Career of Evil

“No,” he said, waving her away as he clumped towards the reception desk, “I’m here with someone—Robin Ellacott, she’s been knifed—”

His eyes traveled frantically over the packed waiting room where a young boy was whimpering on his mother’s lap and a groaning drunk cradled his bloodied head in his hands. A male nurse was showing a breathless old lady how to use an inhaler.

“Strike… yes… Miss Ellacott said you’d be coming,” said the receptionist, who had checked her computer records with what Strike felt was u

He slipped a little on the shining floor in his haste, swore and hurried on. Several people’s eyes followed his large, ungainly figure, wondering whether he was quite right in the head.

“Robin? Fucking hell!”

Scarlet spatters disfigured her face; both eyes were swollen. A young male doctor, who was examining an eight-inch wound in her forearm, barked:

“Out until I’ve finished!”

“It isn’t blood!” Robin called as Strike retreated behind the curtain. “It’s the damn spray stuff in your rape alarm!”

“Stay still, please,” Strike heard the doctor say.

He paced a little outside the cubicle. Five other curtained beds hid their secrets along the side ward. The nurses’ rubber soles squeaked on the highly polished gray floor. God, how he hated hospitals: the smell of them, the institutional cleanliness underlaid with that faint whiff of human decomposition, immediately transported him back to those long months in Selly Oak after his leg had been blown off.

What had he done? What had he done? He had let her work, knowing the bastard had her in his sights. She could have died. She should have died. Nurses rustled past in their blue scrubs. Behind the curtain, Robin gave a small gasp of pain and Strike ground his teeth.

“Well, she’s been extremely lucky,” said the doctor, ripping the curtains open ten minutes later. “He could have severed the brachial artery. There’s tendon damage, though, and we won’t know how much until we get her into theater.”

He clearly thought they were a couple. Strike did not put him right.

“She needs surgery?”

“To repair the tendon damage,” said the doctor, as though Strike were a bit slow. “Plus, that wound needs a proper clean. I want to X-ray her ribs as well.”

He left. Bracing himself, Strike entered the cubicle.

“I know I screwed up,” said Robin.

“Holy shit, did you think I was going to tell you off?”

“Maybe,” she said, pulling herself up a little higher on the bed. Her arm was bound up in a temporary crêpe bandage. “After dark. I wasn’t paying attention, was I?”

He sat down heavily beside the bed on the chair that the doctor had vacated, accidentally knocking a metal kidney dish to the floor. It clanged and rattled; Strike put his prosthetic foot on it to silence it.

“Robin, how the fuck did you get away?”

“Self-defense,” she said. Then, correctly reading his expression, she said crossly, “I knew you didn’t believe I’d done any.”

“I did believe you,” he said, “but Jesus fucking Christ—”

“I had lessons from this brilliant woman in Harrogate who was ex-army,” said Robin, wincing a little as she readjusted herself on her pillows again. “After—you know what.”

“Was this before or after the advanced driving tests?”

“After,” she said, “because I was agoraphobic for a while. It was the driving that really got me back out of my room and then, after that, I did self-defense classes. The first one I signed to was run by a man and he was an idiot,” said Robin. “All judo moves and—just useless. But Louise was brilliant.”

“Yeah?” said Strike.

Her composure was u

“Yeah,” said Robin. “She taught us it’s not about clever throws when you’re an ordinary woman. It’s about reacting smartly and fast. Never let yourself get taken to a second location. Go for the weak spots and then run like hell.

“He grabbed me from behind but I heard him just before he got to me. I practiced it loads with Louise. If they grab you from behind, you bend over.”

“Bend over,” repeated Strike numbly.

“I had the rape alarm in my hand. I bent right over and slammed it into his balls. He was wearing tracksuit pants. He let go for a couple of seconds and I tripped on this damn dress again—he pulled out the knife—I can’t remember exactly what happened then—I know he cut me as I was trying to get up—but I managed to press the button on the alarm and it went off and that scared him—the ink went all over my face and must’ve gone in his as well, because he was close to me—he was wearing a balaclava—I could hardly see—but I got in a good jab at his carotid artery as he bent over me—that’s the other thing Louise taught us, side of the neck, you can make them collapse if you do it right—and he staggered, and then I think he realized people were coming and he ran.”

Strike was speechless.

“I’m really hungry,” said Robin.

Strike felt in his pockets and pulled out a Twix.

“Thanks.”

But before she could take a bite, a nurse escorting an old man past the foot of her bed said sharply:

“Nil by mouth, you’re going to theater!”

Robin rolled her eyes and handed the Twix back to Strike. Her mobile rang. Strike watched, dazed, as she picked it up.

“Mum… hi,” said Robin.

Their eyes met. Strike read Robin’s unexpressed desire to save her mother, at least temporarily, from what had just happened, but no diversionary tactics were necessary because Linda was gabbling without allowing Robin to speak. Robin laid the mobile on her knees and switched it to speakerphone, her expression resigned.

“… let her know as soon as possible, because lily of the valley is out of season, so if you want it, it’ll be a special order.”

“OK,” said Robin. “I’ll skip lily of the valley.”

“Well, it would be great if you could call her directly and tell her what you do want, Robin, because it isn’t easy being the intermediary. She says she’s left you loads of voicemails.”

“Sorry, Mum,” said Robin. “I’ll call her.”

“You’re not supposed to be using that in here!” said a second cross nurse.

“Sorry,” said Robin again. “Mum, I’ll have to go. I’ll speak to you later.”

“Where are you?” Linda asked.

“I’m… I’ll ring you later,” said Robin, and cut the call.

She looked at Strike and asked:

“Aren’t you going to ask me which of them I think it was?”

“I’m assuming you don’t know,” said Strike. “If he was wearing a balaclava and your eyes were full of ink.”

“I’m sure about one thing,” said Robin. “It wasn’t Whittaker. Not unless he changed into sweatpants the moment I left him. Whittaker was wearing jeans and he was—his physique wasn’t right. This guy was strong, but soft, you know? Big, though. As big as you.”

“Have you told Matthew what’s happened?”

“He’s on his w—”

He thought, when her expression changed to one of near horror, that he was about to turn and see a livid Matthew bearing down upon them. Instead, the disheveled figure of Detective Inspector Roy Carver appeared at the foot of Robin’s bed, accompanied by the tall, elegant figure of Detective Sergeant Vanessa Ekwensi.

Carver was in shirtsleeves. Large wet patches of sweat radiated out from his armpits. The constantly pink whites of his bright blue eyes always made him look as though he had been swimming in heavily chlorinated water. His thick, graying hair was full of large flakes of dandruff.

“How are—?” began Detective Sergeant Ekwensi, her almond-shaped eyes on Robin’s forearm, but Carver interrupted with an accusatory bark.

“What’ve you been up to, then, eh?”

Strike stood up. Here at last was the perfect target for his so far suppressed desire to punish somebody, anybody, for what had just happened to Robin, to divert his feelings of guilt and anxiety onto a worthy target.