Career of Evil

“Says ’e’s wiv the Cult like last — they’re a band,” mumbled Stephanie, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “’E roadies for ’em — bur it’s just an excuse,” she said, crying harder, “to go places an’ find girls to fuck. I said I’d go an’ — cause last time ’e wanted me to — an’ I done the ’ole band for ’im.”

Robin did her very best not to look as though she understood what she had just been told. However, some flicker of anger and revulsion must have contaminated the look of pure kindliness she was trying to project, because Stephanie seemed suddenly to withdraw. She did not want judgment. She met that every day of her life.

“Have you been to a doctor?” Robin asked quietly.

“Wha’? No,” said Stephanie, folding her thin arms around her torso.

“When’s he due back, your boyfriend?”

Stephanie merely shook her head and shrugged. The temporary sympathy Robin had kindled between them seemed to have cooled.

“The Cult,” said Robin, improvising rapidly, her mouth dry, “that isn’t Death Cult, is it?”

“Yeah,” said Stephanie, dimly surprised.

“Which gig? I saw them the other day!”

Don’t ask me where, for God’s sake...

“This was in a pub called the — Green Fiddle, or sumfing. Enfield.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t the same gig,” said Robin. “When was yours?”

“Need a pee,” mumbled Stephanie, looking around the café.

She shuffled off towards the bathroom. When the door had closed behind her, Robin frantically keyed search terms into her mobile. It took her several attempts to find what she was looking for: Death Cult had played a pub called the Fiddler’s Green in Enfield on Saturday the fourth of June, the day before Heather Smart had been murdered.

The shadows were lengthening outside the café now, which had emptied apart from themselves. Evening was drawing in. The place would surely close soon.

“Cheers for the sandwich an’ ev’rything,” said Stephanie, who had reappeared beside her. “I’m gonna—”

“Have something else. Some chocolate or something,” Robin urged her, even though the waitress mopping table tops looked ready to throw them out.

“Why?” asked Stephanie, showing the first sign of suspicion.

“Because I really want to talk to you about your boyfriend,” said Robin.

“Why?” repeated the teenager, a little nervous now.

“Please sit down. It isn’t anything bad,” Robin coaxed her. “I’m just worried about you.”

Stephanie hesitated, then sank slowly back into the seat she had vacated. For the first time, Robin noticed the deep red mark around her neck.

“He didn’t — he didn’t try and strangle you, did he?” she asked.

“Wha’?”

Stephanie felt her thin neck and tears welled again in her eyes.

“Oh, tha’s — tha’ was my necklace. ’E give it me an’ then ’e...’cause I ain’t makin’ enough money,” she said, and began to cry in earnest. “’E’s sold it.”

Unable to think what else to do, Robin stretched her other hand across the table and held on to Stephanie’s with both of her own, holding tightly, as though Stephanie were on some moving plateau that was drifting away.

“Did you say he made you... with the whole band?” Robin asked quietly.

“That were f’free,” said Stephanie tearfully, and Robin understood that Stephanie was still thinking of her money-making abilities. “I only blew ’em.”

“After the gig?” asked Robin, releasing one hand to press paper napkins into Stephanie’s.

“No,” said Stephanie, wiping her nose, “next night. We stayed over in the van at the lead singer’s ’ouse. ’E lives in Enfield.”

Robin would not have believed that it was possible to feel simultaneously disgusted and delighted. If Stephanie had been with Whittaker on the night of the fifth of June, Whittaker could not have killed Heather Smart.

“Was he — your boyfriend — was he there?” she asked in a quiet voice. “All the time, while you were — you know—?”

“The fuck’s going on ’ere?”

Robin looked up. Stephanie snatched her hand away, looking frightened.

Whittaker was standing over them. Robin recognized him immediately from the pictures she had seen online. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet scrawny. His old black T-shirt was washed out almost to gray. The heretic priest’s golden eyes were fascinating in their intensity. In spite of the matted hair, the sunken, yellowing face, in spite of the fact that he repulsed her, she could yet feel the strange, manic aura of him, a magnetic pull like the reek of carrion. He woke the urge to investigate provoked by all dirty, rotten things, no less powerful because it was shameful.

“’Oo are you?” he asked, not aggressively, but with something close to a purr in his voice. He was looking unabashedly right down the front of her sundress.

“I bumped into your girlfriend outside the chippy,” said Robin. “I bought her a drink.”

“Didjoo now?”

“We’re closing,” said the waitress loudly.

The appearance of Whittaker had been a little too much for her, Robin could tell. His flesh tunnels, his tattoos, his maniac’s eyes, his smell would be desirable in very few establishments selling food.