“Even so, if I hadn’t had Hardy as a witness to the fact that he’d come at me with the bottle, I’d have been in it up to my neck. In the end, they accepted that I’d acted in self-defense. I couldn’t have known his skull was already cracked, or how much damage I’d do by punching him.

“Meanwhile, they found child porn on his computer. Brittany’s story tallied with frequent sightings of her being driven out, alone, by her stepfather. Her teacher was interviewed and said she was getting more and more withdrawn at school.

“Two years he’d been assaulting her and warning her he’d kill her, her mother and her sister if she told anyone. He had her convinced that he’d already tried to cut her leg off once. She had scarring all around her shin. He’d told her he was just sawing it off when the mother came in and stopped him. In her interview, the mother said the scarring was from an accident when she was a toddler.”

Robin said nothing. Both hands were over her mouth and her eyes were wide. Strike’s expression was frightening.

“He lay in hospital while they tried to get his fits under control, and whenever anyone tried to interview him he faked confusion and amnesia. He had lawyers swarming all over him, smelling a big fat payout: medical neglect, assault. He claimed he’d been a victim of abuse himself, that the child porn was just a symptom of his mental issues, his alcoholism. Brittany was insisting she’d made everything up, the mother was screaming to everyone that Brockbank had never laid a finger on any of the kids, that he was a perfect father, that she’d lost one husband and now she was going to lose another. Top brass just wanted the accusation to go away.

“He was invalided out,” said Strike, his dark eyes meeting Robin’s blue-gray ones. “He got off scot-free, with a payout and pension to boot, and off he went, Brittany in tow.”

24

Step into a world of strangers

Into a sea of unknowns…

Blue Öyster Cult, “Hammer Back”

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.”