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.
“Oh, I’m actually — it’s just my day for picking up my son from school,” said Robin loudly over the background shrieks and shouts.
Silence again on the end of the line. Matter-of-fact Venetia Hall would surely break it, but Robin found herself paralyzed by what she tried to tell herself was an irrational fear.
Then he spoke in a voice more menacing than Robin had ever heard, the more so because he half crooned the words, so close to the receiver that he seemed to be breathing into her ear.
“Do A know you, little girl?”
Robin tried to speak, but no sound came out. The line went dead.
33
Then the door was open and the wind appeared...
“I messed up with Brockbank,” said Robin. “I’m really sorry — but I don’t know how I messed up! Plus I didn’t dare take pictures of Mad Dad, because I was too close.”
It was nine o’clock on Friday morning and Strike had arrived, not from the upstairs flat but from the street, fully dressed and carrying his backpack again. Robin had heard him humming as he came up the stairs. He had stayed overnight at Elin’s. Robin had called him the previous evening to tell him about the Brockbank call, but Strike had not been at liberty to talk for long and had promised that they would do so today.
“Never mind Mad Dad. We’ll get him another day,” said Strike, busy at the kettle. “And you did great with Brockbank. We know he’s in Shoreditch, we know I’m on his mind and we know he was suspicious that you might be police. So is that because he’s been fiddling with kids up and down the country, or because he’s recently hacked a teenager to death?”
Ever since Brockbank had spoken his last six words into her ear, Robin had felt slightly shaken. She and Matthew had barely talked to each other the previous evening and, having no outlet for a sudden feeling of vulnerability that she did not entirely understand, she had placed all her reliance on seeing Strike face to face and getting to discuss the meaning of those six ominous words: Do A know you, little girl? Today, she would have welcomed the serious, cautious Strike who had taken the sending of the leg as a threat and warned her about staying out after dark. The man now cheerfully making himself coffee and talking about child abuse and murder in a matter-of-fact tone was bringing her no comfort. He could have no idea what Brockbank had sounded like, crooning inside her ear.
“We know something else about Brockbank,” she said in a tight voice. “He’s living with a little girl.”
“He might not be living with her. We don’t know where he left the phone.”
“All right, then,” said Robin, feeling even more tightly wound. “If you want to be pedantic: we know he’s in close contact with a little girl.”
She turned away on the pretext of dealing with the mail she had scooped from the doormat on her arrival. The fact that he had arrived humming had irked her. Presumably his night with Elin had been a welcome distraction, providing recreation and recuperation. Robin would have loved a respite from her hypervigilant days and evenings of frigid silence. The knowledge that she was being unreasonable did nothing to diminish her resentment. She scooped the dying roses in their dry plastic bag off the desk and pushed them headfirst into the bin.
“There’s nothing we can do about that kid,” said Strike.
A most enjoyable stab of anger shot through Robin.