Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(98)

Hazel had not moved since Strike had left her. He guessed that he could have stayed away longer and she would not have noticed. When he reentered the room she gave a little start. She had been crying again.

“Thank you for coming,” she said thickly, getting to her feet. “I’m sorry, I—”

And she began to sob in earnest. Strike put a hand on her shoulder and before he knew it, she had her face on his chest, sobbing, gripping the lapels of his coat, with no trace of coquettishness, but in pure anguish. He put his arms around her shoulders and they stood so for a full minute until, with several heaving breaths, she stepped away again and Strike’s arms fell back to his sides.

She shook her head, no words left, and walked him to the door. He reiterated his condolences. She nodded, her face ghastly in the daylight now falling into the dingy hall.

“Thanks for coming,” she gulped. “I just needed to see you. I don’t know why. I’m ever so sorry.”





35


Dominance and Submission


Since leaving home, he had cohabited with three women, but this one—It—was testing him to his limits. All three dirty bitches had claimed to love him, whatever that was supposed to mean. Their so-called love had turned the first two tractable. At heart, of course, all women were cheating cunts, determined to take more than they gave, but the first two hadn’t been anything like It. He was forced to put up with more than he’d ever put up with before, because It was an essential part of his grand plan.

Nevertheless, he constantly fantasized about killing It. He could imagine It’s stupid face slackening as the knife sank deep into her belly, unable to believe that Baby (It called him Baby) was killing her, even as the hot blood began pouring over his hands, the rusty smell filling the air still shivering with her screams…

Having to play nice was playing havoc with his self-control. Switching on the charm, drawing them in and keeping them sweet was easy, second nature to him, always had been. Sustaining the pose over long periods, though, was something else. The pretense was bringing him to his breaking point. Sometimes, even the sound of It’s breathing was enough to make him want to grab his knife and puncture her f*cking lungs…

Unless he got to do one soon, he’d f*cking explode.

Early on Monday morning he made an excuse to get out, but as he approached Denmark Street, intending to pick up The Secretary’s trail as she arrived for work, something quivered in him, like the twitching of a rat’s whiskers.

He paused beside a telephone box on the opposite side of the road, squinting at a figure standing on the corner of Denmark Street, right outside an instrument shop painted in the garish colors of a circus poster.

He knew the police, knew their moves, their games. The young man standing with his hands in the pockets of his donkey jacket was pretending to be casual, a mere bystander…

He’d invented that f*cking game. He could make himself practically invisible. Look at that dickhead, standing on the corner thinking his donkey jacket made him one of the lads… never shit a shitter, pal.

Slowly he turned and walked out of sight behind the telephone box, where he slid the beanie hat off his head… He’d been wearing it when Strike chased him. Donkey Jacket might have a description. He should have thought of that, should have guessed Strike would call in his police mates, cowardly f*cker…

There’s been no photofit issued, though, he thought, his self-esteem rising again as he walked back down the street. Strike had come within feet of him, though he didn’t realize it, and still had no f*cking idea who he was. God, it would feel good, after he’d done The Secretary, to watch Strike and his f*cking business sinking out of sight under the mudslide of the publicity, police and press crawling all over him, tainted by association, unable to protect his staff, suspected of her death, utterly ruined…

He was already planning his next move. He would go to the LSE, where The Secretary often followed the other blonde tart around, and hook up with her there. In the meantime, he’d need a different hat and, perhaps, new sunglasses. He felt in his pockets for money. He had hardly any, as f*cking usual. He’d need to force It back out to work. He’d had enough of It whining and bleating and making excuses at home.

In the end he bought two new hats, a baseball cap and a gray woolen beanie to replace the black fleece version he put in a bin at Cambridge Circus. Then he caught the Tube to Holborn.

She wasn’t there. Nor were any students. After searching fruitlessly for a glimpse of red-gold hair, he remembered that today was Easter Monday. The LSE was closed for the bank holiday.

After a couple of hours he returned to Tottenham Court Road, looked for her in the Court and skulked for a while near the entrance to Spearmint Rhino, but could not find her anywhere.

After a run of days when he had been unable to get out and look for her, the disappointment caused him almost physical pain. Agitated, he began walking quiet side streets, hoping that some girl would stroll across his path, any woman at all, it didn’t have to be The Secretary; the knives beneath his jacket would be happy with anything now.

Perhaps she had been so shaken up by his little greetings card that she had resigned. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. He wanted her terrified and off balance, but working for Strike, because she was his means of getting the bastard.

In bitter disappointment, he returned in the early evening to It. He knew he was going to have to remain with It for the next two days and the prospect was draining him of his last vestiges of control. If he could have used It in the way he planned to use The Secretary, it would have been a different matter, a release: he would have hurried home, knives at the ready—but he dared not. He needed It alive and in thrall to him.