Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(72)

“No, Mum—”

“For a day. Take you out for lunch.”

Robin gave a weak laugh.

“Mum, I don’t take a lunch hour. It isn’t that kind of job.”

“I’m coming to London, Robin.”

When her mother’s voice became firm like that, there was no point arguing.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Well, you can let me know and I’ll book the train.”

“I… oh, OK,” said Robin.

When they had bidden each other good-bye she realized that she had tears in her eyes at last. Much as she might pretend otherwise, the thought of seeing Linda brought much comfort.

She looked over at the Land Rover. Strike was still leaning up against it, and he too was on the phone. Or was he merely pretending? She had been talking loudly. He could be tactful when he chose.

She looked down at the mobile in her hands and opened Matthew’s message.


Your mother called. I told her you’re away with work. Let me know whether you want me to tell Dad you’re not going to his birthday thing. I love you, Robin. Mxxxxxx



There he went again: he did not really believe that the relationship was at an end. Let me know whether you want me to tell Dad… as though it were a storm in a teacup, as though she would never take it so far as not to attend his father’s party… I don’t even like your bloody father…

Angry, she typed and sent the response.


Of course I’m not coming.



She got back into the car. Strike seemed to be genuinely talking on the phone. The road atlas lay open on the passenger seat: he had been looking at the Leicestershire town of Market Harborough.

“Yeah, you too,” she heard Strike say. “Yeah. See you when I get back.”

Elin, she thought.

He climbed back into the car.

“Was that Wardle?” she asked innocently.

“Elin,” he said.

Does she know you’ve gone away with me? Just the two of us?

Robin felt herself turn red. She did not know where that thought had come from. It wasn’t as though…

“You want to go to Market Harborough?” she asked, holding up the map.

“Might as well,” said Strike, taking another swig of beer. “It’s the last place Brockbank worked. Could get a lead; we’d be stupid not to check it out… and if we’re going through there…”

He lifted the book out of her hands and flicked over a few pages.

“It’s only twelve miles from Corby. We could swing by and see whether the Laing who was shacked up with a woman there in 2008 is our Laing. She’s still living there: Lorraine MacNaughton’s the name.”

Robin was used to Strike’s prodigious memory for names and details.

“OK,” she said, pleased to think that the morning would bring more investigation, not simply a long drive back to London. Perhaps, if they found something interesting, there would be a second night on the road and she need not see Matthew for another twelve hours—but then she remembered that Matthew would be heading north the following night, for his father’s birthday. She would have the flat to herself in any case.

“Could he have tracked her down?” Strike wondered aloud, after a silence.

“Sorry—what? Who?”

“Could Brockbank have tracked Brittany down and killed her after all this time? Or am I barking up the wrong tree because I feel so f*cking guilty?”

He gave the door of the Land Rover a soft thump with his fist.

“The leg, though,” said Strike, arguing against himself. “It’s scarred just like hers was. That was a thing between them: ‘I tried to saw off your leg when you were little and your mum walked in.’ Fucking evil bastard. Who else would send me a scarred leg?”

“Well,” said Robin slowly, “I can think of a reason a leg was chosen, and it might not have anything at all to do with Brittany Brockbank.”

Strike turned to look at her.

“Go on.”

“Whoever killed that girl could have sent you any part of her and achieved the same result,” said Robin. “An arm, or—or a breast”—she did her best to keep her tone matter-of-fact—“would have meant the police and the press swarming all over us just the same. The business would still have been compromised and we’d have been just as shaken up—but he chose to send a right leg, cut exactly where your right leg was amputated.”

“I suppose it ties in with that effing song. Although—” Strike reconsidered. “No, I’m talking crap, aren’t I? An arm would’ve worked just as well for that. Or a neck.”

“He’s making clear reference to your injury,” Robin said. “What does your missing leg mean to him?”

“Christ knows,” said Strike, watching her profile as she talked.

“Heroism,” said Robin.

Strike snorted.

“There’s nothing heroic about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You’re a decorated veteran.”

“I wasn’t decorated for being blown up. That happened before.”

“You’ve never told me that.”

She turned to face him, but he refused to be sidetracked.