Career of Evil

For one crazy moment Strike thought she might be about to hug him, she looked so happy (and with the protective ring back on her finger, perhaps he had become a safely huggable figure, a de-sexed noncompetitor), but she was merely heading for the kettle.

“I’ve got a lead,” she told him.

“Yeah?” he said, still struggling to make sense of the new situation. (What was he going to ask her to do that wasn’t too dangerous? Where could he send her?)

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve made contact with one of the people on the BIID forum who was talking to Kelsey.”

Yawning widely, Strike dropped down into the fake-leather sofa, which made its usual flatulent noises under his weight, and tried to remember whom she was talking about. He was so sleep-deprived that his usually capacious and accurate memory was becoming unreliable.

“The... bloke or the woman?” he asked, with the vague remembrance of the photographs Wardle had shown them.

“The man,” said Robin, pouring boiling water onto tea bags.

For the first time in their relationship Strike found himself relishing an opportunity to undermine her.

“So you’ve been going onto websites without telling me? Playing games with a bunch of anonymous punters without knowing who you’re messing with?”

“I told you I’d been on there!” said Robin indignantly. “I saw Kelsey asking questions about you on a message board, remember? She was calling herself Nowheretoturn. I told you all this when Wardle was here. He was impressed,” she added.

“He’s also way ahead of you,” said Strike. “He’s questioned both of those people she was talking to online. It’s a dead end. They never met her. He’s working on a guy called Devotee now, who was trying to meet women off the site.”

“I already know about Devotee.”

“How?”

“He asked to see my picture and when I didn’t send it, he went quiet—”

“So you’ve been flirting with these nutters, have you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Robin impatiently, “I’ve been pretending I’ve got the same disorder they have, it’s hardly flirting — and I don’t think Devotee’s anything to worry about.”

She passed Strike a mug of tea, which was precisely his preferred shade of creosote. Perversely, this aggravated rather than soothed him.

“So you don’t think Devotee’s anything to worry about? What are you basing that on?”

“I’ve been doing some research into acrotomophiliacs ever since that letter came in addressed to you — the man who was fixated on your leg, remember? As paraphilias go, it’s hardly ever associated with violence. I think Devotee’s much more likely to be masturbating over his keyboard at the idea of all the wannabes.”

Unable to think of any response to this, Strike drank some tea.

“Anyway,” said Robin (his lack of thanks for his tea had rankled), “the guy Kelsey was talking to online — he wants to be an amputee too — lied to Wardle.”

“What do you mean, he lied?”

“He did meet Kelsey in real life.”

“Yeah?” said Strike, determinedly casual. “How do you know that?”

“He’s told me all about it. He was terrified when the Met contacted him — none of his family or his friends knows about his obsession with getting rid of his leg — so he panicked and said he’d never met Kelsey. He was afraid that if he admitted he had, there would be publicity and he’d have to give evidence in court.

“Anyway, once I’d convinced him that I am who I am, that I’m not a journalist or a policewoman—”

“You told him the truth?”

“Yes, which was the best thing I could have done, because once he was convinced I was really me, he agreed to meet.”

“And what makes you think he’s genuinely going to meet you?” asked Strike.

“Because we’ve got leverage with him that the police haven’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like,” she said coldly, wishing that she could have returned a different answer, “you. Jason’s absolutely desperate to meet you.”

“Me?” said Strike, completely thrown. “Why?”

“Because he believes you cut your leg off yourself.”

“What?”

“Kelsey convinced him that you did it yourself. He wants to know how.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Strike, “is he mentally ill? Of course he is,” he answered himself immediately. “Of course he’s mentally ill. He wants to cut his fucking leg off. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Well, you know, there’s debate about whether BIID is a mental illness or some kind of brain abnormality,” said Robin. “When you scan the brain of someone suffering—”

“Whatever,” said Strike, waving the topic away. “What makes you think this nutter’s got anything useful—?”

“He met Kelsey,” said Robin impatiently, “who must have told him why she was so convinced you were one of them. He’s nineteen years old, he works in an Asda in Leeds, he’s got an aunt in London and he’s going to come down, stay with her and meet me. We’re trying to find a date. He needs to find out when he can get the time off.