Career of Evil

He sat down on the fake-leather massage table and waited. The little room was as clean as any spa, which Strike liked. He found dirt deeply anaphrodisiac; it always reminded him of his mother and Whittaker in that fetid squat, of stained mattresses and the miasma of his stepfather thick in his nostrils. Here beside the oils neatly lined up on a side cabinet, erotic thoughts could hardly fail to occur. The idea of a full body-to-body naked massage with oil was far from unpleasing.

For no reason that he could think of, his thoughts jumped to Robin, sitting outside in the car. He got briskly to his feet again, as though he had been discovered doing something compromising, and then angry Thai voices sounded close at hand. The door burst open to reveal Mama and his chosen girl, who looked frightened.

“You pay for one girl massage!” said Mama angrily.

Like her protégée, her eyes found his flies. She was checking to see whether any business had already been done, whether he was trying to get more on the cheap.

“He change mind,” said the girl desperately. “He want two girl, one Thai, one blonde. We do nothing. He change mind.”

“You pay for one girl only,” shouted Mama, pointing at Strike with a talon-tipped finger.

Strike heard heavy footsteps and guessed that the long-haired doorman was approaching.

“I’m happy,” he said, inwardly cursing, “to pay for the two-girl massage as well.”

“One hundred twenty more?” Mama shouted at him, unable to believe her ears.

“Yes,” he said. “Fine.”

She made him come back out into the lounge area to pay. An overweight redhead was sitting there in a cut-out black lycra dress. She looked hopeful.

“He want blonde,” said Strike’s accomplice as he handed over another hundred and twenty pounds, and the redhead’s face fell.

“Ingrid with client,” said Mama, shoving Strike’s cash in a drawer. “You wait here ’til she finish.”

So he sat between the skinny Thai girl and the redhead and watched Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? until a small, suited man with a white beard came scurrying out of the corridor and, avoiding eye contact with everybody, disappeared through the black curtains and escaped onto the street. Five minutes later a slim peroxide blonde who, Strike thought, must be around his own age appeared in purple lycra and thigh-high boots.

“You go with Ingrid,” said Mama and Strike and the Thai girl traipsed obediently back to the private parlor.

“He no want massage,” Strike’s first girl told the blonde breathlessly when the door was closed. “He want know where Noel went.”

The blonde eyed Strike, frowning. She might be more than twice the age of her companion, but she was good-looking, with dark brown eyes and high cheekbones.

“What d’you want ’im for?” she asked in pure Essex and then, calmly, “Are you police?”

“No,” said Strike.

Sudden comprehension was illuminating her pretty face.

“’Ang on,” she said slowly. “I know ’oo you are — you’re that Strike! You’re Cameron Strike! The detective ’oo solved the Lula Landry case and — Jesus — didn’t someone just send you a leg?”

“Er — yeah, they did.”

“Noel was fucking obsessed with you!” she said. “All I ever heard ’im talk about, practically. After you was on the news.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, ’e kept saying you give ’im a brain injury!”

“I can’t take full credit. You knew him well, did you?”

“Not that well!” she said, correctly interpreting Strike’s meaning. “I knew ’is friend from up north, John. He was a great guy, one of my regular punters before ’e went off to Saudi. Yeah, they was at school together, I fink. ’E felt sorry for Noel ’cause ’e was ex-forces and ’e’d ’ad a few problems, so ’e recommended him for ’ere. Said ’e was down on his luck. ’E got me to rent Noel a room at my place an’ all.”

Her tone said plainly that she felt John’s sympathy for Brockbank had been misplaced.

“How did that go?”

“’E was all right at first, but once ’is guard come down ’e just ranted all the time. About the army, about you, about ’is son — ’e’s obsessed with ’is son, getting ’is son back. ’E says it’s your fault he can’t see ’im, but I don’t see ’ow ’e works that out. Anyone could see why his ex-wife didn’t want ’im near the kid.”

“And why’s that?”

“Mama found ’im with ’er granddaughter on ’is lap and ’is ’and up ’er skirt,” said Ingrid. “She’s six.”

“Ah,” said Strike.

“’E left owing me two weeks’ rent and that’s the last I ever saw of ’im. Good bloody riddance.”

“D’you know where he went after he was sacked?”

“No idea.”

“So you haven’t got any contact details?”

“I’ve prob’bly still got his mobile number,” she said. “I don’t know whether ’e’ll still be using it.”

“Could you give—?”

“Do I look like I’ve got a mobile on me?” she asked, raising her arms high. The lycra and boots outlined every curve. Her erect nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric. Invited to look, Strike forced himself to maintain eye contact.

“Could you meet me later and give it to me?”