Robert Galbraith - Career of Evil

Robin was wearing a coronet of white roses in her long, wavy hair. He could not see her face. She was not wearing her cast. Even at this distance, he could see the long, purple scar running down the back of her forearm.

“Do you,” came a ringing voice from an unseen vicar, “Robin Venetia Ellacott, take this man, Matthew John Cunliffe, to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward—”

Exhausted, tense, his gaze fixed on Robin, Strike had not realized how near he was to the flower arrangement that stood on a fine, tulip-like bronze stand.

“—for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death—”

“Oh shit,” said Strike.

The arrangement he had hit toppled as though in slow motion and fell with a deafening clang to the floor. Congregation and couple turned and looked back.

“I’m — Christ, I’m sorry,” said Strike hopelessly.

Somewhere in the middle of the congregation a man laughed. Most returned their gazes to the altar at once, but a few guests continued to glare at Strike before remembering themselves.

“—do you part,” said the vicar with saintly tolerance.

The beautiful bride, who had not once smiled in the entire service, was suddenly beaming.

“I do,” said Robin in a ringing voice, looking straight into the eyes, not of her stony-faced new husband, but of the battered and bloodied man who had just sent her flowers crashing to the floor.

I can’t remember ever enjoying writing a novel more than Career of Evil. This is odd, not only on account of the grisly subject matter, but also because I’ve rarely been busier than over the last twelve months and have had to keep switching between projects, which is not my favorite way to work. Nevertheless, Robert Galbraith has always felt like my own private playground, and he didn’t let me down on this occasion.

I have to thank my usual team for ensuring that my once-secret identity remains such fun: my peerless editor, David Shelley, who has now been godfather to four of my novels and who makes the editing process so rewarding; my wonderful agent and friend, Neil Blair, who has been Robert’s stalwart supporter from the first; Deeby and SOBE, who have allowed me to pick their military brains clean; the Back Door Man, for reasons best left undisclosed; Amanda Donaldson, Fiona Shapcott, Angela Milne, Christine Collingwood, Simon Brown, Kaisa Tiensu and Danni Cameron, without whose hard work I would not have any time left over to do my own; and the dream team of Mark Hutchinson, Nicky Stonehill and Rebecca Salt, without whom I would, frankly, be a wreck.

Particular thanks are due to MP, who enabled me to make a fascinating visit to 35 Section SIB (UK) RMP in Edinburgh Castle. Thanks are also due to the two policewomen who didn’t arrest me for taking photographs of the perimeter of a nuclear facility in Barrow-in-Furness.

To all the lyricists who have worked with and for Blue Öyster Cult, thank you for writing such great songs and for letting me use some of your words in this novel.

To my children, Decca, Davy and Kenz: I love you beyond words and I want to thank you for being so understanding about the times when the writing bug is particularly active.

Lastly and mostly: thank you, Neil. Nobody helped more when it came to this book.