“’Er boyo an’ ’er don’ speak,” said the barmaid, who had drifted up the bar to eavesdrop. She seemed to feel vaguely sorry for Robin.
“I don’t suppose you know where Noel is?” Robin asked, feeling desperate.
“’E’s not been in ’ere for a year or more,” said the barmaid vaguely. “You know where ’e is, Kev?”
Holly’s friend answered only with a shrug and ordered Holly’s pint. His accent revealed him to be Glaswegian.
“Well, it’s a pity,” said Robin, and her clear, cool voice did not betray the frantic pounding of her heart. She dreaded going back to Strike with nothing. “There could be a big payout for the family, if only I can find him.”
She turned to go.
“For the family, or for him?” asked the Glaswegian sharply.
“It depends,” said Robin coolly, turning back. She did not imagine that Venetia Hall would be particularly chummy with people unconnected to the case she was building. “If family members have had to take on a carer role — but I’d need details to judge. Some relatives,” lied Robin, “have had very significant compensation.”
Holly was coming back. Her expression turned thunderous when she saw Robin talking to Kevin. Robin walked off to the Ladies herself, her heart pounding in her chest, wondering whether the lie she had just told would bear fruit. By the look on Holly’s face as they passed each other, Robin thought there was an outside chance that she might be cornered by the sinks and beaten up.
However, when she came out of the bathroom she saw Holly and Kevin nose to nose at the bar. Robin knew not to push any harder: either Holly bit, or she did not. She tied her coat belt more tightly and walked, unhurriedly but purposefully, back past them towards the door.
“Oi!”
“Yes?” Robin said, still a little coolly, because Holly had been rude and Venetia Hall was used to a certain level of respect.
“Orlrigh’, wha’s it all abou’?”
Though Kevin seemed keen to participate in their conversation, his relationship with Holly was apparently not far enough advanced to permit listening in on private financial matters. He drifted away to a fruit machine looking disgruntled.
“We can yatter over ’ere,” Holly told Robin, taking her fresh pint and pointing Robin to a corner table beside a piano.
The pub’s windowsill bore ships in bottles: pretty, fragile things compared to the huge, sleek monsters that were being constructed beyond the windows, behind that high perimeter wall. The heavily patterned carpet would conceal a thousand stains; the plants behind the curtains looked droopy and sad, yet the mismatched ornaments and sporting trophies gave a homey feel to the large room, the bright blue overalls of its customers an impression of brotherhood.
“Hardacre and Hall is representing a large group of servicemen who suffered serious and preventable injury outside the field of combat,” said Robin, sliding into her pre-rehearsed spiel. “While we were reviewing records we came across your brother’s case. We can’t be sure until we talk to him, of course, but he’d be very welcome to add his name to our pool of litigants. His would be very much the type of case we’re expecting to win. If he joins us, it’ll add to the pressure on the army to pay. The more complainants we can get, the better. It would be at no cost to Mr. Brockbank, of course. No win,” she said, mimicking the TV adverts, “no fee.”
Holly said nothing. Her pale face was hard and set. There were cheap rings of yellow gold on every digit except her wedding-ring finger.
“Kevin said summa’ abou’ the family gettin’ money.”
“Oh yes,” said Robin blithely. “If Noel’s injuries have impacted you, as a family—”
“Ower righ’ they ’ave,” snarled Holly.
“How?” asked Robin, taking a notebook out of her shoulder bag and waiting, pencil poised.
She could tell that alcohol and a sense of grievance were going to be her greatest allies in extracting maximum information from Holly, who was now warming to the idea of telling the story she thought the lawyer wanted to hear.
The first thing to be done was to soften that first impression of animosity towards her injured brother. Carefully she took Robin over Noel joining the army at sixteen. He had given it everything: it had been his life. Oh yeah, people didn’t realize the sacrifices soldiers made... did Robin know Noel was her twin? Yeah, born on Christmas Day... Noel and Holly...
To tell this bowdlerized story of her brother was to elevate herself. The man with whom she had shared a womb had sallied forth into the world, traveled and fought and been promoted through the ranks of the British Army. His bravery and sense of adventure reflected back on her, left behind in Barrow.
“...’n ’e married a woman called Irene. Widow. Took ’er on with two kids. Jesus. No good turn goes unpunished, don’t they say?”
“What do you mean?” asked Venetia Hall politely, clasping half an inch of warm vinegary wine.
“Married ’er, ’ad a son with ’er. Lovely little boy... Ryan... Lovely. We’ve not seen him for... six years, is it? Seven years? Bitch. Yeah, Irene jus’ fucked off when ’e was at the doctor’s one day. Took the kids — and his son was everything to Noel, mind. Everything — so much for in sickness and in fuckin’ health, eh? Some fuckin’ wife. When ’e needed support most. Bitch.”
So Noel and Brittany had long since parted company. Or had he made it his business to track down the stepdaughter whom he surely blamed as much as Strike for his life-changing injuries? Robin maintained an impassive expression, although her heart was racing. She wished she could text Strike right there and then.
After his wife had left, Noel had turned up uninvited at the old family home, the tiny two up, two down on Stanley Road in which Holly had lived all her life and which she had occupied alone since her stepfather had died.
“A took ’im in,” said Holly, straightening her back. “Family’s family.”
There was no mention of Brittany’s allegation. Holly was playing the concerned relative, the devoted sister, and if it was a ham performance Robin was experienced enough, now, to know that there were usually nuggets of truth to be sifted from even the most obvious dross.
She wondered whether Holly knew about the accusation of child abuse: it had happened in Germany, after all, and no charges had been brought. Yet if Brockbank had been truly brain damaged on his discharge, would he have been canny enough to remain silent about the reason for his ignominious exit from the army? If he had been innocent and not of sound mind, wouldn’t he have talked, perhaps endlessly, of the injustice that had brought him to such a low ebb?
Robin bought Holly a third pint and turned her deftly to the subject of what Noel had been like after he had been invalided out.
“’E wasn’ ’imself. Fits. Seizures. ’E was on a load o’ medication. I jus’ go’rover nursin’ my stepfather — ’e ’ad a stroke — an’ then A gets Noel comin’ ’ome, with ’is convulsions and...”
Holly buried the end of her sentence in her pint.
“That’s tough,” said Robin, who was now writing in a small notebook. “Any behavioral difficulties? Families often mention those kinds of challenges as the worst.”
“Yeah,” said Holly. “Well. ’Is temper wasn’ improved by gettin’ ’is brain knocked outta his skull for ’im. ’E smashed up the ’ouse for us twice. ’E was orlwuz ragin’ at us.
“’E’s famous now, tha knows,” said Holly darkly.
“Sorry?” said Robin, thrown.
“The gadgee that beat ’im up!”
“The gadg—”
“Cameron fuckin’ Strike!”
“Ah, yes,” said Robin. “I think I’ve heard of him.”