Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(65)

The bakery was cramped and busy. Watching Holly bag up pasties, Strike remembered his venison pies from Melrose and his mouth watered.

“I could eat again.”

“You can’t talk to her in there,” said Robin. “We’d do better to approach her at home, or in the pub.”

“You could nip in and get me a pasty.”

“We had rolls less than an hour ago!”

“So? I’m not on a bloody diet.”

“Nor am I, anymore,” said Robin.

The brave words brought to mind the strapless wedding dress still waiting for her in Harrogate. Did she really not intend to fit into it? The flowers, the catering, the bridesmaids, the choice of first dance—would none of it be needed anymore? Deposits lost, presents returned, the faces of stunned friends and relatives when she told them…

The Land Rover was chilly and uncomfortable, she was very tired after hours of driving and for a few seconds—the time it took for a weak, treacherous lurch of her heart—the thought of Matthew and Sarah Shadlock made her want to cry all over again.

“D’you mind if I smoke?” said Strike, pushing down the window and letting in the cold air without waiting for an answer. Robin swallowed an affirmative answer; he had forgiven her for the police, after all. Somehow the chilly breeze helped brace her for what she needed to tell him.

“You can’t interview Holly.”

He turned to her, frowning.

“Taking Brockbank by surprise is one thing, but if Holly recognizes you she’ll warn him you’re after him. I’ll have to do it. I’ve thought of a way.”

“Yeah—that’s not going to happen,” said Strike flatly. “Odds are he’s either living with her or a couple of streets away. He’s a nutcase. If he smells a rat he’ll turn nasty. You’re not doing it alone.”

Robin drew her coat more tightly around her and said coolly:

“D’you want to hear my idea or not?”





25



There’s a time for discussion and a time for a fight.

Blue ?yster Cult, “Madness to the Method”



Strike didn’t like it, but he was forced to concede that Robin’s plan was a good one and that the danger of Holly tipping off Noel outweighed the probable risk to Robin. Accordingly, when Holly left work with a colleague at five o’clock, she was followed on foot by Strike, although unaware of his presence. Robin, meanwhile, drove to a deserted stretch of road beside a wide stretch of marshy wasteland, retrieved her holdall from the back of the car, wriggled out of her jeans and dragged on a smarter, though creased, pair of trousers.

She was driving back across the bridge towards central Barrow when Strike called to inform her that Holly had not returned home, but headed straight to the pub at the end of her street.

“Great, I think that’ll be easier anyway,” shouted Robin in the direction of her mobile, which was lying on the front passenger seat, set to speakerphone. The Land Rover vibrated and rattled around her.

“What?”

“I said, I think—never mind, I’m nearly there!”

Strike was waiting outside the Crow’s Nest car park. He had just opened the passenger door when Robin gasped:

“Get down, get down!”

Holly had appeared in the doorway of the pub, pint in hand. She was taller than Robin and twice as broad in her black cap-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. Lighting a cigarette, she squinted around at what must have been a view she knew by heart, and her narrowed eyes rested briefly on the unfamiliar Land Rover.

Strike had scrambled into the front seat as best he could, keeping his head low. Robin put her foot down and drove away at once.

“She didn’t give me a second look when I was following her,” Strike pointed out, hoisting himself into a sitting position.

“You still shouldn’t let her see you if you can help it,” said Robin sententiously, “in case she noticed you and it reminds her.”

“Sorry, forgot you’re Highly Commended,” said Strike.

“Oh sod off,” said Robin with a flash of temper. Strike was surprised.

“I was joking.”

Robin turned into a parking space further up the street, out of sight of the Crow’s Nest entrance, then checked her handbag for a small package she had bought earlier in the afternoon.

“You wait here.”

“The hell I will. I’ll be in the car park, keeping an eye out for Brockbank. Give me the keys.”

She handed them over with ill grace and left. Strike watched her walking towards the pub, wondering about that sudden spurt of temper. Perhaps, he thought, Matthew belittled what he probably saw as meager achievements.

The Crow’s Nest stood where Ferry and Stanley Roads met and formed a hairpin bend: a large, drum-shaped building of red brick. Holly was still standing in the doorway, smoking and drinking her pint. Nerves fluttered in the pit of Robin’s stomach. She had volunteered for this: now hers was the sole responsibility for finding out where Brockbank was. Her stupidity at bringing the police down on them earlier had made her touchy, and Strike’s ill-timed humor had reminded her of Matthew’s subtly belittling comments about her countersurveillance training. After formal congratulations on her top marks Matthew had implied that what she had learned was, after all, no more than common sense.