Career of Evil

24

The rattling Land Rover devoured the miles with stoic competence, but the journey north had begun to seem interminably long before the first signs to Barrow-in-Furness appeared. The map had not adequately conveyed how far away the seaport was, how isolated. Barrow-in-Furness was not destined to be passed through, or visited incidentally; an end unto itself, it constituted a geographical cul-de-sac.

Through the southernmost reaches of the Lake District they traveled, past rolling fields of sheep, dry stone walls and picturesque hamlets that reminded Robin of her Yorkshire home, through Ulverston (“Birthplace of Stan Laurel”), until they achieved their first glimpse of a wide estuary that hinted at their approach to the coast. At last, past midday, they found themselves in an unlovely industrial estate, the road flanked by warehouses and factories, which marked the periphery of the town.

“We’ll grab something to eat before we go to Brockbank’s,” said Strike, who had been examining a map of Barrow for the past five minutes. He disdained using electronic devices to navigate on the basis that you did not need to wait for paper to download, nor did the information disappear under adverse conditions. “There’s a car park up here. Take a left at the roundabout.”

They passed a battered side entrance to Craven Park, home ground of the Barrow Raiders. Strike, whose eyes were peeled for a sighting of Brockbank, drank in the distinct character of the place. He had expected, Cornish-born as he was, to be able to see the sea, to taste it, but they might have been miles inland for all he could tell. The initial impression was of a gigantic out-of-town retail center, where the garish façades of high-street outlets confronted them on all sides, except that here and there, standing proud and incongruous between the DIY stores and pizza restaurants, were architectural gems that spoke of a prosperous industrial past. The art deco customs house had been turned into a restaurant. A Victorian technical college embellished with classical figures bore the legend Labor Omnia Vincit. A little further and they came across rows and rows of terraced housing, the kind of cityscape Lowry painted, the hive where workers lived.

“Never seen so many pubs,” said Strike as Robin turned into the car park. He fancied a beer, but with Labor Omnia Vincit in mind, agreed to Robin’s suggestion of a quick bite to eat in a nearby café.

The April day was bright, but the breeze carried with it a chill off the unseen sea.

“Not overselling themselves, are they?” he muttered as he saw the name of the café: The Last Resort. It stood opposite Second Chance, which sold old clothing, and a flourishing pawnbroker’s. Notwithstanding its unpropitious name, The Last Resort was cozy and clean, full of chattering old ladies, and they returned to the car park feeling pleasantly well fed.

“His house won’t be easy to watch if no one’s home,” said Strike, showing Robin the map when they were back in the Land Rover. “It’s in a dead straight dead end. Nowhere to lurk.”

“Has it occurred to you,” said Robin, not entirely flippantly, as they drove away, “that Holly is Noel? That he’s had a sex change?”

“If he has, he’ll be a cinch to find,” said Strike. “Six foot eight in high heels, with a cauliflower ear. Take a right here,” he added as they passed a nightclub called Skint. “Christ, they tell it like it is in Barrow, don’t they?”

Ahead, a gigantic cream building with the name BAE SYSTEMS on it blocked any view of the seafront. The edifice was windowless and seemed to stretch a mile across, blank, faceless, intimidating.

“I think Holly’s going to turn out to be a sister, or maybe a new wife,” said Strike. “Hang a left... she’s the same age as him. Right, we’re looking for Stanley Road... we’re going to end up right by BAE Systems, by the look of it.”

As Strike had said, Stanley Road ran in a straight line with houses on one side and a high brick wall topped with barbed wire on the other. Beyond this uncompromising barrier rose the strangely sinister factory building, white and windowless, intimidating in its sheer size.

“‘Nuclear Site Boundary’?” Robin read from a sign on the wall, slowing the Land Rover to a crawl as they proceeded up the road.

“Building submarines,” said Strike, looking up at the barbed wire. “Police warnings everywhere — look.”

The cul-de-sac was deserted. It terminated in a small parking area beside a children’s play park. As she parked, Robin noticed a number of objects stuck in the barbed wire on top of the wall. The ball had undoubtedly landed there by accident, but there was also a small pink doll’s pushchair, tangled up and irretrievable. The sight of it gave her an uncomfortable feeling: somebody had deliberately thrown that out of reach.

