Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(15)

“You know why,” said Strike, who was preparing to disembark. “He likes the photographs.”

“But they’re only of her walking to and from work.”

“Doesn’t matter. Turns him on. Plus, he’s convinced that one of these days she’s going to leave the club with some Russian oligarch.”

“Doesn’t this stuff ever make you feel grubby?”

“Occupational hazard,” said Strike, unconcerned. “See you shortly.”

Robin waited amidst the floral and gilt wallpaper. Brocade chairs and mismatched lampshades contrasted strongly with enormous plasma TVs showing football and Coke ads. The paintwork was the fashionable shade of greige in which Matthew’s sister had recently painted her sitting room. Robin found it depressing. Her view of the club’s entrance was slightly impeded by the wooden banisters of a staircase leading to an upper floor. Outside, a constant stream of traffic flooded left and right, plenty of red double-deckers temporarily obscuring her view of the front of the club.

Strike arrived looking irritable.

“We’ve lost Radford,” he said, dumping his backpack beside the high window table at which she was sitting. “He’s just phoned me.”

“No!”

“Yep. He thinks you’re too newsworthy to plant in his office now.”

The press had had the story of the severed leg since six that morning. Wardle had kept his word to Strike and warned him ahead of time. The detective had been able to leave his attic flat in the small hours with enough clothes in his holdall for a few days’ absence. He knew the press would soon be staking out the office, and not for the first time.

“And,” said Strike, returning to Robin with a pint in his hand and easing himself up onto a bar stool, “Khan’s bottled it too. He’s going to go for an agency that doesn’t attract body parts.”

“Bugger,” said Robin, and then: “What are you smirking about?”

“Nothing.” He did not want to tell her that he always liked it when she said “bugger.” It brought out the latent Yorkshire in her accent.

“They were good jobs!” said Robin.

Strike agreed, his eyes on the front of Spearmint Rhino.

“How’s Platinum? Raven checked in?”

As Raven had just called, Robin was able to inform Strike that there was, as ever, no news. Platinum was popular with punters and had so far that day given three lap dances that had proceeded, judged by the rules of the establishment, in total propriety.

“Read the stories?” he asked, pointing at an abandoned Mirror on a nearby table.

“Only online,” said Robin.

“Hopefully it’ll bring in some information,” said Strike. “Someone must’ve noticed they’re missing a leg.”

“Ha ha,” said Robin.

“Too soon?”

“Yes,” said Robin coldly.

“I did some digging online last night,” said Strike. “Brockbank might’ve been in Manchester in 2006.”

“How d’you know it was the right man?”

“I don’t, but the guy was around the right age, right middle initial—”

“You remember his middle initial?”

“Yeah,” said Strike. “It doesn’t look like he’s there anymore, though. Same story with Laing. I’m pretty sure he was at an address in Corby in 2008, but he’s moved on. How long,” Strike added, staring across the street, “has that bloke in the camouflage jacket and shades been in that restaurant?”

“About half an hour.”

As far as Strike could tell, the man in sunglasses was watching him back, staring out across the street through two windows. Broad-shouldered and long-legged, he looked too large for the silver chair. With the sliding reflections of traffic and passersby refracting off the window Strike found it difficult to be sure, but he appeared to be sporting heavy stubble.

“What’s it like in there?” Robin asked, pointing towards the double doors of Spearmint Rhino under their heavy metallic awning.

“In the strip club?” asked Strike, taken aback.

“No, in the Japanese restaurant,” said Robin sarcastically. “Of course in the strip club.”

“It’s all right,” he said, not entirely sure what he was being asked.

“What does it look like?”

“Gold. Mirrors. Dim lighting.” When she looked at him expectantly, he said, “There’s a pole in the middle, where they dance.”

“Not lap dances?”

“There are private booths for them.”

“What do the girls wear?”

“I dunno—not much—”

His mobile rang: Elin.

Robin turned her face away, toying with what looked like a pair of reading glasses on the table in front of her, but which actually contained the small camera with which she photographed Platinum’s movements. She had found this gadget exciting when Strike first handed it to her, but the thrill had long since worn off. She drank her tomato juice and stared out of the window, trying not to listen to what Strike and Elin were saying to each other. He always sounded matter-of-fact when on the phone to his girlfriend, but then, it was difficult to imagine Strike murmuring endearments to anyone. Matthew called her both “Robsy” and “Rosy-Posy” when he was in the right mood, which was not often these days.