Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(68)

“Married ’er, ’ad a son with ’er. Lovely little boy… Ryan… Lovely. We’ve not seen him for… six years, is it? Seven years? Bitch. Yeah, Irene jus’ f*cked off when ’e was at the doctor’s one day. Took the kids—and his son was everything to Noel, mind. Everything—so much for in sickness and in f*ckin’ health, eh? Some f*ckin’ wife. When ’e needed support most. Bitch.”

So Noel and Brittany had long since parted company. Or had he made it his business to track down the stepdaughter whom he surely blamed as much as Strike for his life-changing injuries? Robin maintained an impassive expression, although her heart was racing. She wished she could text Strike right there and then.

After his wife had left, Noel had turned up uninvited at the old family home, the tiny two up, two down on Stanley Road in which Holly had lived all her life and which she had occupied alone since her stepfather had died.

“A took ’im in,” said Holly, straightening her back. “Family’s family.”

There was no mention of Brittany’s allegation. Holly was playing the concerned relative, the devoted sister, and if it was a ham performance Robin was experienced enough, now, to know that there were usually nuggets of truth to be sifted from even the most obvious dross.

She wondered whether Holly knew about the accusation of child abuse: it had happened in Germany, after all, and no charges had been brought. Yet if Brockbank had been truly brain damaged on his discharge, would he have been canny enough to remain silent about the reason for his ignominious exit from the army? If he had been innocent and not of sound mind, wouldn’t he have talked, perhaps endlessly, of the injustice that had brought him to such a low ebb?

Robin bought Holly a third pint and turned her deftly to the subject of what Noel had been like after he had been invalided out.

“’E wasn’ ’imself. Fits. Seizures. ’E was on a load o’ medication. I jus’ go’rover nursin’ my stepfather—’e ’ad a stroke—an’ then A gets Noel comin’ ’ome, with ’is convulsions and…”

Holly buried the end of her sentence in her pint.

“That’s tough,” said Robin, who was now writing in a small notebook. “Any behavioral difficulties? Families often mention those kinds of challenges as the worst.”

“Yeah,” said Holly. “Well. ’Is temper wasn’ improved by gettin’ ’is brain knocked outta his skull for ’im. ’E smashed up the ’ouse for us twice. ’E was orlwuz ragin’ at us.

“’E’s famous now, tha knows,” said Holly darkly.

“Sorry?” said Robin, thrown.

“The gadgee that beat ’im up!”

“The gadg—”

“Cameron f*ckin’ Strike!”

“Ah, yes,” said Robin. “I think I’ve heard of him.”

“Oh yeah! Fuckin’ private detective now, in orl the papers! Fuckin’ military policeman when ’e beat the shit outta Noel… f*ckin’ damaged him for f*ckin’ life…”

The rant went on for some time. Robin made notes, waiting for Holly to tell her why the military police had come for her brother, but she either did not know or was determined not to say. All that was certain was that Noel Brockbank had attributed his epilepsy entirely to the actions of Strike.

After what sounded like a year of purgatory, during which Noel had treated both his twin sister and her house as convenient outlets for his misery and his temper, he left for a bouncer’s job in Manchester obtained for him by an old Barrovian friend.

“He was well enough to work, then?” asked Robin, because the picture Holly had painted was of a man totally out of control, barely able to contain explosions of temper.

“Yeah, well, ’e was orlrigh’ by then as long as ’e didn’t drink and took his meds. A were glad to see the back of ’im. Took it outta me, ’avin’ ’im ’ere,” said Holly, suddenly remembering that there was a payout promised to those whose lives had been badly affected by their relative’s injuries. “I ’ad panic attacks. Wen’ to my GP. It’s in my records.”

The full impact of Brockbank’s bad behavior on Holly’s life filled the next ten minutes, Robin nodding seriously and sympathetically and interjecting encouraging phrases such as “Yes, I’ve heard that from other relatives,” and “Oh yes, that would be very valuable in a submission.” Robin offered the now-tractable Holly a fourth pint.

“A’ll ge’ you one,” said Holly, with a vague show of getting to her feet.

“No, no, this is all on expenses,” said Robin. As she waited for the fresh pint of McEwan’s to be poured, she checked her mobile. There was another text from Matthew, which she did not open, and one from Strike, which she did.


All OK?



Yes, she texted back.

“So your brother’s in Manchester?” she asked Holly on her return to the table.

“No,” said Holly, after taking a large swig of McEwan’s. “’E was sacked.”

“Oh, really?” said Robin, pencil poised. “If it was as a result of his medical condition, you know, we can help with an unfair dismissal—”

“It weren’t coz of tha’,” said Holly.