Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(77)
“What d’you want ’im for?” she asked in pure Essex and then, calmly, “Are you police?”
“No,” said Strike.
Sudden comprehension was illuminating her pretty face.
“’Ang on,” she said slowly. “I know ’oo you are—you’re that Strike! You’re Cameron Strike! The detective ’oo solved the Lula Landry case and—Jesus—didn’t someone just send you a leg?”
“Er—yeah, they did.”
“Noel was f*cking obsessed with you!” she said. “All I ever heard ’im talk about, practically. After you was on the news.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, ’e kept saying you give ’im a brain injury!”
“I can’t take full credit. You knew him well, did you?”
“Not that well!” she said, correctly interpreting Strike’s meaning. “I knew ’is friend from up north, John. He was a great guy, one of my regular punters before ’e went off to Saudi. Yeah, they was at school together, I fink. ’E felt sorry for Noel ’cause ’e was ex-forces and ’e’d ’ad a few problems, so ’e recommended him for ’ere. Said ’e was down on his luck. ’E got me to rent Noel a room at my place an’ all.”
Her tone said plainly that she felt John’s sympathy for Brockbank had been misplaced.
“How did that go?”
“’E was all right at first, but once ’is guard come down ’e just ranted all the time. About the army, about you, about ’is son—’e’s obsessed with ’is son, getting ’is son back. ’E says it’s your fault he can’t see ’im, but I don’t see ’ow ’e works that out. Anyone could see why his ex-wife didn’t want ’im near the kid.”
“And why’s that?”
“Mama found ’im with ’er granddaughter on ’is lap and ’is ’and up ’er skirt,” said Ingrid. “She’s six.”
“Ah,” said Strike.
“’E left owing me two weeks’ rent and that’s the last I ever saw of ’im. Good bloody riddance.”
“D’you know where he went after he was sacked?”
“No idea.”
“So you haven’t got any contact details?”
“I’ve prob’bly still got his mobile number,” she said. “I don’t know whether ’e’ll still be using it.”
“Could you give—?”
“Do I look like I’ve got a mobile on me?” she asked, raising her arms high. The lycra and boots outlined every curve. Her erect nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric. Invited to look, Strike forced himself to maintain eye contact.
“Could you meet me later and give it to me?”
“We’re not allowed to exchange contact details with punters. Terms and conditions, sweet’art: why we’re not allowed to carry phones. Tell you what,” she said, eyeing him up and down, “seeing as it’s you and seeing as ’ow I know you punched the bastard and you’re a war ’ero and everyfing, I’ll meet you up the road when I clock off.”
“That,” said Strike, “would be great. Thanks very much.”
He did not know whether he imagined a flirtatious glint in her eye. Possibly he was distracted by the smell of massage oil and his recent thoughts of warm, slippery bodies.
Twenty minutes later, having waited long enough for Mama to assume that relief had been sought and given, Strike left the Thai Orchid and crossed the road to where Robin was waiting in the car.
“Two hundred and thirty quid for an old mobile number,” he said as she pulled away from the curb and accelerated towards the town center. “I hope it’s bloody worth it. We’re looking for Adam and Eve Street—she says it’s just up here on the right—the café’s called Appleby’s. She’s going to meet me there in a bit.”
Robin found a parking space and they waited, discussing what Ingrid had said about Brockbank while eating the Danish pastries that Strike had stolen from the breakfast buffet. Robin was starting to appreciate why Strike was carrying extra weight. She had never before undertaken an investigation that lasted more than twenty-four hours. When every meal had to be sourced in passing shops and eaten on the move, you descended quickly to fast food and chocolate.
“That’s her,” said Strike forty minutes later, clambering out of the Land Rover and heading for the interior of Appleby’s. Robin watched the blonde approach, now in jeans and a fake-fur jacket. She had the body of a glamour model and Robin was reminded of Platinum. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen; neither Strike nor the girl reappeared.
“How long does it take to hand over a telephone number?” Robin asked the interior of the Land Rover crossly. She felt chilly in the car. “I thought you wanted to get on to Corby?”
He had told her nothing had happened, but you never knew. Perhaps it had. Perhaps the girl had covered Strike in oil and…
Robin drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She thought about Elin, and how she would feel if she knew what Strike had done that day. Then, with a slight jolt, she remembered that she had not checked her phone to see whether Matthew had been in contact again. She took it out of her coat pocket and saw no new messages. Since telling him she was definitely not going to his father’s birthday party, he had gone quiet.