“You haven’t got a number for him, or anything like that?” Robin asked.

“No,” said Holly.

“There could be big money in this if you can find me any kind of contact,” said Robin desperately, throwing finesse to the wind.

“’S’old place,” Holly slurred, after a few minutes’ muddled thought and fruitless staring at her phone, “’n Market ’Arbrough…”

It took a long time to locate the telephone number of Noel’s last place of work, but at last they found it. Robin made a note, then dug ten pounds out of her own purse and thrust it into Holly’s willing hand.

“You’ve been very helpful. Very helpful indeed.”

“It’s jus’ gadgees, isn’t i’? All th’same.”

“Yes,” said Robin, without a clue what she was agreeing to. “I’ll be in touch. I’ve got your address.”

She stood up.

“Yeah. See thoo. Jus’ gadgees. All th’same.”

“She means men,” said the barmaid, who had come over to collect some of Holly’s many empty glasses, and was smiling at Robin’s clear bewilderment. “A gadgee is a man. She’s saying men are all the same.”

“Oh yes,” said Robin, barely aware of what she was saying. “So true. Thanks very much. Good-bye, Holly… take care of yourself…”

26

Desolate landscape,

Storybook bliss…

Blue Öyster Cult, “Death Valley Nights”

“Psychology’s loss,” said Strike, “is private detection’s gain. That was bloody good going, Robin.”

He raised his can of McEwan’s and toasted her. They were sitting in the parked Land Rover, eating fish and chips a short distance away from the Olympic Takeaway. Its bright windows intensified the surrounding darkness. Silhouettes passed regularly across the rectangles of light, metamorphosed into three-dimensional humans as they entered the bustling chip shop, and turned back into shadows as they left.

“So his wife left him.”

“Yep.”

“And Holly says he hasn’t seen the kids since?”

“Right.”

Strike sipped his McEwan’s, thinking. He wanted to believe that Brockbank really had lost contact with Brittany, but what if the evil bastard had somehow tracked her down?

“We still don’t know where he is, though,” Robin sighed.

“Well, we know he isn’t here and that he hasn’t been here for around a year,” said Strike. “We know he still blames me for what’s wrong with him, that he’s still abusing little girls and that he’s a fuck sight saner than they thought he was in the hospital.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Sounds like he’s kept the accusation of child abuse quiet. He’s holding down jobs when he could be sitting at home claiming disability benefit. I suppose working gives him more opportunities to meet young girls.”

“Don’t,” murmured Robin as the memory of Holly’s confession suddenly gave way to that of the frozen head, looking so young, so plump, so dimly surprised.

“That’s Brockbank and Laing both at large in the UK, both hating my guts.”

Chomping chips, Strike rummaged in the glove compartment, extracted the road atlas and for a while was quiet, turning pages. Robin folded the remainder of her fish and chips in its newspaper wrappings and said: