“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:
Will do.
When Holly finally returned to the table, smelling strongly of Rothmans, she was carrying a white wine, which she slid across to Robin, and her fifth pint.
“Thanks very much,” said Robin.
“See,” said Holly plaintively, as though there had been no break in the conversation, “it was havin’ a real impact on me ’ealth, ’aving ’im ’ere.”
“I’m sure,” said Robin. “So does Mr. Brockbank live—?”
“’E was violent. A told you abou’ the time he shoved me head into the fridge door.”
“You did, yes,” said Robin patiently.
“An’ ’e blacked me eye when A tried to stop him smashing up me mam’s plates—”
“Awful. You’d certainly be in line for some kind of payout,” lied Robin and, ignoring a tiny qualm of guilt, she plunged straight towards the central question. “We assumed Mr. Brockbank was here in Barrow because this is where his pension’s being paid.”
Holly’s reactions were slower after four and a half pints. The promise of compensation for her suffering had given her a glow: even the deep line that life had graven between her eyebrows, and which gave her a look of permanent fury, seemed to have diminished. However, the mention of Brockbank’s pension turned her muzzily defensive.
“No, it’s not,” said Holly.
“According to our records, it is,” said Robin.
The fruit machine played a synthetic jingle and flashed in the corner; the pool balls clicked and thudded off the baize; Barrovian accents mingled with Scots. Robin’s flash of intuition came to her like certain knowledge. Holly was helping herself to the military pension.
“Of course,” said Robin, with a convincing lightness, “we know Mr. Brockbank might not be picking it up for himself. Relatives are sometimes authorized to collect money when the pensioner is incapacitated.”