She’d wait by the window, so patiently.

Blue Öyster Cult, “Debbie Denise”
Lyrics by Patti Smith

“This whole trip’s been a wasted detour. It isn’t Brittany. It can’t be Brockbank.”

Strike’s relief was stupendous. The colors of Adam and Eve Street seemed suddenly washed clean, the passersby brighter, more likable than they had been before he had taken the call. Brittany must, after all, be alive somewhere. This was not his fault. The leg had not been hers.

Robin said nothing. She could hear the triumph in Strike’s voice, feel his release. She, of course, had never met or seen Brittany Brockbank, and while she was glad the girl was safe, the fact remained that a girl had died in horrific circumstances. The guilt that had tumbled from Strike seemed to have fallen heavily into her own lap. She was the one who had skim-read Kelsey’s letter and simply filed it in the nutter drawer without response. Would it have made a difference, Robin wondered, if she had contacted Kelsey and advised her to get help? Or if Strike had called her and told her that he had lost his leg in battle, that whatever she had been told about his injury was a lie? Robin’s insides ached with regret.

“Are you sure?” she said aloud after a full minute’s silence, both of them lost in their own private thoughts.

“Sure about what?” asked Strike, turning to look at her.

“That it can’t be Brockbank.”

“If it’s not Brittany—” began Strike.

“You’ve just told me that girl—”

“Ingrid?”

“Ingrid,” said Robin, with a trace of impatience, “yes. You’ve just told me she says Brockbank’s obsessed with you. He holds you accountable for his brain damage and the loss of his family.”

Strike watched her, frowning, thinking.

“Everything I said last night about the killer wanting to denigrate you and belittle your war record would sit comfortably with everything we know about Brockbank,” Robin went on, “and don’t you think that meeting this Kelsey and perhaps seeing the scarring on her leg that was like Brittany’s, or hearing that she wanted to get rid of it could have—I don’t know—triggered something in him? I mean,” said Robin tentatively, “we don’t know exactly how the brain damage—”

“He’s not that fucking brain damaged,” snapped Strike. “He was faking in the hospital. I know he was.”

Robin said nothing, but sat behind the wheel and watched shoppers moving up and down Adam and Eve Street. She envied them. Whatever their private preoccupations, they were unlikely to include mutilation and murder.

“You make some good points,” said Strike at last. Robin could tell that she had taken the edge off his private celebration. He checked his watch. “C’mon, we’d better get off to Corby if we’re going to do it today.”

The twelve miles between the two towns were swiftly covered. Robin guessed from his surly expression that Strike was mulling over their discussion about Brockbank. The road was nondescript, the surrounding countryside flat, hedgerows and occasional trees lining the route.