Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(75)

The impression of genteel antiquity only increased when they reached Market Harborough itself. The ornate and aged church of St. Dionysius rose proudly in the heart of the town, and beside it, in the middle of the central thoroughfare, stood a remarkable structure resembling a small timbered house on wooden stilts.

They found a parking space to the rear of this peculiar building. Keen to smoke and to stretch his knee, Strike got out, lit up and went to examine a plaque that informed him the stilted edifice was a grammar school that had been built in 1614. Biblical verses painted in gold ran around the structure.

Man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.

Robin had remained in the Land Rover, examining the map for the best route to Corby, their next stop. When Strike had finished his cigarette he hoisted himself back into the passenger seat.

“OK, I’m going to try the number. If you fancy stretching your legs, I’m nearly out of fags.”

Robin rolled her eyes, but took the proffered tenner and left in search of Benson & Hedges.

The number was engaged the first time Strike tried it. On his second attempt, a heavily accented female voice answered:

“Thai Orchid Massage, how can I help you?”

“Hi,” said Strike. “I’ve been given your number by a friend. Whereabouts are you?”

She gave him a number in St. Mary’s Road, which he saw, after a brief consultation of the map, was mere minutes away.

“Any of your ladies free for me this morning?” he asked.

“What kind you like?” said the voice.

He could see Robin coming back in the wing mirror, her strawberry-blonde hair blowing freely in the breeze, a gold pack of Benson & Hedges glinting in her hand.

“Dark,” said Strike, after a fractional hesitation. “Thai.”

“We have two Thai ladies free for you. What service you look for?”

Robin pulled open the driver’s door and got back in.

“What have you got?” asked Strike.

“One-lady sensual massage with oils, ninety pound. Two-lady sensual massage with oil, one hundred twenty. Full body-to-body naked massage with oil, one hundred fifty. You negotiate extras with lady, OK?”

“OK, I’d like the—er—one lady,” said Strike. “Be with you in a bit.”

He hung up.

“It’s a massage parlor,” he told Robin, examining the map, “but not the kind you’d take your bad knee to.”

“Really?” she said, startled.

“They’re everywhere,” he said. “You know that.”

He understood why she was disconcerted. The scene beyond the windscreen—St. Dionysius, the godly grammar school on stilts, a busy and prosperous high street, a St. George’s Cross rippling in the breeze outside a nearby pub—might have appeared on a poster advertising the town.

“What are you going to—where is it?” asked Robin.

“Not far away,” he said, showing her on the map. “I’m going to need a cashpoint first.”

Was he actually going to pay for a massage? Robin wondered, startled, but she did not know how to frame the question, and nor was she sure that she wanted to hear the answer. After pulling in at a cashpoint to enable Strike to increase his overdraft by another two hundred pounds, she followed his directions onto St. Mary’s Road, which lay at the end of the main street. St. Mary’s Road proved to be a perfectly respectable-looking thoroughfare lined with estate agents, beauty spas and solicitors, most of them in large detached buildings.

“That’s it,” said Strike, pointing, as they drove past a discreet establishment that sat on a corner. A glossy purple and gold sign read THAI ORCHID MASSAGE. Only the dark blinds on the windows hinted at activities beyond the medically sanctioned manipulation of sore joints. Robin parked in a side street and watched Strike until he passed out of sight.

Approaching the massage parlor’s entrance, Strike noticed that the orchid depicted on the glossy sign overhead looked remarkably like a vulva. He rang the bell and the door was opened instantly by a long-haired man almost as tall as himself.

“I just phoned,” Strike said.

The bouncer grunted and nodded Strike through a pair of thick black inner curtains. Immediately inside was a small, carpeted lounge area with two sofas, where an older Thai woman sat along with two Thai girls, one of whom looked about fifteen. A TV in the corner was showing Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? The girls’ expressions changed from bored to alert as he entered. The older woman stood up. She was vigorously chewing gum.

“You call, yeah?”

“That’s right,” said Strike.

“You want drink?”

“No thanks.”

“You like Thai girl?”

“Yep,” said Strike.

“Who you want?”

“Her,” said Strike, pointing at the younger girl, who was dressed in a pink halterneck, suede miniskirt and cheap-looking patent stilettos. She smiled and stood up. Her skinny legs reminded him of a flamingo’s.

“OK,” said his interlocutor. “You pay now, go private booth after, OK?”

Strike handed over ninety pounds and his chosen girl beckoned, beaming. She had the body of an adolescent boy except for the clearly fake breasts, which reminded him of the plastic Barbies on Elin’s daughter’s shelf.