Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(90)

“If he hasn’t contacted you by tomorrow you can try again. That’ll be a full working week. Course, his lady friend might have lost the number.”

When Strike had hung up, Robin resumed her wanderings in Edge Street in Kensington, which was where Mad Dad’s family lived. The location did nothing to lift Robin’s spirits. She had begun looking online for somewhere else to live, but the places she would be able to afford on the salary Strike paid her were even worse than she had feared, single rooms in shared houses the best she could expect.

The beautiful Victorian mews houses that surrounded her, with glossy front doors, leafy climbing plants, window boxes and bright sash windows, spoke of the comfortable, prosperous existence to which Matthew had aspired back in the days that Robin seemed ready to embrace a more lucrative career. She had told him all along that she did not care about money, or at least not as much as he did, and that remained true, but it would be a strange human being, she thought, who could linger among these pretty, quiet houses and not compare them, to the others’ detriment, with “small room in strictly vegan household, mobile phone tolerated if used in bedroom” that was just within her price range, or the cupboard-sized room in Hackney in “friendly and respectful household ready to TAKE YOU ON BOARD!”

Her mobile rang again. She tugged the phone out of her jacket pocket, expecting Strike, and her stomach turned over: Brockbank. Taking a deep breath, she answered.

“Venetia Hall.”

“You th’lawyer?”

She did not know what she had expected him to sound like. He had taken monstrous form in her mind, this rapist of children, the long-jawed thug with his broken bottle and what Strike believed to be fake amnesia. His voice was deep and his accent, though by no means as thick as his twin’s, remained distinctly Barrovian.

“Yes,” said Robin. “Is that Mr. Brockbank?”

“Aye, tha’s righ’.”

The quality of his silence was somehow threatening. Robin hastened to tell her fictitious story of the compensation that might await him if he were happy to meet her. When she had finished, he said nothing. Robin held her nerve, because Venetia Hall had the self-confidence not to rush to fill a silence, but the crackling of the slack line between them unnerved her.

“An’ where did you find ou’ abou’ us, eh?”

“We came across your case notes while we were investigating—”

“Investigatin’ wha’?”

Why did she have such a feeling of menace? He couldn’t be anywhere near her, but she scanned her surroundings all the same. The sunny, gracious street was deserted.

“Investigating similar non-combat-related injuries to other servicemen,” she said, wishing that her voice had not risen to such a high pitch.

More silence. A car rolled towards her round the corner.

Damn it, Robin thought desperately as she realized that the driver was the obsessive father she was supposed to be observing covertly. He had looked her full in the face as she turned towards his car. She ducked her head and walked slowly away from the school.

“So wha’ do I ’ave ter do then, eh?” asked Noel Brockbank in her ear.

“Could we meet and have a chat about your history?” Robin asked, her chest actually painful, so fast was her heart pounding.

“I though’ you’d read our ’istory?” he said and the hairs on the back of Robin’s neck stood up. “A cun’ called Cameron Strike gave us brain damage.”

“Yes, I saw that in your file,” said Robin breathlessly, “but it’s important to take a statement so we can—”

“Take a statemen’?”

There was a pause that felt suddenly dangerous.

“Sure you’re no’ a horney?”

Robin Ellacott, northerner, understood; Venetia Hall, Londoner, almost certainly would not. “Horney” was the Cumbrian word for policeman.

“Not a what—I’m sorry?” she said, doing her best to sound politely confused.

Mad Dad had parked outside his estranged wife’s house. Any moment now, his sons would be leaving with their nanny for a play date. If he accosted them, Robin needed to photograph the encounter. She was falling down on the paying job: she ought to be photographing Mad Dad’s movements.

“Police,” said Brockbank aggressively.

“Police?” she said, still striving for that tone of mingled disbelief and amusement. “Of course not.”

“You sure abou’ tha’, are you?”

The front door of Mad Dad’s wife’s house had opened. Robin saw the nanny’s red hair and heard a car door open. She forced herself to sound offended and confused.

“Yes, of course I am. Mr. Brockbank, if you’re not interested—”

Her hand was slightly damp on the phone. Then, taking her by surprise, he said: “All right, I’ll mee’ you.”

“Excellent,” said Robin as the nanny led the two little boys onto the pavement. “Whereabouts are you?”

“Shoreditch,” said Brockbank.

Robin felt every nerve tingle. He was in London.

“So, where would be convenient to—?”

“Wha’s tha’ noise?”

The nanny was screaming at Mad Dad, who was advancing on her and the boys. One of his sons began wailing.