Career of Evil

“What do you care?” retorted the officer, but to Robin’s relief he dropped what she thought of as his counselor’s ma

“He was standing outside the door when I came up the street,” Robin explained, when Wardle asked how the leg had arrived. “I thought he was a courier. He was dressed in black leather—all black except for blue stripes on the shoulders of his jacket. His helmet was plain black and the visor was down and mirrored. He must have been at least six feet tall. Four or five inches taller than me, even allowing for the helmet.”

“Build?” asked Wardle, who was scribbling in his notebook.

“Pretty big, I’d say, but he was probably padded out a bit by the jacket.”

Robin’s eyes wandered inadvertently to Strike as he reentered the room. “I mean, not—”

“Not a fat bastard like the boss?” Strike, who had overheard, suggested and Wardle, never slow to make or enjoy a dig at Strike, laughed under his breath.

“And he wore gloves,” said Robin, who had not smiled. “Black leather motorcycle gloves.”

“Of course he’d wear gloves,” said Wardle, adding a note. “I don’t suppose you noticed anything about the motorbike?”

“It was a Honda, red and black,” said Robin. “I noticed the logo, that winged symbol. I’d say 750cc. It was big.”

Wardle looked both startled and impressed.

“Robin’s a petrolhead,” said Strike. “Drives like Fernando Alonso.”

Robin wished that Strike would stop being cheery and flippant. A woman’s leg lay downstairs. Where was the rest of her? She must not cry. She wished she had had more sleep. That damn sofa… she had spent too many nights on the thing lately…

“And he made you sign for it?” asked Wardle.

“I wouldn’t say ‘made’ me,” said Robin. “He held out a clipboard and I did it automatically.”

“What was on the clipboard?”

“It looked like an invoice or…”

She closed her eyes in the effort to remember. Now she came to think of it, the form had looked amateurish, as though it had been put together on someone’s laptop, and she said as much.

“Were you expecting a package?” Wardle asked.

Robin explained about the disposable wedding cameras.

“What did he do once you’d taken it?”

“Got back on the bike and left. He drove off into Charing Cross Road.”

There was a knock on the door of the flat and Detective Sergeant Ekwensi reappeared holding the note that Strike had noticed lying beneath the leg, which was now enclosed in an evidence bag.

“Forensics are here,” she told Wardle. “This note was in the package. It would be good to know whether it means anything to Miss Ellacott.”

Wardle took the polythene-covered note and sca

“It’s gibberish,” he said, then read aloud: “‘A harvest of limbs, of arms and of legs, of necks—’”

“‘—that turn like swans,’” interrupted Strike, who was leaning against the cooker and too far away to read the note, “‘as if inclined to gasp or pray.’”

The other three stared at him.

“They’re lyrics,” said Strike. Robin did not like the expression on his face. She could tell that the words meant something to him, something bad. With what looked like an effort, he elucidated: “From the last verse of ‘Mistress of the Salmon Salt.’ By Blue Öyster Cult.”

Detective Sergeant Ekwensi raised finely penciled eyebrows.

“Who?”

“Big seventies rock band.”

“You know their stuff well, I take it?” asked Wardle.

“I know that song,” said Strike.

“Do you think you know who sent this?”

Strike hesitated. As the other three watched him, a confused series of images and memories passed rapidly through the detective’s mind. A low voice said, She wanted to die. She was the quicklime girl. The thin leg of a twelve-year-old girl, scarred with silvery crisscrossing lines. A pair of small dark eyes like a ferret’s, narrowed in loathing. The tattoo of a yellow rose.

And then—lagging behind the other memories, puffing into view, although it might have been another man’s first thought—he remembered a charge sheet that made mention of a penis cut from a corpse and mailed to a police informer.

“Do you know who sent it?” repeated Wardle.

“Maybe,” said Strike. He glanced at Robin and Detective Sergeant Ekwensi. “I’d rather talk about it alone. Have you got everything you want from Robin?”

“We’ll need your name and address and so on,” said Wardle. “Vanessa, can you take those?”

Detective Sergeant Ekwensi moved forwards with her notebook. The two men’s clanging footsteps faded from earshot. In spite of the fact that she had no desire to see the severed leg again, Robin felt aggrieved at being left behind. It had been her name on the box.

The grisly package was still lying on the desk downstairs. Two more of Wardle’s colleagues had been admitted by Detective Sergeant Ekwensi: one was taking photographs, the other talking on his mobile when their senior officer and the private detective walked past. Both looked curiously at Strike, who had achieved a measure of fame during the period in which he had managed to alienate many of Wardle’s colleagues.

Strike closed the door of his i

“All right, who d’you know who likes chopping up corpses and sending them through the post?”

“Terence Malley,” said Strike, after a momentary hesitation. “For a start.”

Wardle did not write anything, but stared at him over the top of his pen.

“Terence ‘Digger’ Malley?”

Strike nodded.

“Harringay Crime Syndicate?”

“How many Terence ‘Digger’ Malleys do you know?” asked Strike impatiently. “And how many have got a habit of sending people body parts?”

“How the hell did you get mixed up with Digger?”

“Joint ops with Vice Squad, 2008. Drug ring.”

“The bust he went down for?”

“Exactly.”

“Holy shit,” said Wardle. “Well, that’s bloody it, isn’t it? The guy’s an effing lunatic, he’s just out and he’s got easy access to half of London’s prostitutes. We’d better start dragging the Thames for the rest of her.”

“Yeah, but I gave evidence anonymously. He shouldn’t ever have known it was me.”

“They’ve got ways and means,” said Wardle. “Harringay Crime Syndicate—they’re like the fucking mafia. Did you hear how he sent Hatford Ali’s dick to Ian Bevin?”

“Yeah, I heard,” said Strike.

“So what’s the story with the song? The harvest of whatever the fuck it was?”

“Well, that’s what I’m worried about,” said Strike slowly. “It seems pretty subtle for the likes of Digger—which makes me think it might be one of the other three.”

4

Four winds at the Four Winds Bar,

Two doors locked and windows barred,

One door left to take you in,

The other one just mirrors it…

Blue Öyster Cult, “Astronomy”

“You know four men who’d send you a severed leg? Four?”

Strike could see Robin’s appalled expression reflected in the round mirror standing beside the sink, where he was shaving. The police had taken away the leg at last, Strike had declared work suspended for the day and Robin remained at the little Formica table in his kitchen-cum-sitting room, cradling a second mug of tea.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, strafing stubble from his chin, “I think it’s only three. Think I might’ve made a mistake telling Wardle about Malley.”

“Why?”

Strike told Robin the story of his brief contact with the career criminal, who owed his last prison stretch, in part, to Strike’s evidence.

“… so now Wardle’s convinced the Harringay Crime Syndicate found out who I was, but I left for Iraq shortly after testifying and I’ve never yet known an SIB officer’s cover blown because he gave evidence in court. Plus, the song lyrics don’t smell like Digger. He’s not one for fancy touches.”