Career of Evil

Then he spoke in a voice more menacing than Robin had ever heard, the more so because he half crooned the words, so close to the receiver that he seemed to be breathing into her ear.

“Do A know you, little girl?”

Robin tried to speak, but no sound came out. The line went dead.

33

Then the door was open and the wind appeared…

Blue Öyster Cult, “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper”

“I messed up with Brockbank,” said Robin. “I’m really sorry—but I don’t know how I messed up! Plus I didn’t dare take pictures of Mad Dad, because I was too close.”

It was nine o’clock on Friday morning and Strike had arrived, not from the upstairs flat but from the street, fully dressed and carrying his backpack again. Robin had heard him humming as he came up the stairs. He had stayed overnight at Elin’s. Robin had called him the previous evening to tell him about the Brockbank call, but Strike had not been at liberty to talk for long and had promised that they would do so today.

“Never mind Mad Dad. We’ll get him another day,” said Strike, busy at the kettle. “And you did great with Brockbank. We know he’s in Shoreditch, we know I’m on his mind and we know he was suspicious that you might be police. So is that because he’s been fiddling with kids up and down the country, or because he’s recently hacked a teenager to death?”

Ever since Brockbank had spoken his last six words into her ear, Robin had felt slightly shaken. She and Matthew had barely talked to each other the previous evening and, having no outlet for a sudden feeling of vulnerability that she did not entirely understand, she had placed all her reliance on seeing Strike face to face and getting to discuss the meaning of those six ominous words: Do A know you, little girl? Today, she would have welcomed the serious, cautious Strike who had taken the sending of the leg as a threat and warned her about staying out after dark. The man now cheerfully making himself coffee and talking about child abuse and murder in a matter-of-fact tone was bringing her no comfort. He could have no idea what Brockbank had sounded like, crooning inside her ear.

“We know something else about Brockbank,” she said in a tight voice. “He’s living with a little girl.”

“He might not be living with her. We don’t know where he left the phone.”

“All right, then,” said Robin, feeling even more tightly wound. “If you want to be pedantic: we know he’s in close contact with a little girl.”

She turned away on the pretext of dealing with the mail she had scooped from the doormat on her arrival. The fact that he had arrived humming had irked her. Presumably his night with Elin had been a welcome distraction, providing recreation and recuperation. Robin would have loved a respite from her hypervigilant days and evenings of frigid silence. The knowledge that she was being unreasonable did nothing to diminish her resentment. She scooped the dying roses in their dry plastic bag off the desk and pushed them headfirst into the bin.

“There’s nothing we can do about that kid,” said Strike.

A most enjoyable stab of anger shot through Robin.

“I won’t worry about her, then,” she snapped.

Trying to extract a bill from an envelope, she accidentally ripped the whole thing in two.

“You think she’s the only child at risk from an abuser? There’ll be hundreds of them, right now, just in London.”

Robin, who had half expected him to soften now that she had revealed how angry she was, looked round. He was watching her, eyes slightly narrowed, with no air of sympathy.

“Keep worrying all you want, but it’s wasted energy. There’s nothing you or I can do about that kid. Brockbank’s not on any registers. He hasn’t got any convictions. We don’t even know where she is or what she’s—”

“Her name’s Zahara,” said Robin.

To her horror, her voice turned to a strangled squeal, her face flooded with color and tears started in her eyes. She turned away again, although not fast enough.

“Hey,” said Strike kindly, but Robin made a wild flapping gesture with her hand to stop him talking. She refused to break down; all that was holding her together was her ability to keep moving forwards, to keep doing the job.

“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth. “I am. Forget it.”

She could not now confess how menacing she had found Brockbank’s sign-off. “Little girl,” he had called her. She was not a little girl. She was not broken or childlike—not anymore—but Zahara, whoever she was…

She heard Strike leave for the landing, and a moment later a large wad of toilet paper appeared in her swimming sights.

“Thank you,” she said thickly, taking it from Strike’s hand and blowing her nose.

Several silent minutes passed while Robin periodically dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose, avoiding looking at Strike, who was perversely remaining in her part of the office rather than heading for his own.

“What?” Robin said at last, anger rising again at the fact that he was simply standing there watching her.

He gri

“Are you going to stand there all morning?” she asked, trying to sound cross.

“No,” said Strike, still gri

He ferreted in his backpack and pulled out a glossy property brochure.

“Elin’s,” he said. “She went to see it yesterday. She’s thinking of buying a flat there.”

All desire to laugh fled. How exactly did Strike think that it would cheer Robin up, to know that his girlfriend was thinking of buying a ludicrously expensive flat? Or was he about to a

Strike laid the brochure on the desk in front of her. The cover showed a tall modern tower topped by a strange shield-like face in which wind turbines were set like three eyes. The legend read: “Strata SE1, London’s most desirable residential property.”

“See?” said Strike.

His triumphant air was aggravating Robin beyond measure, not least because it seemed so unlike him to gloat about the prospect of borrowed luxury, but before she could respond there was a knock on the glass door behind him.

“Bloody hell,” said Strike in frank astonishment as he opened the door to Shanker, who walked in, clicking his fingers and bringing with him the usual fug of cigarette smoke, ca

“I was in the area,” said Shanker, unconsciously echoing Eric Wardle. “I’ve found him for you, Bunsen.”

Shanker dropped down onto the mock-leather sofa, legs spread out in front of him, and took out a packet of Mayfairs.

“You’ve found Whittaker?” asked Strike, whose dominant emotion was astonishment that Shanker was awake so early in the morning.

“’Oo else did you ask me to find?” said Shanker, inhaling deeply on his cigarette and clearly enjoying the effect he was creating. “Catford Broadway. Flat over a chip shop. The brass lives with ’im.”

Strike held out his hand and shook Shanker’s. Notwithstanding his gold tooth and the scar that twisted his upper lip, their visitor’s grin was strangely boyish.

“Want a coffee?” Strike asked him.

“Yeah, go on then,” said Shanker, who seemed disposed to bask in his triumph. “All right?” he added cheerfully to Robin.

“Yes, thanks,” she said with a tight smile, returning to the unopened mail.

“Talk about on a roll,” Strike said quietly to Robin while the kettle boiled loudly and an oblivious Shanker smoked and checked texts on his phone. “That’s all three of them in London. Whittaker in Catford, Brockbank in Shoreditch and now we know Laing’s in Elephant and Castle—or he was three months ago.”