She’d brought home a newspaper with a news story in it about the fact that the Shacklewell Ripper might now have red ink stains around his eyes. He had burned the paper in the garden, but he couldn’t stop her reading the story elsewhere. The day before yesterday, he thought he’d surprised It watching him with an odd expression on her face. It wasn’t stupid, not really; was It starting to wonder? This anxiety was the last thing he needed when his attempt on The Secretary had left him almost humiliated.
There was no point going after The Secretary anymore, because she had left Strike forever. He had seen the story online, in the internet café where he sometimes whiled away an hour, just to get away from It. He took some consolation from the idea that his machete had frightened her off, that she would bear forever the long scar down her forearm that he had carved there, but that wasn’t good enough.
His months and months of careful planning had all been with the intention of entangling Strike in murder, tarring him with suspicion. Firstly, embroil him in the death of the stupid little bitch who’d wanted her leg cut off, so that the police swarmed all over him and the dumb public thought he’d had something to do with it. Then, murder his Secretary. Let him try and limp away from that untainted. Let him try and be the famous detective after that.
But the bastard kept wriggling free. There had been no mention of the letters in the press, the letter he had carefully written out “from” Kelsey, and which had been supposed to turn Strike into suspect number one. Then the press had colluded with the fucker, not giving out The Secretary’s name, not drawing the connection between her and Strike.
Perhaps it might be wise to stop now… except that he could not stop. He had come too far. He had never in his life put so much planning into anything as he had into the ruination of Strike. The fat, crippled bastard had already advertised for somebody to replace The Secretary, and that didn’t look like a man who was about to go out of business.
One good thing, though: there was no sign of a police presence around Denmark Street anymore. Someone had called them off. They probably thought nobody was needed now that The Secretary had gone.
Perhaps he ought not to have returned to Strike’s place of work, but he had hoped to see the frightened Secretary leaving with a box in her hands, or get a glimpse of a downcast, beaten Strike, but no—shortly after he’d taken up a well-concealed position to watch the street, the bastard had come striding along Charing Cross Road with a stunning-looking woman, apparently completely unperturbed.
The girl had to be a temp, because Strike had not had time to interview and hire a permanent replacement. No doubt the Big Man needed somebody to open his mail. She wore heels that would not have disgraced that little hooker, teetering along, waggling a fine arse. He liked them dark, he always had. In fact, given the choice, he’d have taken someone like her any time over The Secretary.
She hadn’t had surveillance training; that much was clear. He had watched Strike’s office all morning after his first glimpse of her, watched her nipping out to the post and back, nearly always on the phone, oblivious to her surroundings, so busy tossing her long hair over her shoulders that she was unable to keep eye contact with anyone for long, dropping her keys, gabbling at the top of her voice on her phone or to anyone else with whom she came into casual contact. At one o’clock he had slipped into the sandwich shop behind her and heard her making noisy plans to go to Corsica Studios the following evening.
He knew what Corsica Studios was. He knew where it was. Excitement ripped through him: he had to turn his back on her, pretending to look out of the window, because he thought the expression on his face would give it away to all of them… If he did her while she was still working for Strike, he’d have fulfilled his plan: Strike would be connected to two hacked-up women and nobody, police or public, would ever trust him again.
This would be so much easier too. The Secretary had been a fucking nightmare to pick off, always alert and streetwise, going home by crowded, well-lit paths every evening to her pretty boyfriend, but The Temp was offering herself up on a plate. After telling the whole sandwich shop where she would be meeting her mates, she had strutted back to work on her Perspex heels, dropping Strike’s sandwiches once on the way. He noticed that there was no wedding or engagement ring on her finger as she bent to pick them up. He had been hard pressed to suppress his jubilation as he peeled away, formulating his plan.
If only he hadn’t slapped It, he’d be feeling good now, excited, elated. The slap hadn’t been an auspicious start to the evening. No wonder he felt jumpy. There had been no time to stay and calm her down, turn her sweet: he had simply walked out, determined to get to The Temp, but he still felt jumpy… What if It called the police?