“What are you getting out for?” asked Strike, coming around the back of the vehicle.

“I was—”

“I’ll deal with Brockbank, if he’s in there,” said Strike, lighting up. “You’re not going anywhere near him.”

Robin got back into the Land Rover.

“Try not to punch him, won’t you?” she muttered at Strike’s retreating figure as he walked with a slight limp towards the house, his knee stiff from the journey.

Some of the houses had clean windows and ornaments neatly arranged behind the glass; others had net curtains in various states of cleanliness. A few were shabby and, on the evidence of grimy interior windowsills, dirty. Strike had almost reached a maroon door when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. Robin noticed that a group of men in blue overalls and hard hats had appeared at the end of the street. Was one of them Brockbank? Was that why Strike had stopped?

No. He was merely taking a phone call. Turning his back on both the door and the men, he moved slowly back towards Robin, his stride no longer purposeful but with the aimless ramble of a man intent only on the voice in his ear.

One of the men in the overalls was tall, dark and bearded. Had Strike seen him? Robin slipped out of the Land Rover again and, on pretext of texting, took several photographs of the workmen, zooming in on them as closely as she could. They turned a corner and walked out of sight.

Strike had paused ten yards away from her, smoking and listening to the person talking on his mobile. A gray-haired woman was squinting at the pair of them from an upstairs window of the nearest house. Thinking to allay her suspicions, Robin turned away from the houses and took a picture of the huge nuclear facility, playing the tourist.

“That was Wardle,” said Strike, coming up behind her. He looked grim. “The body isn’t Oxana Voloshina’s.”

“How do they know?” asked Robin, stunned.

“Oxana’s been home in Donetsk for three weeks. Family wedding — they haven’t spoken to her personally, but they’ve talked to her mother on the phone and she says Oxana’s there. Meanwhile, the landlady’s recovered enough to tell police that she was especially shocked when she found the body because she thought Oxana had gone back to Ukraine for a holiday. She also mentioned that the head didn’t look very like her.”

Strike slid his phone back into his pocket, frowning. He hoped this news would focus Wardle’s mind on someone other than Malley.

“Get back in the car,” said Strike, lost in thought, and he set off towards Brockbank’s house again.

Robin returned to the driver’s seat of the Land Rover. The woman in the upper window was still staring.

Two policewomen in high-visibility tabards came walking down the street. Strike had reached the maroon door. The rap of metal on wood echoed down the street. Nobody answered. Strike was preparing to knock again when the policewomen reached him.

Robin sat up, wondering what on earth the police wanted with him. After a brief conversation all three of them turned and headed towards the Land Rover.

Robin pushed down the window, feeling suddenly and unaccountably guilty.

“They want to know,” Strike called, when within earshot, “whether I’m Mr. Michael Ellacott.”

“What?” said Robin, completely confused by the mention of her father’s name.

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.”

“You could nip in and get me a pasty.”

“We had rolls less than an hour ago!”

“So? I’m not on a bloody diet.”

“Nor am I, anymore,” said Robin.

The brave words brought to mind the strapless wedding dress still waiting for her in Harrogate. Did she really not intend to fit into it? The flowers, the catering, the bridesmaids, the choice of first dance — would none of it be needed anymore? Deposits lost, presents returned, the faces of stunned friends and relatives when she told them...

The Land Rover was chilly and uncomfortable, she was very tired after hours of driving and for a few seconds — the time it took for a weak, treacherous lurch of her heart — the thought of Matthew and Sarah Shadlock made her want to cry all over again.

“D’you mind if I smoke?” said Strike, pushing down the window and letting in the cold air without waiting for an answer. Robin swallowed an affirmative answer; he had forgiven her for the police, after all. Somehow the chilly breeze helped brace her for what she needed to tell him.

“You can’t interview Holly.”

He turned to her, frowning.

“Taking Brockbank by surprise is one thing, but if Holly recognizes you she’ll warn him you’re after him. I’ll have to do it. I’ve thought of a way.”

“Yeah — that’s not going to happen,” said Strike flatly. “Odds are he’s either living with her or a couple of streets away. He’s a nutcase. If he smells a rat he’ll turn nasty. You’re not doing it alone.”

Robin drew her coat more tightly around her and said coolly:

“D’you want to hear my idea or not?”