Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(5)

He turned out to be a handsome man with a thick head of chestnut hair and chocolate-brown eyes, who was wearing a leather jacket and jeans. Strike did not know whether he was more amused or irritated by the reflexive look Wardle gave Robin on entering the room—a swift zigzag sweep of her hair, her figure and her left hand, where his eyes lingered for a second on the sapphire and diamond engagement ring.

“Eric Wardle,” he said in a low voice, with what Strike felt was an unnecessarily charming smile. “And this is Detective Sergeant Ekwensi.”

A thin black female officer whose hair was smoothed back in a bun had arrived with him. She gave Robin a brief smile and Robin found herself taking disproportionate comfort from the presence of another woman. Detective Sergeant Ekwensi then let her eyes stray around Strike’s glorified bedsit.

“Where’s this package?” she asked.

“Downstairs,” said Strike, drawing the keys to the office out of his pocket. “I’ll show you. Wife OK, Wardle?” he added as he prepared to leave the room with Detective Sergeant Ekwensi.

“What do you care?” retorted the officer, but to Robin’s relief he dropped what she thought of as his counselor’s manner as he took the seat opposite her at the table and flipped open his notebook.

“He was standing outside the door when I came up the street,” Robin explained, when Wardle asked how the leg had arrived. “I thought he was a courier. He was dressed in black leather—all black except for blue stripes on the shoulders of his jacket. His helmet was plain black and the visor was down and mirrored. He must have been at least six feet tall. Four or five inches taller than me, even allowing for the helmet.”

“Build?” asked Wardle, who was scribbling in his notebook.

“Pretty big, I’d say, but he was probably padded out a bit by the jacket.”

Robin’s eyes wandered inadvertently to Strike as he reentered the room. “I mean, not—”

“Not a fat bastard like the boss?” Strike, who had overheard, suggested and Wardle, never slow to make or enjoy a dig at Strike, laughed under his breath.

“And he wore gloves,” said Robin, who had not smiled. “Black leather motorcycle gloves.”

“Of course he’d wear gloves,” said Wardle, adding a note. “I don’t suppose you noticed anything about the motorbike?”

“It was a Honda, red and black,” said Robin. “I noticed the logo, that winged symbol. I’d say 750cc. It was big.”

Wardle looked both startled and impressed.

“Robin’s a petrolhead,” said Strike. “Drives like Fernando Alonso.”

Robin wished that Strike would stop being cheery and flippant. A woman’s leg lay downstairs. Where was the rest of her? She must not cry. She wished she had had more sleep. That damn sofa… she had spent too many nights on the thing lately…

“And he made you sign for it?” asked Wardle.

“I wouldn’t say ‘made’ me,” said Robin. “He held out a clipboard and I did it automatically.”

“What was on the clipboard?”

“It looked like an invoice or…”

She closed her eyes in the effort to remember. Now she came to think of it, the form had looked amateurish, as though it had been put together on someone’s laptop, and she said as much.

“Were you expecting a package?” Wardle asked.

Robin explained about the disposable wedding cameras.

“What did he do once you’d taken it?”

“Got back on the bike and left. He drove off into Charing Cross Road.”

There was a knock on the door of the flat and Detective Sergeant Ekwensi reappeared holding the note that Strike had noticed lying beneath the leg, which was now enclosed in an evidence bag.

“Forensics are here,” she told Wardle. “This note was in the package. It would be good to know whether it means anything to Miss Ellacott.”

Wardle took the polythene-covered note and scanned it, frowning.

“It’s gibberish,” he said, then read aloud: “‘ A harvest of limbs, of arms and of legs, of necks—’”

“‘—that turn like swans,’” interrupted Strike, who was leaning against the cooker and too far away to read the note, “‘as if inclined to gasp or pray.’”

The other three stared at him.

“They’re lyrics,” said Strike. Robin did not like the expression on his face. She could tell that the words meant something to him, something bad. With what looked like an effort, he elucidated: “From the last verse of ‘Mistress of the Salmon Salt.’ By Blue ?yster Cult.”

Detective Sergeant Ekwensi raised finely penciled eyebrows.

“Who?”

“Big seventies rock band.”

“You know their stuff well, I take it?” asked Wardle.

“I know that song,” said Strike.

“Do you think you know who sent this?”

Strike hesitated. As the other three watched him, a confused series of images and memories passed rapidly through the detective’s mind. A low voice said, She wanted to die. She was the quicklime girl. The thin leg of a twelve-year-old girl, scarred with silvery crisscrossing lines. A pair of small dark eyes like a ferret’s, narrowed in loathing. The tattoo of a yellow rose.