Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(144)

“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.

“I want to talk to you,” Carver told Strike. “Ekwensi, you take her statement.”

Before anyone could speak or move, a sweet-faced young nurse stepped obliviously between the two men, smiling at Robin.

“Ready to take you to X-ray, Miss Ellacott,” she said.

Robin got stiffly off the bed and walked away, looking back over her shoulder at Strike, trying to convey warning and restraint with her expression.

“Out here,” Carver growled at Strike.

The detective followed the policeman back through A&E. Carver had commandeered a small visitors’ room where, Strike assumed, news of imminent or actual death was conveyed to relatives. It contained several padded chairs, a box of tissues on a small table and an abstract print in shades of orange.

“I told you to stay out of it,” Carver said, taking up a position in the middle of the room, arms folded, feet wide apart.

With the door closed, Carver’s body odor filled the room. He did not stink in the same way as Whittaker: not of ingrained filth and drugs, but of sweat that he could not contain through the working day. His blotchy complexion was not improved by the overhead strip lighting. The dandruff, the wet shirt, the mottled skin: he seemed to be visibly falling to pieces. Strike had undoubtedly helped him on his way, humiliating him in the press over the murder of Lula Landry.