“Jesus Christ, Robin, that’s fucking brilliant!”
When the dressmaker returned to her job at last, she found a considerably more radiant bride than she had left. Robin’s lack of enthusiasm for the process of altering her dress had been diminishing the seamstress’s pleasure in her job. Robin was easily the best-looking client on her books and she had hoped to get a photograph for advertising purposes once the dress was finished.
“That’s wonderful,” said Robin, beaming at the seamstress as she tugged the last seam straight and together they contemplated the vision in the mirror. “That’s absolutely wonderful.”
For the first time, she thought that the dress really didn’t look bad at all.
51
Don’t turn your back, don’t show your profile,
You’ll never know when it’s your turn to go.
Blue ?yster Cult, “Don’t Turn Your Back”
“The public response has been overwhelming. We’re currently following up over twelve hundred leads, some of which look promising,” said Detective Inspector Roy Carver. “We continue to appeal for information on the whereabouts of the red Honda CB750 used to transport part of Kelsey Platt’s body and we remain interested in speaking to anybody who was in Old Street on the night of 5th June, when Heather Smart was killed.”
The headline POLICE FOLLOW NEW LEADS IN HUNT FOR SHACKLEWELL RIPPER was not really justified, in Robin’s view, by anything in the brief report beneath, although she supposed that Carver would not share details of genuine new developments with the press.
Five photographs of the women now believed to have been victims of the Ripper filled most of the page, their identities and their brutal fates stamped across their chests in black typeface.
Martina Rossi, 28, prostitute, stabbed to death, necklace stolen.
Martina was a plump, dark woman wearing a white tank top. Her blurry photograph looked as though it had been a selfie. A small heart-shaped harp charm hung from a chain around her neck.
Sadie Roach, 25, admin assistant, stabbed to death, mutilated, earrings taken.
She had been a pretty girl with a gamine haircut and hoops in her ears. Judging by cropped figures at the edges of her picture, it had been taken at a family gathering.
Kelsey Platt, 16, student, stabbed to death and dismembered.
Here was the familiar chubby, plain face of the girl who had written to Strike, smiling in her school uniform.
Lila Monkton, 18, prostitute, stabbed, fingers cut off, survived.
A blurred picture of a gaunt girl whose bright red hennaed hair was cut into a shaggy bob, her multiple piercings glinting in the camera flash.
Heather Smart, 22, financial services worker, stabbed to death, nose and ears removed.
She was round-faced and innocent-looking, with wavy mouse-brown hair, freckles and a timid smile.
Robin looked up from the Daily Express with a deep sigh. Matthew had been sent to audit a client in High Wycombe, so he had been unable to give Robin a lift today. It had taken her a full hour and twenty minutes to get to Catford from Ealing on trains crammed with tourists and commuters sweating in the London heat. Now she left her seat and headed for the door, swaying with the rest of the commuters as the train slowed and stopped, yet again, at Catford Bridge station.
Her week back at work with Strike had been strange. Strike, who clearly had no intention to comply with the instruction to keep out of Carver’s investigation, was nevertheless taking the investigating officer seriously enough to be cautious.
“If he can make a case that we’ve buggered up the police investigation, we’re finished as a business,” he said. “And we know he’ll try and say I’ve screwed things up, whether I have or not.”
“So why are we carrying on?”
Robin had been playing devil’s advocate, because she would have been deeply unhappy and frustrated had Strike announced that they were abandoning their leads.
“Because Carver thinks my suspects are bullshit, and I think he’s an incompetent tit.”
Robin’s laugh had ended prematurely when Strike had told her he wanted her to return to Catford and stake out Whittaker’s girlfriend.
“Still?” she asked. “Why?”
“You know why. I want to see whether Stephanie can give him alibis for any of the key dates.”
“You know what?” said Robin, plucking up her courage. “I’ve been in Catford a lot. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather do Brockbank. Why don’t I try and get something out of Alyssa?”
“There’s Laing as well, if you want a change,” said Strike.
“He saw me up close when I fell over,” Robin countered at once. “Don’t you think it would be better if you did Laing?”
“I’ve been watching his flat while you’ve been away,” Strike said.
“And?”
“And he mostly stays in, but sometimes he goes to the shops and back.”
“You don’t think it’s him anymore, do you?”