“Yeah, but I gave evidence anonymously. He shouldn’t ever have known it was me.”
“They’ve got ways and means,” said Wardle. “Harringay Crime Syndicate—they’re like the fucking mafia. Did you hear how he sent Hatford Ali’s dick to Ian Bevin?”
“Yeah, I heard,” said Strike.
“So what’s the story with the song? The harvest of whatever the fuck it was?”
“Well, that’s what I’m worried about,” said Strike slowly. “It seems pretty subtle for the likes of Digger—which makes me think it might be one of the other three.”
4
Four winds at the Four Winds Bar,
Two doors locked and windows barred,
One door left to take you in,
The other one just mirrors it…
Blue ?yster Cult, “Astronomy”
“You know four men who’d send you a severed leg? Four?”
Strike could see Robin’s appalled expression reflected in the round mirror standing beside the sink, where he was shaving. The police had taken away the leg at last, Strike had declared work suspended for the day and Robin remained at the little Formica table in his kitchen-cum-sitting room, cradling a second mug of tea.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, strafing stubble from his chin, “I think it’s only three. Think I might’ve made a mistake telling Wardle about Malley.”
“Why?”
Strike told Robin the story of his brief contact with the career criminal, who owed his last prison stretch, in part, to Strike’s evidence.
“… so now Wardle’s convinced the Harringay Crime Syndicate found out who I was, but I left for Iraq shortly after testifying and I’ve never yet known an SIB officer’s cover blown because he gave evidence in court. Plus, the song lyrics don’t smell like Digger. He’s not one for fancy touches.”
“But he’s cut bits off people he’s killed before?” Robin asked.
“Once that I know of—but don’t forget, whoever did this hasn’t necessarily killed anyone,” temporized Strike. “The leg could have come off an existing corpse. Could be hospital waste. Wardle’s going to check all that out. We won’t know much until forensics have had a look.”
The ghastly possibility that the leg had been taken from a still-living person, he chose not to mention.
In the ensuing pause, Strike rinsed his razor under the kitchen tap and Robin stared out of the window, lost in thought.
“Well, you had to tell Wardle about Malley,” said Robin, turning back to Strike, who met her gaze in his shaving mirror. “I mean, if he’s already sent someone a—what exactly did he send?” she asked, a little nervously.
“A penis,” said Strike. He washed his face clean and dried it on a towel before continuing. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. More I think about it, though, the surer I am it’s not him. Back in a minute—I want to change this shirt. I ripped two buttons off it when you screamed.”
“Sorry,” said Robin vaguely, as Strike disappeared into the bedroom.
Sipping her tea, she took a look around the room in which she was sitting. She had never been inside Strike’s attic flat before. The most she had done previously was knock on the door to deliver messages or, in some of their busiest and most sleep-deprived stretches, to wake him up. The kitchen-cum-sitting room was cramped but clean and orderly. There were virtually no signs of personality: mismatched mugs, a cheap tea towel folded beside the gas ring; no photographs and nothing decorative, save for a child’s drawing of a soldier, which had been tacked up on one of the wall units.
“Who drew that?” she asked, when Strike reappeared in a clean shirt.
“My nephew Jack. He likes me, for some reason.”
“Don’t fish.”
“I’m not fishing. I never know what to say to kids.”
“So you think you’ve met three men who would’ve—?” Robin began again.
“I want a drink,” said Strike. “Let’s go to the Tottenham.”
There was no possibility of talking on the way, not with the racket of pneumatic drills still issuing from the trenches in the road, but the fluorescent-jacketed workmen neither wolf-whistled nor cat-called with Strike walking at Robin’s side. At last they reached Strike’s favorite local pub, with its ornate gilded mirrors, its panels of dark wood, its shining brass pumps, the colored glass cupola and the paintings of gamboling beauties by Felix de Jong.
Strike ordered a pint of Doom Bar. Robin, who could not face alcohol, asked for a coffee.
“So?” said Robin, once the detective had returned to the high table beneath the cupola. “Who are the three men?”
“I could be barking up a forest of wrong trees, don’t forget,” said Strike, sipping his pint.
“All right,” said Robin. “Who are they?”
“Twisted individuals who’ve all got good reason to hate my guts.”
Inside Strike’s head, a frightened, skinny twelve-year-old girl with scarring around her leg surveyed him through lopsided glasses. Had it been her right leg? He couldn’t remember. Jesus, don’t let it be her…