Career of Evil

“Maybe. I want you to call him, keep the Venetia Hall, personal injury lawyer thing going.”

“Oh. OK,” she said, pulling out her own mobile and keying in the number that he had shown her, but beneath her matter-of-fact manner she was quietly elated. Venetia had been her own idea, her creation, and now Strike was turning the whole line of inquiry over to her.

She was halfway up Denmark Street in the sunshine before Robin remembered that there had been a card with the now-battered roses, and that she had left it behind, unread.

32

What’s that in the corner?

It’s too dark to see.

                        Blue Öyster Cult, “After Dark”

Surrounded all day long by the sounds of traffic and loud voices, Robin did not have a good opportunity to call Noel Brockbank until five o’clock that afternoon. Having seen Platinum to work as usual, she turned into the Japanese restaurant beside the lap-dancing club and took her green tea to a quiet corner table. There, she waited for five minutes to satisfy herself that any background noises Brockbank might hear could plausibly belong to a busy office situated on a main road, and keyed in the number, her heart hammering.

It was still in service. Robin listened to it ringing for twenty seconds and then, just when she had guessed that nobody was going to pick up, somebody did.

Very heavy breathing roared down the line. Robin sat still, the mobile tight against her ear. Then she jumped, as a shrill toddler’s voice said:

“HELLO!”

“Hello?” said Robin cautiously.

In the background a woman’s muffled voice said:

“What’ve you got, Zahara?”

A scraping noise and then, much louder:

“That’s Noel’s, he’s been look—”

The line went dead. Robin lowered the phone slowly, her heart still racing. She could almost see the sticky little finger that had accidentally cut the call.

The phone began to vibrate in her hand: Brockbank’s number, calling back. She took a steadying breath and answered.

“Hello, Venetia Hall.”

“What?” said a woman’s voice.

“Venetia Hall — Hardacre and Hall,” said Robin.

“What?” said the woman again. “Did you just call this number?”

She had a London accent. Robin’s mouth was dry.

“Yes, I did,” said Robin-as-Venetia. “I’m looking for Mr. Noel Brockbank.”

“Why?”

After an almost imperceptible pause Robin said:

“Could I ask who I’m speaking to, please?”

“Why?” The woman was sounding increasingly belligerent. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Venetia Hall,” said Robin, “and I’m a lawyer specializing in personal injury compensation.”

A couple sat down in front of her and began to talk loudly in Italian.

“What?” said the woman on the end of the line again.

Inwardly cursing her neighbors, Robin raised her voice and gave the same story that she had told Holly back in Barrow.

“Money for him?” said the unknown woman, with a degree less animosity.

“Yes, if his case is successful,” said Robin. “Can I ask—?”

“How did you find out about him?”

“We came across Mr. Brockbank’s records while we were researching other—”

“How much money?”

“That depends.” Robin took a deep breath. “Where is Mr. Brockbank?”

“At work.”

“Can I ask where—?”

“I’ll get him to call you. This number, yeah?”

“Yes, please,” said Robin. “I’ll be here in the office tomorrow from nine.”

“Vene — Ven — what was your name?”

Robin spelled Venetia for her.

“Yeah, all right, then. I’ll get him to call. Bye, then.”

Robin rang Strike to tell him what had happened as she walked towards the Tube, but his number was engaged.

Her spirits ebbed as she descended into the Underground. Matthew would be at home by now. It felt as though it had been a long time since she had seen her ex-fiancé and she dreaded their reunion. Her mood sank still further as she traveled home, wishing she had a valid reason to stay away, but grudgingly obedient to her promise to Strike that she would not stay out after dark.

Forty minutes later she arrived at West Ealing station. Walking towards the flat with dread in her heart, her second attempt to call Strike went through.

“Bloody good work!” he said when she told him that she had successfully contacted Brockbank’s phone. “You say this woman had a London accent?”

“I think so,” said Robin, feeling that Strike was missing a more important point, “and a small daughter, by the sounds of it.”

“Yeah. Expect that’s why Brockbank’s there.”

She had expected him to show more concern for a child in close proximity with a man he knew to be a child rapist, but no; he briskly changed the subject.

“I’ve just been on the phone to Hazel Furley.”

“Who?”

“Kelsey’s sister, remember? Who wants to meet me? I’m going to see her on Saturday.”

“Oh,” said Robin.

“Can’t do it before then — Mad Dad’s back from Chicago. Just as well. Two-Times won’t support us forever.”

Robin did not respond. She was still thinking about the toddler who had answered the phone. Strike’s reaction to that news had disappointed her.

“Are you all right?” asked Strike.

“Yes,” said Robin.

She had reached the end of Hastings Road.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.