Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(52)

The calm Georgian room’s silence and solidity was oppressive.

Robin struggled out from under the heavy covers and crossed the sloping wooden floorboards to a bathroom with a claw-footed bath and no shower. Fifteen minutes later, as she was dressing, her mobile, which she had mercifully remembered to charge the previous night, rang on the dressing table.

“Hi,” said Strike. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she said, her voice brittle.

He had called to tell her not to come in, she knew it.

“Wardle’s just phoned. They’ve found the rest of the body.”

Robin sat down hard on the needlepoint stool, both hands clutching the mobile to her ear.

“What? Where? Who is she?”

“Tell you when I pick you up. They want to talk to us. I’ll be outside at nine. Make sure you eat something,” he added.

“Cormoran!” she said, to stop him hanging up.

“What?”

“I’m still… I’ve still got a job, then?”

There was a slight pause.

“What’re you talking about? Of course you’ve still got a job.”

“You don’t… I’m still… nothing’s changed?” she said.

“Are you going to do as you’re told?” he asked. “When I say nothing after dark, you’re going to listen from now on?”

“Yes,” she said, a little shakily.

“Good. I’ll see you at nine.”

Robin breathed a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. She was not finished: he still wanted her. As she went to replace the mobile on the dressing table she noticed that the longest text message that she had ever received had arrived overnight.


Robin, I can’t sleep for thinking about you. You don’t know how much I wish it hadn’t happened. It was a shitty thing to do and there’s no defense. I was 21 and I didn’t know then what I know now: that there’s nobody like you and that I could never love anyone else as much as I love you. There’s never been anyone apart from you since then. I’ve been jealous of you and Strike and you might say I don’t have the right to feel jealous because of what I did but maybe on some level I think you deserve better than me and that’s what’s been getting to me. I only know I love you and I want to marry you and if that’s not what you want now then I’ll have to accept that but please Robin just text me and let me know you’re OK, please. Matt xxxxxxx



Robin put the mobile back on the dressing table and continued dressing. She ordered a croissant and coffee from room service and was surprised how much better food and drink made her feel when they arrived. Only then did she read Matthew’s text again.


… maybe on some level I think you deserve better than me and that’s what’s been getting to me…



This was touching, and most unlike Matthew, who frequently expressed the view that citing subconscious motivation was no more than chicanery. Hard on the heels of that thought, though, came the reflection that Matthew had never cut Sarah out of his life. She was one of his best friends from university: embracing him tenderly at his mother’s funeral, dining out with them as part of a cozy foursome, still flirting with Matthew, still stirring between him and Robin.

After a brief inner deliberation, Robin texted back:


I’m fine.



She was waiting for Strike on the doorstep of Hazlitt’s, neat as ever, when the black cab drew up at five to nine.

Strike had not shaved, and as his beard grew with vigor his jaw looked grimy.

“Have you seen the news?” he asked as soon as she had got into the cab.

“No.”

“Media have just got it. Saw it on the telly as I left.”

He leaned forward to slide shut the plastic divider between themselves and the driver.

“Who is she?” asked Robin.

“They haven’t formally ID’d her yet, but they think she’s a twenty-four-year-old Ukrainian woman.”

“Ukrainian?” said Robin, startled.

“Yeah.” He hesitated, then said, “Her landlady found her dismembered in a fridge-freezer in what looks like her own flat. The right leg’s missing. It’s definitely her.”

The taste of Robin’s toothpaste in her mouth turned chemical; croissant and coffee churned in her stomach.

“Where’s the flat?”

“Coningham Road, Shepherd’s Bush. Ring any bells?”

“No, I—oh God. Oh God. The girl who wanted to cut off her leg?”

“Apparently.”

“But she didn’t have a Ukrainian name, did she?”

“Wardle thinks she might’ve been using a fake one. You know—hooker name.”

The taxi bore them down Pall Mall towards New Scotland Yard. White neoclassical buildings slid past the windows on both sides: august, haughty and impervious to the shocks of frail humanity.

“It’s what Wardle expected,” said Strike after a long pause. “His theory was that the leg belonged to a Ukrainian prostitute last seen with Digger Malley.”

Robin could tell that there was more. She looked at him anxiously.

“There were letters from me in her flat,” said Strike. “Two letters, signed with my name.”