Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(6)

And then—lagging behind the other memories, puffing into view, although it might have been another man’s first thought—he remembered a charge sheet that made mention of a penis cut from a corpse and mailed to a police informer.

“Do you know who sent it?” repeated Wardle.

“Maybe,” said Strike. He glanced at Robin and Detective Sergeant Ekwensi. “I’d rather talk about it alone. Have you got everything you want from Robin?”

“We’ll need your name and address and so on,” said Wardle. “Vanessa, can you take those?”

Detective Sergeant Ekwensi moved forwards with her notebook. The two men’s clanging footsteps faded from earshot. In spite of the fact that she had no desire to see the severed leg again, Robin felt aggrieved at being left behind. It had been her name on the box.

The grisly package was still lying on the desk downstairs. Two more of Wardle’s colleagues had been admitted by Detective Sergeant Ekwensi: one was taking photographs, the other talking on his mobile when their senior officer and the private detective walked past. Both looked curiously at Strike, who had achieved a measure of fame during the period in which he had managed to alienate many of Wardle’s colleagues.

Strike closed the door of his inner office and he and Wardle took the seats facing each other across Strike’s desk. Wardle turned to a fresh page of his notebook.

“All right, who d’you know who likes chopping up corpses and sending them through the post?”

“Terence Malley,” said Strike, after a momentary hesitation. “For a start.”

Wardle did not write anything, but stared at him over the top of his pen.

“Terence ‘Digger’ Malley?”

Strike nodded.

“Harringay Crime Syndicate?”

“How many Terence ‘Digger’ Malleys do you know?” asked Strike impatiently. “And how many have got a habit of sending people body parts?”

“How the hell did you get mixed up with Digger?”

“Joint ops with Vice Squad, 2008. Drug ring.”

“The bust he went down for?”

“Exactly.”

“Holy shit,” said Wardle. “Well, that’s bloody it, isn’t it? The guy’s an effing lunatic, he’s just out and he’s got easy access to half of London’s prostitutes. We’d better start dragging the Thames for the rest of her.”

“Yeah, but I gave evidence anonymously. He shouldn’t ever have known it was me.”

“They’ve got ways and means,” said Wardle. “Harringay Crime Syndicate—they’re like the f*cking mafia. Did you hear how he sent Hatford Ali’s dick to Ian Bevin?”

“Yeah, I heard,” said Strike.

“So what’s the story with the song? The harvest of whatever the f*ck it was?”

“Well, that’s what I’m worried about,” said Strike slowly. “It seems pretty subtle for the likes of Digger—which makes me think it might be one of the other three.”





4



Four winds at the Four Winds Bar,

Two doors locked and windows barred,

One door left to take you in,

The other one just mirrors it…

Blue ?yster Cult, “Astronomy”



“You know four men who’d send you a severed leg? Four?”

Strike could see Robin’s appalled expression reflected in the round mirror standing beside the sink, where he was shaving. The police had taken away the leg at last, Strike had declared work suspended for the day and Robin remained at the little Formica table in his kitchen-cum-sitting room, cradling a second mug of tea.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, strafing stubble from his chin, “I think it’s only three. Think I might’ve made a mistake telling Wardle about Malley.”

“Why?”

Strike told Robin the story of his brief contact with the career criminal, who owed his last prison stretch, in part, to Strike’s evidence.

“… so now Wardle’s convinced the Harringay Crime Syndicate found out who I was, but I left for Iraq shortly after testifying and I’ve never yet known an SIB officer’s cover blown because he gave evidence in court. Plus, the song lyrics don’t smell like Digger. He’s not one for fancy touches.”

“But he’s cut bits off people he’s killed before?” Robin asked.

“Once that I know of—but don’t forget, whoever did this hasn’t necessarily killed anyone,” temporized Strike. “The leg could have come off an existing corpse. Could be hospital waste. Wardle’s going to check all that out. We won’t know much until forensics have had a look.”

The ghastly possibility that the leg had been taken from a still-living person, he chose not to mention.

In the ensuing pause, Strike rinsed his razor under the kitchen tap and Robin stared out of the window, lost in thought.

“Well, you had to tell Wardle about Malley,” said Robin, turning back to Strike, who met her gaze in his shaving mirror. “I mean, if he’s already sent someone a—what exactly did he send?” she asked, a little nervously.

“A penis,” said Strike. He washed his face clean and dried it on a towel before continuing. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. More I think about it, though, the surer I am it’s not him. Back in a minute—I want to change this shirt. I ripped two buttons off it when you screamed.”