Career of Evil

TransHopeful: London

<<Δēvōŧėė>>: Me too. Got a pic?

“Did you go to Mr. Cunliffe’s birthday party?” she asked, trying to drown out the sound of the laptop keys.

“Of course we didn’t!” said Linda. “Well, let me know what day’s best week after next, and I’ll book my ticket. It’s Easter; it’ll be busy.”

Robin agreed, returned Linda’s affectionate good-bye and directed her full attention to <<Δēvōŧėė>>. Unfortunately, after Robin refused to give him or her (she was almost positive that he was male) a picture, <<Δēvōŧėė>> lost interest in their back and forth on the noticeboards and went quiet.

She had expected Matthew to return from his father’s on Sunday evening, but he did not. When she checked the calendar in the kitchen at eight, she realized that he had always intended to take Monday off. Presumably she had agreed to this, back when the weekend had been planned, and told Matthew that she would ask Strike for a day’s holiday, too. It was lucky that they had split up, really, she told herself bracingly: she had dodged one more row about her working hours.

However, she cried later, alone in the bedroom that was thick with relics of their shared past: the fluffy elephant he had given her on their first Valentine’s Day together — he had not been so suave in those days; she could remember him turning red as he had produced it — and the jewelry box he had given her for her twenty-first. Then there were all the photographs showing them beaming during holidays in Greece and Spain, and dressed up at Matthew’s sister’s wedding. The biggest picture of the lot showed them arm in arm on Matthew’s graduation day. He was in his academic gown and Robin stood beside him in a summer dress, beaming as she celebrated an achievement of which she had been robbed by a man in a gorilla mask.

31

Nighttime flowers, evening roses,

Bless this garden that never closes.

                        Blue Öyster Cult, “Tenderloin”

Robin’s mood was buoyed next day by the glorious spring morning that greeted her outside her front door. She did not forget to remain aware of her surroundings as she traveled by Tube towards Tottenham Court Road, but saw no sign of any large man in a beanie hat. What leapt to the eye on her morning commute was the mounting journalistic excitement about the royal wedding. Kate Middleton seemed to be on the front of virtually every newspaper held by her fellow travelers. It made Robin hyperaware all over again of that naked, sensitive place on her third finger where an engagement ring had sat for a year. However, excited as she was about sharing the results of her solo investigative work with Strike, Robin refused to be downcast.

She had just left Tottenham Court Road station when she heard a man shout her name. For a split second she feared an ambush by Matthew, then Strike appeared, forging a path through the crowd, backpack on his shoulder. Robin deduced that he had spent the night with Elin.

“Morning. Good weekend?” he asked. Then, before she could answer: “Sorry. No. Crap weekend, obviously.”

“Bits of it were all right,” said Robin as they wended their way through the usual obstacle course of barriers and holes in the road.

“What have you got?” Strike asked loudly over the interminable drills.

“Sorry?” she shouted.

“What. Have. You. Found. Out?”

“How do you know I’ve found anything out?”

“You’ve got that look,” he said. “The look you get when you’re dying to tell me something.”

She grinned.

“I need a computer to show you.”

They turned the corner into Denmark Street. A man dressed all in black stood outside their office door, holding a gigantic bunch of red roses.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” breathed Robin.

A spasm of fear receded: her mind had momentarily edited out the armful of blooms and seen only the man in black — but it wasn’t the courier, of course. This, she saw as they approached him, was a youth with long hair, an Interflora deliveryman wearing no helmet. Strike doubted the boy had ever handed over fifty red roses to a less enthusiastic recipient.

“His father’s put him up to this,” Robin said darkly, as Strike held open the door for her and she pushed her way inside, being none too gentle with the quivering floral display. “‘All women love roses,’ he’ll have said. That’s all it takes — a bunch of bloody flowers.”

Strike followed her up the metal staircase, amused but careful not to show it. He unlocked the office door and Robin crossed to her desk and dropped the roses unceremoniously onto it, where they quivered in their beribboned polythene bag of greenish water. There was a card. She did not want to open it in front of Strike.

“Well?” he asked, hanging his backpack on the peg beside the door. “What have you found out?”

Before Robin could say a word there was a rap on the door. Wardle’s shape was easily recognizable through the frosted glass: his wavy hair, his leather jacket.