Career of Evil

“Yeah, and he’s a sick man. We found him through a JustGiving page. We got on to them and got his address.”

That was the difference between Strike and Wardle, of course: the latter still had badges, authority and the kind of power Strike had relinquished when he left the army.

“Have you seen him?” asked Strike.

“Sent a couple of guys round and he wasn’t in, but the neighbors confirmed it’s his flat. He rents, lives alone and he’s pretty ill, apparently. They said he’s gone home to Scotland for a bit. Friend’s funeral. Supposed to be back soon.”

“Likely bloody story,” muttered Strike into his pint. “If Laing’s got a friend left in Scotland I’ll eat this glass.”

“Have it your own way,” said Wardle, half amused, half impatient. “I thought you’d be pleased we’re chasing up your guys.”

“I am,” said Strike. “Definitely ill, is he?”

“The neighbor reckons he needs sticks. He’s been in and out of hospital a lot, apparently.”

The leather-padded screen overhead was showing last month’s Arsenal–Liverpool match with the sound turned down. Strike watched as van Persie sank the penalty that he had thought, watching back on his tiny portable at the flat, might help Arsenal to a desperately needed win. It hadn’t happened, of course. The Gu

“You seeing anyone?” asked Wardle abruptly.

“What?” said Strike, startled.

“Coco liked the look of you,” said Wardle, making sure that Strike saw him smirking as he said it, the better to impress upon Strike that he thought this ludicrous. “The wife’s friend, Coco. Red hair, remember?”

Strike remembered that Coco was a burlesque dancer.

“I said I’d ask,” said Wardle. “I’ve told her you’re a miserable bastard. She says she doesn’t mind.”

“Tell her I’m flattered,” said Strike, which was the truth, “but yeah, I’m seeing someone.”

“Not your work partner, is it?” asked Wardle.

“No,” said Strike. “She’s getting married.”

“You missed a trick there, mate,” said Wardle, yawning. “I would.”

“So, let me get this straight,” said Robin in the office next morning. “As soon as we find out that Laing actually does live in Wollaston Close, you want me to stop watching it.”

“Hear me out,” said Strike, who was making tea. “He’s away, according to the neighbors.”

“You’ve just told me you don’t think he’s really gone to Scotland!”

“The fact that the door of his flat’s been closed ever since you’ve been watching it suggests he’s gone somewhere.”

Strike dropped tea bags into two mugs.

“I don’t buy the friend’s funeral bit, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d popped back to Melrose to try and beat some cash out of his demented mother. That could easily be our Do

“One of us should be there for when he comes back—”

“One of us will be there,” said Strike soothingly, “but in the meantime, I want you to switch to—”

“Brockbank?”

“No, I’m doing Brockbank,” said Strike. “I want you to have a bash at Stephanie.”

“Who?”

“Stephanie. Whittaker’s girl.”

“Why?” asked Robin loudly, as the kettle boiled in its usual crescendo of rattling lid and rambunctious bubbles, condensation steaming up the window behind it.

“I want to see whether she can tell us what Whittaker was doing the day Kelsey was killed, and on the night that girl got her fingers hacked off in Shacklewell. The third and the twenty-ninth of April, to be precise.”

Strike poured water on the tea bags and stirred in milk, the teaspoon pinging off the sides of the mug. Robin was not sure whether she was pleased or aggrieved by the suggested change to her routine. On balance, she thought she was glad, but her recent suspicions that Strike was trying to sideline her were not easily dispelled.

“You definitely still think Whittaker could be the killer?”

“Yep,” said Strike.

“But you haven’t got any—”

“I haven’t got any evidence for any of them, have I?” said Strike. “I’m just going to keep going until I either get some or clear all of them.”

He handed her a mug of tea and sank down on the mock-leather sofa, which for once did not fart beneath him. A minor triumph, but in the absence of others, better than nothing.

“I hoped I’d be able to rule out Whittaker on how he’s looking these days,” said Strike, “but, you know, it could’ve been him in that beanie hat. I know one thing: he’s exactly the same bastard he was when I knew him. I’ve blown it completely with Stephanie, she’s not going to talk to me now, but you might be able to do something with her. If she can give him an alibi for those dates, or point us towards someone else who can, we’ll have to rethink. If not, he stays on the list.”

“And what are you going to be doing while I’m on Stephanie?”

“Sticking with Brockbank. I’ve decided,” said Strike, stretching out his legs and taking a fortifying drink of tea, “I’m going into the strip club today, find out what’s happened to him. I’m tired of eating kebabs and hanging round clothes shops waiting for him to show up.”

Robin did not say anything.

“What?” said Strike, watching her expression.

“Nothing.”

“Come off it.”

“OK… what if he is there?”

“I’ll cross that bridge—I’m not going to hit him,” said Strike, correctly reading her thoughts.

“OK,” said Robin, but then, “you hit Whittaker, though.”

“That was different,” said Strike, and when she did not respond, “Whittaker’s special. He’s family.”

She laughed, but reluctantly.

When Strike withdrew fifty pounds from a cashpoint prior to entering the Saracen off Commercial Road, the machine churlishly showed him a negative balance in his current account. His expression grim, Strike handed over a te

The interior of the old pub had been ripped out in its entirety. The refashioned decor gave the impression of a community center gone bad, dimly lit and soulless. The floor was of polished pine, which reflected the wide neon strip ru

It was shortly after midday, but there was already a girl gyrating on a small stage at the far end of the pub. Bathed in red light and standing in front of angled mirrors so that every inch of dimpled flesh could be appreciated, she was removing her bra to the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up.” A grand total of four men were sitting on high stools, one to each elevated table, dividing their attention between the girl now swinging clumsily around a pole and a big-screen TV showing Sky Sports.

Strike headed straight for the bar, where he found himself facing a sign that read “Any customer caught masturbating will be ejected.”

“What can I get you, love?” asked a girl with long hair, purple eye-shadow and a nose ring.

Strike ordered a pint of John Smith’s and took a seat at the bar. Other than the bouncer, the only other male employee on view was the man sitting behind a turntable beside the stripper. He was stocky, blond, middle-aged and did not remotely resemble Brockbank.

“I was hoping to meet a friend here,” Strike told the barmaid, who, having no further customers, was leaning on the bar, staring dreamily at the television and picking her long nails.

“Yeah?” she said, sounding bored.

“Yeah,” said Strike. “He said he was working here.”

A man in a fluorescent jacket approached the bar and she moved away to serve him without another word.

“Start Me Up” ended and so did the stripper’s act. Naked, she hopped off the stage, grabbed a wrap and disappeared through a curtain at the back of the pub. Nobody clapped.