Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(133)

The murder of Heather Smart, a twenty-two-year-old building society employee from Nottingham, was an entirely different matter. The headlines virtually wrote themselves, for Heather was a wonderfully relatable heroine with her steady job, her innocent desire to see the capital’s landmarks and a boyfriend who was a primary school teacher. Heather had been to see The Lion King the night before her death, had eaten dim sum in Chinatown and posed for photographs in Hyde Park with the Life Guards riding past in the background. Endless column inches could be spun out of the long weekend to celebrate her sister-in-law’s thirtieth birthday, which had culminated in a brutal, sordid death in the back lot of an adult entertainment store.

The story, like all the best stories, split like an amoeba, forming an endless series of new stories and opinion pieces and speculative articles, each spawning its own counter chorus. There were discussions of the deplorable drunken tendencies of the young British woman, with reciprocal accusations of victim-blaming. There were horror-struck articles about sexual violence, tempered with reminders that these attacks were far less common than in other countries. There were interviews with the distraught, guilt-stricken friends who had accidentally abandoned Heather, which in turn spawned attacks and vilifications on social media, leading back to a defense of the grieving young women.

Overlaying every story was the shadow of the unknown killer, the madman who was hacking women’s bodies apart. The press again descended upon Denmark Street in search of the man who had received Kelsey’s leg. Strike decided that the time had come for Robin to take that much-discussed but daily postponed trip to Masham for a final fitting of her wedding dress, then decamped yet again to Nick and Ilsa’s with a backpack and a crushing sense of his own impotence. A plainclothes officer remained stationed in Denmark Street in case anything suspicious turned up in the post. Wardle was concerned lest another body part addressed to Robin arrived.

Weighed down by the demands of an investigation that was being conducted under the full glare of the national media, Wardle was unable to meet Strike face to face for six days after the discovery of Heather’s body. Strike journeyed again to the Feathers in the early evening, where he found Wardle looking haggard, but looking forward to talking things over with a man who was both inside and outside the case.

“Been a f*cker of a week,” sighed Wardle, accepting the pint Strike had bought him. “I’ve started bloody smoking again. April’s really pissed off.”

He took a long draft of lager, then shared with Strike the truth about the discovery of Heather’s body. The press stories, as Strike had already noted, conflicted in many possibly important essentials, though all blamed the police for not finding her for twenty-four hours.

“She and her friends were all shitfaced,” said the policeman, setting the scene with bluntness. “Four of them got into a cab, so ratted they forgot about Heather. They were a street away when they realized she wasn’t with them.

“The cabbie’s hacked off because they’re loud and obnoxious. One of them starts swearing at him when he says he can’t do a U-turn in the middle of the road. There’s a big argument, so it’s a good five minutes before he agrees to go back for Heather.

“When they finally reach the street where they think they left her—they’re from Nottingham, remember, they don’t know London at all—Heather’s nowhere to be seen. They crawl up the road in the cab, shouting for her out of the open window. Then one of them thinks she sees Heather in the distance, getting onto a bus. So two of them get out—there’s no bloody logic to it, they were out of their skulls—and go running down the road screaming after the bus to stop while the other two lean out of the cab screaming at them to get back in, they should follow the bus in the cab. Then the one who got into an argument with the cabbie earlier calls him a stupid Paki, he tells them to get the f*ck out of his cab and drives away.

“So basically,” said Wardle wearily, “all this shit we’re taking for not finding her within twenty-four hours is down to alcohol and racism. The silly bitches were convinced Heather had got on that bus so we wasted a day and a half trying to track a woman wearing a similar coat. Then the owner of the Adult Entertainment Centre goes to put his bins out and finds her lying there under a load of bags, nose and ears cut off.”

“So that bit was true,” said Strike.

Her mutilated face had been the one detail all of the papers had agreed on.

“Yeah, that bit was true,” said Wardle heavily. “‘The Shacklewell Ripper.’ It’s got a great ring to it.”

“Witnesses?”

“Nobody saw a bloody thing.”

“What about Devotee and his motorbike?”

“Ruled out,” Wardle admitted, his expression grim. “He’s got a firm alibi for Heather’s killing—family wedding—and we couldn’t make anything stick for either of the other two attacks.”

Strike had the impression that Wardle wanted to tell him something else, and waited receptively.

“I don’t want the press to get wind of this,” Wardle said, dropping his voice, “but we think he might’ve done two more.”

“Jesus,” said Strike, genuinely alarmed. “When?”

“Historic,” said Wardle. “Unsolved murder in Leeds, 2009. Prostitute, originally from Cardiff. Stabbed. He didn’t cut anything off her, but he took a necklace she always wore and dumped her in a ditch out of town. The body wasn’t found for a fortnight.