“Strike here. What’s up?”

“Bit of a development, I think,” said the policeman. “Looks like our friend’s struck again.”

Strike moved the mobile to his other ear, away from the passing pedestrians.

“Go on.”

“Someone stabbed a hooker down in Shacklewell and cut off two of her fingers as a souvenir. Deliberately cut ’em off—pinned her arm down and hacked at them.”

“Jesus. When was this?”

“Ten days ago—twenty-ninth of April. She’s only just come out of an induced coma.”

“She survived?” said Strike, now taking his eyes entirely off the windows behind which Whittaker might or might not have been lurking, his attention all Wardle’s.

“By a fucking miracle,” said Wardle. “He stabbed her in the abdomen, punctured her lung, then hacked off her fingers. Miracle he missed major organs. We’re pretty sure he thought she was dead. She’d taken him down a gap between two buildings for a blow job, but they were disturbed: two students walking down Shacklewell Lane heard her scream and went down the alley to see what was going on. If they’d been five minutes later she’d’ve been a goner. It took two blood transfusions to keep her alive.”

“And?” said Strike. “What’s she saying?”

“Well, she’s drugged up to the eyeballs and can’t remember the actual attack. She thinks he was a big, beefy white guy wearing a hat. Dark jacket. Upturned collar. Couldn’t see much of his face, but she thinks he was a northerner.”

“She does?” said Strike, his heart pounding faster than ever.

“That’s what she said. She’s groggy, though. Oh, and he stopped her getting run over, that’s the last thing she can remember. Pulled her back off the road when a van was coming.”

“What a gent,” said Strike, exhaling smoke at the starry sky.

“Yeah,” said Wardle. “Well, he wanted his body parts pristine, didn’t he?”

“Any chance of a photofit?”

“We’re going to get the artist in to see her tomorrow, but I haven’t got high hopes.”

Strike stood in the darkness, thinking hard. He could tell that Wardle had been shaken by the new attack.

“Any news on any of my guys?” he asked.

“Not yet,” said Wardle tersely. Frustrated, Strike chose not to push it. He needed this open line into the investigation.

“What about your Devotee lead?” Strike asked, turning back to look at the windows of Whittaker’s flat, where nothing seemed to have changed. “How’s that coming along?”

“I’m trying to get the cybercrime lot after him, but I’m being told they’ve got bigger fish to fry just now,” said Wardle, not without bitterness. “Their view is he’s just a common or garden pervert.”

Strike remembered that this had also been Robin’s opinion. There seemed little else to say. He said good-bye to Wardle, then sank back into his niche in the cold wall, smoking and watching Whittaker’s curtained windows as before.

Strike and Robin met in the office by chance the following morning. Strike, who had just left his flat with a cardboard file of pictures of Mad Dad under his arm, had intended to head straight out without entering the office, but the sight of Robin’s blurred form through the frosted glass changed his mind.