Career of Evil

“No,” she said, with surprising vehemence. “No.”


She retreated and slammed the door.

“Bugger,” said Strike under his breath, which made him think of Robin. She would almost certainly have been better than him at charming the little old woman. Slowly he turned, wondering whether there was anyone else in Melrose who might help—he had definitely seen other Laings listed on 192.com—and found himself face to face with the dog walker, who had proceeded all the way down the drive to meet him and was looking cautiously excited.

“You’re the detective,” he said. “You’re the detective that put her son away.”

Strike was astonished. He could not imagine how he was recognizable to an elderly Scottish man whom he had never met before. His so-called fame was of a very low order when it came to being identified by strangers. He walked the streets of London daily without anyone caring who he was, and unless somebody met him or heard his name in the context of an investigation, was rarely associated with the newspaper stories about his successful cases.

“Aye, you did!” said the elderly man, his excitement rising. “My wife and I are friends of Margaret Bunyan’s.” And in the face of Strike’s mystification he elaborated: “Rhona’s mother.”

It took a few seconds for Strike’s capacious memory to render up the information that Laing’s wife, the young woman whom he had discovered tied to the bed beneath the bloodstained sheet, had been called Rhona.

“When Margaret seen you in the papers she said to us, ‘That’s him, that’s the lad that rescued our Rhona!’ You’ve done very well for yourself, haven’t you? Stop it, Wullie!” he added in a loud aside to the eager collie, which was still pulling on its lead, trying to regain the road. “Oh, aye, Margaret follows everything you do, all the stories in the papers. You found out who killed that model girl—and that writer! Margaret’s never forgot what you did for her girl, never.”

Strike muttered something indistinct, something he hoped sounded grateful for Margaret’s appreciation.

“Wha’ for are you wanting to talk to auld Mrs. Laing? He’s nae done something else, has he, Donnie?”

“I’m trying to find him,” said Strike evasively. “D’you know if he’s back in Melrose?”

“Och, no, I wouldnae think so. He came back to see his mother a few years back, but I dinnae know that he’s been here since. It’s a small toon: Donnie Laing back—we’d hear, ken?”

“D’you think Mrs.—Bunyan, did you say?—might have any—?”

“She’d love tae meet you,” said the old man excitedly. “No, Wullie,” he added to the whining Border collie, which was trying to tug him to the gate. “I’ll ring her, will I? She’s only over in Darnick. Next village. Will I ring?”

“That’d be very helpful.”

So Strike accompanied the old man next door and waited in a small, spotless sitting room while he gabbled excitedly into the phone over his dog’s increasingly furious whines.

“She’ll come over,” said the old man, with his hand over the receiver. “D’ye want to meet her here? You’re welcome. The wife’ll make tea—”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a couple of things to do,” lied Strike, who doubted the possibility of a successful interview in the presence of this garrulous witness. “Could you see whether she’d be free for lunch at the Ship Inn? In an hour?”

The collie’s determination for its walk tipped the balance in Strike’s favor. The two men left the house and walked back down the hill together, the collie tugging all the way so that Strike was forced into a faster gait than suited him on a steep downward slope. He said good-bye with relief to his helpful acquaintance in Market Square. With a cheery wave, the old man headed off in the direction of the River Tweed and Strike, now limping slightly, walked down the high street, killing time until he needed to return to the Ship.

At the bottom of the road he encountered another explosion of black and acid yellow which, Strike realized, explained the Ship Inn’s colors. Here again was the yellow rose, on a sign announcing MELROSE RUGBY FOOTBALL CLUB. Strike paused, hands in pockets, looking over the low wall at a smooth, level expanse of viridian velvet surrounded by trees, the yellow rugby posts shining in the sun, stands to the right and softly undulating hills beyond. The pitch was as well maintained as any place of worship, and an extraordinarily well-appointed facility for such a small town.

Robert Galbraith & J. K. Rowling's books