A/N The world of Cormoran Strike and the characters therein belong to Robert Galbraith aka JK Rowling. I have not had a beta reader for this story so if you spot a typo, I will not be offended if you let me know.
I was surprised there were so few Cormoran Strike fics and had to write a quick one! I suspect it won't be my last.
Set during the latter part of Career of Evil. Contains spoilers if you have not read this book.
Smell
As soon as he had shouldered open the door of the third floor flat, past caring about covering his tracks, the ammonic stench of the stairwell gave way to an olfactory assault. Sweat and mildew, stiff clothes over the radiators, draped there when damp and left to moulder. The sour whiff of the bin, overflowing with old takeaway cartons. Cigarette smoke clinging to his own clothes like a security blanket. Fear - acrid in the air – unidentifiable but unmistakeable. Strike wasn't sure if it was someone else's or his own. The sweet, cloying, unmistakeable scent of death that punched you in the back of the throat and made your eyes water. Above the stink of rotting flesh, a high note, the ferric tang of fresh blood.
Taste
His teeth were furry and his tongue was thick with too much smoking. The faint ghost of the two pints of Doom Bar he had at lunch time. Bile in his throat, bitter and biting, threatening to rise and empty the contents of his stomach. He could taste it on the air. He could taste it. Coating his mouth with the overwhelming flavour of rotting meat that made his salivary glands tingle in response. Hurriedly he swallowed, hoping that he wouldn't taint the crime scene with his vomit.
Sight
On, off, on, off - a staccato flicker of sunlight highlighted the filth encrusted kitchen worktop through the blades of the lazily rotating extractor fan. Dust motes sparkling in the air – he had read somewhere that air in the underground was 25% skin flakes. Just who was he inhaling here? Was he taking her into his lungs? Surfaces were littered with dirty plates covered in desiccated crusts and green fur. The wall must have once been a cream colour but were now yellowed and dulled with grease. A knife shining wetly on the floor, a splatter of scarlet next to it as though it had been dropped hastily. In the adjoining room, almost out of sight, a flash of poison green caught his eye. Just a corner of fabric peeking out from under a stained sheet crumpled atop a sagging mattress on the floor. The enormous American fridge, new and conspicuous in this shabby flat. The sliver of light as the fridge door was opened. The greyish green of old flesh, shrunken and curled: ears; breasts. Pale flesh with dark bruises standing out starkly against it. Raw edges glistening and oozing like a joint of beef. Strawberry blonde hair, darkened and matted to almost black with blood. Blue grey eyes, clouded over - sightless. A shadow darkened the doorway.
Sound
The couple next door were arguing, their voices barely dampened through the paper thin walls. Her, shrill and furious; him, gruff and defensive. The distant hum of traffic, punctuated occasionally by a siren or the thrum of a motorbike. The rhythmic vibration of what Strike knew must be Robin's mobile in another room, ringing with the call from the one that was hanging from his own fingers. The buzz of flies. His own breath, rasping slightly from too many cigarettes and the hurried ascent up the steep, urine tainted stairwell. The steady drip drip drip of the rapidly congealing blood seeping out of the bottom of the fridge onto the grimy linoleum. The rush of his pulse in his ears. A heavy tread behind him.
Feel
The burn of his lungs. His leg was throbbing and protesting after the dash up the stairs. He could feel it prickling and swelling even as he stood and he could have sworn he had felt something move within it – a sharp twang that he had barely acknowledged while time was of the essence but was starting to make itself known now. With a shaking hand, he reached out and touched the fresher meat. Just a brush with a thick, hairy backed finger. It was tepid, like taking someone's hand on an autumn day but it lacked the frigid chilliness of the interior of the fridge. Minutes too late, that was all. Possibly not even an entire revolution of the hands around the face of the expensive watch Lucy had bought him for his last birthday. An implosion, deep and muffled inside his chest that started slowly but gained pace as it began to claw all of his awareness and being down into an aching chasm of pain and grief. A large hand landing roughly on his shoulder. A point of steel pressed at the base of his spine, sharp even through his clothes.
Everything went black.
Suddenly, Strike took a deep gasp as though he had been immersed in water and sat bolt upright. He was drenched in sweat, his heart threatening to pound out of his chest. The mattress creaked a protest. It had been so real. So real. He had to feel the damp sheets under him with his hand to convince himself that he really was in his own bed in the flat above the office. Automatically he reached for his phone to see if Robin had tried to call him, but she wouldn't, she would never call him again. That was exactly why he had fired her – to keep the woman that he already cared a dangerous amount for away from him. To keep her away from danger, from suffering the fate that his unconscious mind had conjured so effectively. Even if that meant that she herself would be sleeping soundly in that wanker's arms now across the other side of the city instead of here next to him where he wanted her so badly it hurt. Without turning on the light, he drew his packet of cigarettes and ashtray towards him and lit up, taking a shaky drag, and waited for the trembling in his hands to subside.
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