Career of Evil

“Well, Laing tied up his wife and used a knife on her; accused of rape twice that I know of, but never done for it — and he tried to bite half my face off in the boxing ring. Basically, a violent, devious bastard,” said Strike, “but, like I told you, his mother-in-law reckons he was ill when he got out of jail. She says he went to Gateshead, but he can’t have stayed there long if he was living in Corby with this woman in 2008,” he said, checking the map again for Lorraine MacNaughton’s road. “Right age, right time frame... we’ll see. If Lorraine’s not in, we’ll go back after five o’clock.”

Following Strike’s directions, Robin drove through the very center of Corby town, which proved to be a sprawl of concrete and brick dominated by a shopping center. A massive block of council offices, on which aerials bristled like iron moss, dominated the skyline. There was no central square, no ancient church and certainly no stilted, half-timbered grammar school. Corby had been planned to house its explosion of migrant workers in the 1940s and 1950s; many of the buildings had a cheerless, utilitarian air.

“Half the street names are Scottish,” said Robin as they passed Argyll Street and Montrose Street.

“Used to call it Little Scotland, didn’t they?” said Strike, noting a sign for Edinburgh House. He had heard that in its industrial heyday, Corby had had the largest Scottish population south of the border. Saltires and lions rampant fluttered from balconies of flats. “You can see why Laing might’ve felt more at home here than in Gateshead. Could’ve had contacts in the area.”

Five minutes later they found themselves in the old part of town, whose pretty stone buildings retained traces of the village that Corby had been before the steelworks arrived. Shortly afterwards they came upon Weldon Road, where Lorraine MacNaughton lived.

The houses stood in solid blocks of six, each pair a mirror image of the other, so that their front doors sat side by side and the layout of the windows was reversed. Carved into the stone lintel over each door was a name.

“That’s hers,” said Strike, pointing at Summerfield, which was twinned with Northfield.

Summerfield’s front garden had been covered in fine gravel. Northfield’s grass needed mowing, which reminded Robin of her own flat back in London.

“I think we’d both better go in,” Strike said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “She’ll probably be more comfortable with you there.”

The doorbell seemed to be out of order. Strike therefore rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. An explosion of furious barking told them that the house had at least one living inhabitant. Then they heard a woman’s voice, angry but somehow ineffectual.

“Shh! Be quiet! Stop it! Shh! No!”

The door opened and Robin had just caught a glimpse of a hard-faced woman of around fifty when a rough-coated Jack Russell came pelting out, growling and barking with ferocity, and sank its teeth into Strike’s ankle. Fortunately for Strike, but less so for the Jack Russell, its teeth connected with steel. It yelped and Robin capitalized on its shock by stooping swiftly, grabbing it by the scruff of the neck and lifting it up. So surprised was the dog at finding itself dangling in midair that it simply hung there.

“No biting,” said Robin.

Apparently deciding that a woman brave enough to pick it up was worthy of respect, the dog allowed her to take a firmer grip, twisted in midair and attempted to lick her hand.

“Sorry,” said the woman. “He was my mother’s. He’s a bloody nightmare. He likes you, look. Miracle.”

Her shoulder-length brown hair had gray roots. Deep marionette lines lay either side of a thin-lipped mouth. She was leaning on a stick, one of her ankles swollen and bandaged, the foot encased in a sandal that displayed yellowing toenails.

Strike introduced himself, then showed Lorraine his driving license and a business card.

“Are you Lorraine MacNaughton?”

“Yeah,” she said hesitantly. Her eyes flickered to Robin, who smiled reassuringly over the Jack Russell’s head. “You’re a — what did you say?”

“A detective,” said Strike, “and I was wondering whether you could tell me anything about Donald Laing. Telephone records show he was living here with you a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah, he was,” she said slowly.

“Is he still here?” Strike asked, although he knew the answer.

“No.”

Strike indicated Robin.

“Would it be all right if my colleague and I come in and ask you a few questions? We’re trying to find Mr. Laing.”

There was a pause. Lorraine chewed her inner lip, frowning. Robin cradled the Jack Russell, which was now enthusiastically licking her fingers where, no doubt, it could taste traces of Danish pastry. Strike’s torn trouser leg flapped in a light breeze.

“All right, come in,” said Lorraine, and she backed away on her crutches to admit them.