Career of Evil

The ludicrous thought came to her that Matthew had sent the police after them — but why would he have told them that Strike was her father? And then the realization came to her, voiced as soon as understood.

“The car’s registered in Dad’s name,” she said. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Well, you’re parked on a double yellow line,” said one of the policewomen drily, “but that’s not why we’re here. You’ve been taking photographs of the facility. It’s all right,” she added, as Robin looked panicked. “People do it every day. You were caught on the security cameras. Can I see your driving license?”

“Oh,” said Robin weakly, aware of Strike’s quizzical look. “I only — I thought it would make an arty picture, you know? The barbed wire and the white building and — and the clouds...”

She handed over her documentation, studiously avoiding Strike’s eye, mortified.

“Mr. Ellacott’s your father, is he?”

“He lent us the car, that’s all,” said Robin, dreading the idea of the police contacting her parents and them finding out that she was in Barrow, without Matthew, ring-less and single...

“And where do you two live?”

“We don’t — not together,” said Robin.

They gave their names and addresses.

“You’re visiting someone, are you, Mr. Strike?” asked the second policewoman.

“Noel Brockbank,” said Strike promptly. “Old friend. Passing, thought I’d look him up.”

“Brockbank,” repeated the policewoman, handing Robin her license, and Robin hoped that the woman might know him, which would surely go a long way to repairing her gaffe. “Good Barrovian surname, that. All right, on you go. No more photos round here.”

“I’m. So. Sorry,” Robin mouthed at Strike as the policewomen walked away. He shook his head, grinning through his annoyance.

“‘Arty photo’... the wire... the sky...”

“What would you have said?” she demanded. “I could hardly tell them I was taking pictures of workmen because I thought one of them might be Brockbank — look—”

But when she brought up the picture of the workmen she realized that the tallest of them, with his ruddy cheeks, short neck and large ears, was not the man they sought.

The door of the nearest house opened. The gray-haired woman who had been watching from the upper window appeared, pulling a tartan shopping trolley. Her expression was now cheery. Robin was sure that the woman had observed the police arrive and depart, and was satisfied that they were not spies.

“It’s always ’appening,” she called loudly, her voice ringing across the street. She pronounced “always” “orlwuz.” The accent was unfamiliar to Robin, who had thought she knew Cumbrian, hailing from the next county. “They’ve gor cameraz orl awwer. Teeking registrations. We’re orl used to it.”

“Spot the Londoners,” said Strike pleasantly, which made her pause, curious.

“From London? Wha’ brings th’all the way to Barra?”

“Looking for an old friend. Noel Brockbank,” said Strike, pointing down the street, “but there’s no answer at his house. He’ll be at work, I expect.”

She frowned a little.

“Noel, did th’say? Not Holly?”

“We’d love to see Holly, if she’s around,” said Strike.

“She’ll be at work noo,” said the neighbor, checking her watch. “Bak’ry awwer in Vickerstown. Or,” said the woman, with a trace of grim humor, “tha can try the Crow’s Nest tonight. She’s usually there.”

“We’ll try the bakery — surprise her,” said Strike. “Where is it exactly?”

“Little white one, just up the road from Vengeance Street.”

They thanked her and she set off along the road, pleased to have been helpful.

“Did I hear that right?” Strike muttered, shaking open his map once they were safely back in the Land Rover. “‘Vengeance Street’?”

“That’s what it sounded like,” said Robin.

The short journey took them across a bridge spanning the estuary, where sailing boats bobbed on dirty-looking water or sat marooned on mudflats. Utilitarian, industrial buildings along the shore gave way to more streets of terraced houses, some pebble-dashed, some of red brick.

“Ships’ names,” guessed Strike as they drove up Amphitrite Street.

Vengeance Street ran up a hill. A few minutes’ exploration of its vicinities revealed a little white-painted bakery.

“That’s her,” said Strike at once, as Robin pulled in with a clear view of the glass door. “Got to be his sister, look at her.”

The bakery worker looked, thought Robin, harder than most men. She had the same long face and high forehead as Brockbank; her flinty eyes were outlined in thick kohl, her jet-black hair scraped back into a tight, unflattering ponytail. The cap-sleeved black T-shirt, worn under a white apron, revealed thick bare arms that were covered in tattoos from shoulder to wrist. Multiple gold hoops hung from each ear. A vertical frown line between her eyebrows gave her a look of perpetual bad temper.

The bakery was cramped and busy. Watching Holly bag up pasties, Strike remembered his venison pies from Melrose and his mouth watered.

“I could eat again.”

“You can’t talk to her in there,” said Robin. “We’d do better to approach her at home, or in the pub.”