“He was well enough to work, then?” asked Robin, because the picture Holly had painted was of a man totally out of control, barely able to contain explosions of temper.

“Yeah, well, ’e was orlrigh’ by then as long as ’e didn’t drink and took his meds. A were glad to see the back of ’im. Took it outta me, ’avin’ ’im ’ere,” said Holly, suddenly remembering that there was a payout promised to those whose lives had been badly affected by their relative’s injuries. “I ’ad panic attacks. Wen’ to my GP. It’s in my records.”

The full impact of Brockbank’s bad behavior on Holly’s life filled the next ten minutes, Robin nodding seriously and sympathetically and interjecting encouraging phrases such as “Yes, I’ve heard that from other relatives,” and “Oh yes, that would be very valuable in a submission.” Robin offered the now-tractable Holly a fourth pint.

“A’ll ge’ you one,” said Holly, with a vague show of getting to her feet.

“No, no, this is all on expenses,” said Robin. As she waited for the fresh pint of McEwan’s to be poured, she checked her mobile. There was another text from Matthew, which she did not open, and one from Strike, which she did.

All OK?

Yes, she texted back.

“So your brother’s in Manchester?” she asked Holly on her return to the table.

“No,” said Holly, after taking a large swig of McEwan’s. “’E was sacked.”

“Oh, really?” said Robin, pencil poised. “If it was as a result of his medical condition, you know, we can help with an unfair dismissal—”

“It weren’t coz of tha’,” said Holly.

A strange expression crossed the tight, sullen face: a flash of silver between storm clouds, of something powerful trying to break through.

“’E come back ’ere,” said Holly, “an’ it all started again—”

More stories of violence, irrational rages, broken furniture, at the end of which Brockbank had secured another job, vaguely described as “security,” and taken off for Market Harborough.

“An’ then he come back again,” said Holly, and Robin’s pulse quickened.

“So he’s here in Barrow?” she asked.

“No,” said Holly. She was drunk now and finding it harder to retain a hold on the line she was supposed to be peddling. “’E jus’ come back for a coupla weeks but this time A told him A’d ’ave the police on ’im if ’e come back again an’ ’e lef’ f’r good. Need a slash,” said Holly, “an’ a fag. D’you smoke?”

Robin shook her head. Holly got a little unsteadily to her feet and proceeded to the Ladies, leaving Robin to pull her mobile out of her pocket and text Strike.

Says he’s not in Barrow, not with family. She’s drunk. Still working on her. She’s about to go outside for a cig, lie low.

She regretted the last two words as soon as she had pressed “send,” in case they elicited another sarcastic reference to her countersurveillance course, but her phone buzzed almost immediately and she saw two words: