Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(69)

A strange expression crossed the tight, sullen face: a flash of silver between storm clouds, of something powerful trying to break through.

“’E come back ’ere,” said Holly, “an’ it all started again—”

More stories of violence, irrational rages, broken furniture, at the end of which Brockbank had secured another job, vaguely described as “security,” and taken off for Market Harborough.

“An’ then he come back again,” said Holly, and Robin’s pulse quickened.

“So he’s here in Barrow?” she asked.

“No,” said Holly. She was drunk now and finding it harder to retain a hold on the line she was supposed to be peddling. “’E jus’ come back for a coupla weeks but this time A told him A’d ’ave the police on ’im if ’e come back again an’ ’e lef’ f’r good. Need a slash,” said Holly, “an’ a fag. D’you smoke?”

Robin shook her head. Holly got a little unsteadily to her feet and proceeded to the Ladies, leaving Robin to pull her mobile out of her pocket and text Strike.


Says he’s not in Barrow, not with family. She’s drunk. Still working on her. She’s about to go outside for a cig, lie low.



She regretted the last two words as soon as she had pressed “send,” in case they elicited another sarcastic reference to her countersurveillance course, but her phone buzzed almost immediately and she saw two words:


Will do.



When Holly finally returned to the table, smelling strongly of Rothmans, she was carrying a white wine, which she slid across to Robin, and her fifth pint.

“Thanks very much,” said Robin.

“See,” said Holly plaintively, as though there had been no break in the conversation, “it was havin’ a real impact on me ’ealth, ’aving ’im ’ere.”

“I’m sure,” said Robin. “So does Mr. Brockbank live—?”

“’E was violent. A told you abou’ the time he shoved me head into the fridge door.”

“You did, yes,” said Robin patiently.

“An’ ’e blacked me eye when A tried to stop him smashing up me mam’s plates—”

“Awful. You’d certainly be in line for some kind of payout,” lied Robin and, ignoring a tiny qualm of guilt, she plunged straight towards the central question. “We assumed Mr. Brockbank was here in Barrow because this is where his pension’s being paid.”

Holly’s reactions were slower after four and a half pints. The promise of compensation for her suffering had given her a glow: even the deep line that life had graven between her eyebrows, and which gave her a look of permanent fury, seemed to have diminished. However, the mention of Brockbank’s pension turned her muzzily defensive.

“No, it’s not,” said Holly.

“According to our records, it is,” said Robin.

The fruit machine played a synthetic jingle and flashed in the corner; the pool balls clicked and thudded off the baize; Barrovian accents mingled with Scots. Robin’s flash of intuition came to her like certain knowledge. Holly was helping herself to the military pension.

“Of course,” said Robin, with a convincing lightness, “we know Mr. Brockbank might not be picking it up for himself. Relatives are sometimes authorized to collect money when the pensioner is incapacitated.”

“Yeah,” said Holly at once. A blush was creeping blotchily up her pale face. It made her look girlish, notwithstanding the tattoos and multiple piercings. “A collected it for ’im when ’e was first out. When ’e was ’avin’ fits.”

Why, thought Robin, if he was so incapacitated, did he transfer the pension to Manchester, and then to Market Harborough, and then back to Barrow again?

“So are you sending it on to him now?” asked Robin, her heart beating fast again. “Or can he pick it up for himself now?”

“Lissen,” said Holly.

There was a Hell’s Angels tattoo on her upper arm, a wing-helmeted skull that rippled as she leaned in towards Robin. Beer, cigarettes and sugar had turned her breath rancid. Robin did not flinch.

“Lissen,” she said again, “you get people payouts, like, if they’ve been… if they’ve been hurt, like, or… wharrever.”

“That’s right,” said Robin.

“Wharriff someone’d been… wharriff social services shoulda… shoulda done somethin’ an’ they never?”

“It would depend on the circumstances,” said Robin.

“Our mam lef’ when we was nine,” said Holly. “Lef’ us with oor stepfather.”

“I’m sorry,” said Robin. “That’s tough.”

“Nineteen-seventies,” said Holly. “Nobody gave a shit. Child abuse.”

A lead weight dropped inside Robin. Holly’s bad breath was in her face, her mottled face close. She had no idea that the sympathetic lawyer who had approached her with the promise of sacks of free cash was only a mirage.

“’E done it to both of us,” said Holly. “Me step. Noel gorrit an’ all. From when we wuz tiny. We useter hide under ower beds together. An’ then Noel did it to me. Mind,” she said, suddenly earnest, “’e could be orlright, Noel. We wuz close and tha’ when we wuz little. Anyway,” her tone revealed a sense of double betrayal, “when ’e wor sixteen, he lef’ us to join the army.”