What does it look like?”

“Gold. Mirrors. Dim lighting.” When she looked at him expectantly, he said, “There’s a pole in the middle, where they dance.”

“Not lap dances?”

“There are private booths for them.”

“What do the girls wear?”

“I du

His mobile rang: Elin.

Robin turned her face away, toying with what looked like a pair of reading glasses on the table in front of her, but which actually contained the small camera with which she photographed Platinum’s movements. She had found this gadget exciting when Strike first handed it to her, but the thrill had long since worn off. She drank her tomato juice and stared out of the window, trying not to listen to what Strike and Elin were saying to each other. He always sounded matter-of-fact when on the phone to his girlfriend, but then, it was difficult to imagine Strike murmuring endearments to anyone. Matthew called her both “Robsy” and “Rosy-Posy” when he was in the right mood, which was not often these days.

“… at Nick and Ilsa’s,” Strike was saying. “Yeah. No, I agree… yeah… all right… you too.”

He cut the call.

“Is that where you’re going to stay?” Robin asked. “With Nick and Ilsa?”

They were two of Strike’s oldest friends. She had met and liked both of them on a couple of visits to the office.

“Yeah, they say I can stay as long as I want.”

“Why not with Elin?” asked Robin, risking rebuff, because she was perfectly aware of the line Strike preferred to maintain between his personal and professional lives.

“Wouldn’t work,” he said. He didn’t seem a

It was a rape alarm.

“I’ve already got one,” said Robin, pulling it out of her coat pocket and showing him.

“Yeah, but this one’s better,” said Strike, showing her its features. “You want an alarm of at least 120 decibels and it sprays them with indelible red stuff.”

“Mine does 140 decibels.”

“I still think this one’s better.”

“Is this the usual bloke thing of thinking any gadget you’ve chosen must be superior to anything I’ve got?”

He laughed and drained his pint.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m meeting Shanker.”

The name was unfamiliar to her.

“The bloke who sometimes gives me tip-offs I can barter with the Met,” Strike explained. “The bloke who told me who’d stabbed that police informer, remember? Who recommended me as a heavy to that gangster?”

“Oh,” said Robin. “Him. You’ve never told me what he was called.”

“Shanker’s my best chance for finding out where Whittaker is,” said Strike. “He might have some information on Digger Malley as well. He runs with some of the same crowd.”

He squinted across the road.

“Keep an eye out for that camouflage jacket.”

“You’re jumpy.”

“Bloody right I’m jumpy, Robin,” he said, drawing out a pack of cigarettes ready for the short walk to the Tube. “Someone sent us an effing leg.”

9 One Step Ahead of the Devil

Seeing Strike in the mutilated flesh, walking along the opposite pavement towards the Court, had been an unexpected bonus.

What a fat fucker he’d become since they had last seen each other, ambling up the road carrying his backpack like the dumb squaddie he had once been, without realizing that the man who had sent him a leg was sitting barely fifty yards away. So much for the great detective! Into the pub he’d gone to join little Secretary. He was almost certainly fucking her. He hoped so, anyway. That would make what he was going to do to her even more satisfying.

Then, as he had stared through his sunglasses at the figure of Strike sitting just inside the pub window, he thought that Strike turned and looked back. Of course, he couldn’t make out features from across the road, through two panes of glass and his own tinted lenses, but something in the distant figure’s attitude, the full disc of its face turned in his direction, had brought him to a high pitch of tension. They had looked at each other across the road and the traffic growled past in either direction, intermittently blocking them from view.

He had waited until three double-deckers had come crawling end to end into the space between them, then slid out of his chair, through the glass doors of the restaurant and up the side street. Adrenaline coursed through him as he stripped off his camouflage jacket and turned it inside out. There could be no question of bi

10

With no love, from the past.

Blue Öyster Cult, “Shadow of California”

The unbroken stream of traffic obliged Strike to stand and wait before crossing Tottenham Court Road, his eyes sweeping the opposite pavement. When he reached the other side of the street he peered through the window of the Japanese restaurant, but there was no camouflage jacket to be seen, nor did any of the men in shirts or T-shirts resemble the sunglasses-wearer in size or shape.

Strike felt his mobile vibrate and pulled it out of his jacket pocket. Robin had texted him:

Get a grip.

Gri

Perhaps he was just jumpy, as Robin had said. What were the odds that the nutter who had sent the leg would be sitting watching Robin in broad daylight? Yet he had not liked the fixed stare of the big man in the camouflage jacket, nor the fact that he had been wearing sunglasses: the day was not that bright. Had his disappearance while Strike’s view was occluded been coincidental or deliberate?