Robert Galbraith - Career of Evil

He lifted up the orange box, shut off the hissing propane and then replaced the iPod in its dock on top of the box. About to move deeper into the flat, he had a sudden thought and turned back to the iPod. One delicate poke of his latex-covered forefinger and the tiny screen lit up. “Hot Rails to Hell” by — as Strike knew only too well — Blue Öyster Cult.

The club was heaving with people. It had been constructed in two railway arches, just like those opposite his flat, and had a subterranean feel enhanced by the curved corrugated iron roof. A projector was throwing psychedelic lights across the ridges of metal. The music was deafening.

They had not been overly keen on letting him in. He’d had a bit of attitude from the bouncers: he had experienced a fleeting fear that they would pat him down, in his jacket with the knives concealed inside it.

He looked older than anybody else he could see and he resented it. That was what the psoriatic arthritis had done to him, leaving him pockmarked and blown up with steroids. His muscle had run to fat since his boxing days; he had pulled with ease back in Cyprus, but not anymore. He knew he’d have no chance with any of these hundreds of giddy little bitches crammed together beneath the glitter ball. Hardly any of them were dressed the way he expected of a club. Many of them were in jeans and T-shirts, like a bunch of lesbians.

Where was Strike’s temp, with her gorgeous arse and her delicious distractibility? There weren’t that many tall black women here; she ought to be easy to spot, yet he had combed bar and dance floor and seen no sign of her. It had seemed like providence, her mentioning this club so very close to his flat; he had thought it meant a return of his godlike status, the universe arranging itself once more for his benefit, but that feeling of invincibility had been fleeting and almost entirely dispelled by the argument with It.

The music thumped inside his head. He would rather have been back at home, listening to Blue Öyster Cult, masturbating over his relics, but he had heard her planning to be here... fuck, it was so crowded that he might be able to press up against her and stab her without anyone noticing or hearing her scream... Where was the bitch?

The tosser in the Wild Flag T-shirt had jostled him so many times he yearned to give him a good kicking. Instead he elbowed his way out of the bar to look at the dance floor again.

The shifting lights panned across a swaying carpet of arms and sweaty faces. A glint of gold — a scarred and sneering mouth—

He cleaved his way through onlookers, not caring how many little tarts he knocked aside.

That scarred guy had been on the Tube. He looked back. The man appeared to have lost someone; he was standing on tiptoe looking all around.

There was something wrong. He could feel it. Something fishy. Bending his knees slightly, the better to mingle with the crowd, he forced his way towards a fire exit.

“Sorry, mate, I need you to use the—”

“Fuck off.”

He was out of it before anyone could stop him, forcing the bar across the fire door, plunging out into the night. He jogged along the exterior wall and around a corner where, alone, he breathed deeply, considering his options.

You’re safe, he told himself. You’re safe. No one’s got anything on you.

But was it true?

Of all the clubs she could have mentioned, she had chosen the one two minutes from his house. What if that had not been a gift from the gods but something entirely different? What if someone was trying to set him up?

No. It couldn’t be. Strike had sent the pigs to him and they hadn’t been interested. He was safe for sure. There was nothing to connect him to any of them...

Except that that guy with the scarred face had been on the Tube from Finchley. The implications of that temporarily jammed his thought processes. If somebody was following not Donald Laing but a completely different man, he was totally fucked...

He began to walk, every now and then breaking into a short run. The crutches that were so useful a prop were no longer necessary except for gaining the sympathy of gullible women, fooling the disability office and, of course, maintaining his cover as a man too sick and ill to go looking for little Kelsey Platt. His arthritis had burned itself out years back, though it had proved a pleasant little earner and kept the flat in Wollaston Close ticking over...

Hurrying across the car park, he looked up at his flat. The curtains were closed. He could have sworn he had left them open.

The bulb was out in the only bedroom. Strike turned on the small torch he had brought with him and advanced slowly towards the only piece of furniture, a cheap pine wardrobe. The door creaked as he opened it.

The interior was plastered with articles from the newspapers about the Shacklewell Ripper. Taped above all of them was a picture that had been printed on a piece of A4 paper, possibly from the internet. Strike’s young mother, naked, arms over her head, her long cloud of dark hair not quite covering her breasts proudly displayed, an arch of curly script clearly visible over the dark triangle of pubic hair: Mistress of the Salmon Salt .

He looked down at the floor of the wardrobe where a pile of hard-core pornography sat beside a black bin bag. Putting the torch under his arm, Strike opened the latter with his latex-gloved hands. Inside was a small selection of women’s underclothing, some of it stiff with old brown blood. At the very bottom of the bag his fingers closed on a fine chain and a hoop earring. A heart-shaped harp charm glinted in the light of his torch. There was a trace of dry blood on the hoop.

Strike replaced everything in the black bin bag, closed the wardrobe door and continued to the kitchenette, which was clearly the source of the rotting smell that pervaded the entire place.

Somebody had turned up the TV next door. An echoing tirade of gunshots sounded through the thin wall. Strike heard faint, stoned laughter.

Beside the kettle sat a jar of instant coffee, a bottle of Bell’s, a magnifying mirror and a razor. The oven was thick with grease and dust, and looked as though it had not been used for a long time. The fridge door had been wiped down with a dirty cloth that had left behind it sweeping arcs of a pinkish residue. Strike had just reached for the handle when his mobile vibrated in his pocket.

Shanker was calling him. They had agreed not to phone each other, but only to text.

“Fucking hell, Shanker,” said Strike, raising the mobile to his ear. “I thought I said—”

He heard the breathing behind him a bare second before a machete came swinging through the air at his neck. Strike dived sideways, the mobile flying out of his hand, and slipped on the dirty floor. As he fell, the slashing blade sliced into his ear. The hulking shadow raised the machete again to attack Strike as he landed on the floor; Strike kicked out at its crotch and the killer grunted in pain, backed off a couple of paces, then raised the machete once more.

Scrambling to his knees, Strike punched his assailant hard in the balls. The machete slid out of Laing’s fingers and fell onto Strike’s back, causing him to shout out in pain even as he put his arms around Laing’s knees and toppled him. Laing’s head collided with the cooker door but his thick fingers were scrabbling for Strike’s throat. Strike tried to land a punch but was pinned down by Laing’s considerable weight. The man’s large, powerful hands were closing on his windpipe. With a gigantic effort Strike mustered enough force to headbutt Laing, whose skull again clanged off the oven door—