Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(70)

Robin, who had not meant to drink any more, picked up her wine and took a large slug. Holly’s second abuser had also been her ally against her first: the lesser of two evils.

“Bastard, he wor,” she said, and Robin could tell she meant the stepfather, not the twin who had abused her then disappeared abroad. “He had an accident at work when A was sixteen, though, an’ after tha’ A could manage ’im better. Industrial chemicals. Fucker. Couldn’t get it up after that. On so many painkillers an’ shit. An’ then ’e ’ad his stroke.”

The look of determined malice on Holly’s face told Robin exactly what kind of care the stepfather might have received at her hands.

“Fucker,” she said quietly.

“Have you received counseling at all?” Robin heard herself ask.

I do sound like a poncy southerner.

Holly snorted.

“Fuck, no. You’re the firs’ person A’ve ever told. S’pose you’ve heard a lot of stories like this?”

“Oh, yes,” said Robin. She owed Holly that.

“A told Noel, last time ’e come back,” said Holly, five pints to the bad now and slurring her words badly, “f*ck off an’ stay away from us. You leave or A’m going to the p’lice about what you did to us before, an’ see what they think o’ that, after all these little girls keep sayin’ you’ve fiddled with ’em.”

The phrase turned the warm wine rancid in Robin’s mouth.

“Tha’s ’ow he lost the job in Manchester. Groped a thirteen-year-ould. Prob’bly the same in Market ’Arborough. ’E wouldn’ tell me why ’e was back, but A know ’e’ll’ve done summat like that again. ’E learned from the best,” said Holly. “So, could A sue?”

“I think,” said Robin, fearful of giving advice that would cause further damage to the wounded woman beside her, “that the police would probably be your best bet. Where is your brother?” she asked, desperate, now, to extract the information she wanted and leave.

“Dunno,” said Holly. “When A told ’im A’d go to the p’lice ’e wen’ beserk, bu’ then…”

She mumbled something indistinct, something in which the word “pension” was just audible.

He told her she could keep the pension if she didn’t go to the police.

So there she sat, drinking herself into an early grave with the money her brother had given her not to reveal his abuse. Holly knew he was almost certainly still “fiddling” with other young girls… had she ever known about Brittany’s accusation? Did she care? Or had the scar tissue grown so thick over her own wounds that it rendered her impervious to other little girls’ agony? She was still living in the house where it had all happened, with the front windows facing out on barbed wire and bricks… why hadn’t she run, Robin wondered. Why hadn’t she escaped, like Noel? Why stay in the house facing the high, blank wall?

“You haven’t got a number for him, or anything like that?” Robin asked.

“No,” said Holly.

“There could be big money in this if you can find me any kind of contact,” said Robin desperately, throwing finesse to the wind.

“’S’old place,” Holly slurred, after a few minutes’ muddled thought and fruitless staring at her phone, “’n Market ’Arbrough…”

It took a long time to locate the telephone number of Noel’s last place of work, but at last they found it. Robin made a note, then dug ten pounds out of her own purse and thrust it into Holly’s willing hand.

“You’ve been very helpful. Very helpful indeed.”

“It’s jus’ gadgees, isn’t i’? All th’same.”

“Yes,” said Robin, without a clue what she was agreeing to. “I’ll be in touch. I’ve got your address.”

She stood up.

“Yeah. See thoo. Jus’ gadgees. All th’same.”

“She means men,” said the barmaid, who had come over to collect some of Holly’s many empty glasses, and was smiling at Robin’s clear bewilderment. “A gadgee is a man. She’s saying men are all the same.”

“Oh yes,” said Robin, barely aware of what she was saying. “So true. Thanks very much. Good-bye, Holly… take care of yourself…”





26



Desolate landscape,

Storybook bliss…

Blue ?yster Cult, “Death Valley Nights”



“Psychology’s loss,” said Strike, “is private detection’s gain. That was bloody good going, Robin.”

He raised his can of McEwan’s and toasted her. They were sitting in the parked Land Rover, eating fish and chips a short distance away from the Olympic Takeaway. Its bright windows intensified the surrounding darkness. Silhouettes passed regularly across the rectangles of light, metamorphosed into three-dimensional humans as they entered the bustling chip shop, and turned back into shadows as they left.

“So his wife left him.”

“Yep.”

“And Holly says he hasn’t seen the kids since?”

“Right.”

Strike sipped his McEwan’s, thinking. He wanted to believe that Brockbank really had lost contact with Brittany, but what if the evil bastard had somehow tracked her down?