Career of Evil

Robin heard a lock being turned on the front door. She turned, her trainers screeching on the polished wood floor. Somewhere nearby a loud ping a

“Mama!” said a shrill voice.

“Angel!” shouted Alyssa, walking into the room. “Get it out for her! All right,” she said, arms folded, “what d’you wa

Robin’s impression that Alyssa was gloating over some private piece of intelligence was reinforced by the nasty smirk that disfigured the lovely face. The ex-stripper stood with her arms crossed, so that her breasts were thrust up like the figurehead of a ship, the long ropes of hair hanging to her waist. She was taller than Robin by two inches.

“Alyssa, I work with Cormoran Strike. He’s a—”

“I know who he is,” said Alyssa slowly. The secret satisfaction she seemed to have gleaned from Robin’s appearance had suddenly gone. “He’s the bastard that give Noel epilepsy! Fucking hell! You’ve gone to him, have you? In it together, are you? Why didn’t you go to the pigs, you lying bitch, if he—really—”

She smacked Robin hard in the shoulder and before Robin could defend herself, began punching her with every subsequent word.

“—done—anything—TO—YOU!”

Alyssa was suddenly pummeling her wherever she could land a punch: Robin threw up her left arm to defend herself, trying to protect her right, and kicked out at Alyssa’s knee. Alyssa shrieked in pain and hopped backwards; from somewhere behind Robin the toddler screamed and her older sister came sliding into the room.

“Fucking bitch!” screamed Alyssa, “attacking me in front of my kids—”

And she launched herself at Robin, grabbing her hair and slamming her head into the curtainless window. Robin felt Angel, who was thin and wiry, trying to force the two women apart. Abandoning restraint, Robin managed to land a smack to Alyssa’s ear, causing her to gasp in pain and retreat. Robin seized Angel under the armpits, swung her out of the way, put her own head down and charged at Alyssa, knocking her backwards onto the sofa.

“Leave my mum—leave my mum alone!” shouted Angel, grabbing Robin’s injured forearm and yanking it so that Robin, too, yelled in pain. Zahara was screaming from the doorway, a sippy cup of hot milk held upside down in her hand.

“YOU’RE LIVING WITH A PEDOPHILE!” Robin roared over the racket as Alyssa tried to push herself back off the sofa to renew the fight.

Robin had imagined herself imparting the devastating news in a whisper and watching Alyssa crumble in shock. Not once had she visualized Alyssa looking up at her and snarling:

“Yeah, whatever. D’you think I don’t know who you are, you fucking bitch? Are you not happy ruining his fucking life—”

She launched herself at Robin again: the space was so small that Robin hit the wall again. Locked together they slid sideways into the TV, which toppled off its stand with an ominous crash. Robin felt the wound on her forearm twist and let out another shriek of pain.

“Mama! Mama!” wailed Zahara, while Angel seized the back of Robin’s jeans, hampering her ability to fend Alyssa off.

“Ask your daughters!” shouted Robin as fists and elbows flew and she tried to twist free of Angel’s stubborn grip. “Ask your daughters whether he’s—”

“Don’t you—dare—fucking—bring—my kids—”

“Ask them!”

“Lying fucking bitch—you and your fucking mother—”

“My mother?” said Robin, and with an almighty effort she elbowed Alyssa so hard in the midriff that the taller woman doubled over and collapsed onto the sofa again. “Angel, get off me!” Robin roared, wrenching the girl’s fingers off her jeans, sure that she had seconds before Alyssa returned to the attack. Zahara continued to wail from the doorway. “Who,” Robin panted, standing over Alyssa, “d’you think I am?”

“Very fucking fu

“Brittany?” said Robin in astonishment. “I’m not Brittany!”

She yanked her purse out of her jacket pocket. “Look at my credit card—look at it! I’m Robin Ellacott and I work with Cormoran Strike—”

“The fucker who gave him brain dam—”

“D’you know why Cormoran went to arrest him?”

“’Cause his fucking wife framed—”

“Nobody framed him! He raped Brittany and he’s been sacked from jobs all over the country because he interferes with little girls! He did it to his own sister—I’ve met her!”

“Fucking liar!” shouted Alyssa, making to get up from the sofa again.

“I—am—not—LYING!” roared Robin, shoving Alyssa back against the cushions.

“You mad bitch,” gasped Alyssa, “get out of my fucking house!”

“Ask your daughter whether he’s hurt her! Ask her! Angel?”

“Don’t you dare talk to my kids, you bitch!”

“Angel, tell your mother whether he’s—”

“Th’fook’s going on?”

Zahara had been screaming so loudly that they had not heard the key in the lock.

He was massive, dark-haired and bearded, wearing an all-black tracksuit. One eye socket was sunken, caved in towards his nose, making his stare intense and u

“Nice t’see thoo,” he said with a smile that was no smile, but a promise of pain.

Cold all over, Robin tried to slide her hand discreetly into her pocket for her rape alarm, but Brockbank was on her in seconds, seizing her wrist and compressing her stitches.

“You’re fookin’ phonin’ no one, sneakly larl bitch—thought A didn’ know it was thoo, din’t thoo—”

She tried to twist away from him, her stitches pulling under his grasp, and screamed:

“SHANKER!”

“A shoulda fuckin’ killed thoo when A ’ad th’chance, larl bitch!”

And then came a splintering crash of wood that was the front door caving in. Brockbank released Robin and whirled around to see Shanker hurtling into the room, knife to the fore.

“Don’t stab him!” gasped Robin, clutching her forearm.

The six people crammed into the small bare box of a room froze for a fraction of a second, even the toddler clinging to her mother. Then a thin voice piped up, desperate, trembling, but liberated at last by the presence of a scarred, gold-toothed man whose tattooed knuckles were tight around a knife.

“He done it to me! He done it to me, Mum, he did! He done it to me!”

“What?” said Alyssa, looking towards Angel. Her face was suddenly slack with shock.

“He done it to me! What that lady said. He done it to me!”

Brockbank made a small, convulsive movement, swiftly curbed as Shanker raised his knife, pointing it at the bigger man’s chest.

“You’re all right, babes,” Shanker said to Angel, his free hand shielding her, his gold tooth glinting in the sun falling slowly behind the houses opposite. “’E ain’t go

“Whatchoo talkin’ abou’, Angel?” said Alyssa, still clutching Zahara, her face now a study in dread. “He never—?”

Brockbank suddenly put his head down and charged Shanker like the flanker he had once been. Shanker, who was less than half his width, was knocked aside like a dummy; they heard Brockbank pushing his way past the caved-in door as Shanker, swearing furiously, gave chase.

“Leave him—leave him!” Robin screamed, watching through the window as the two men streaked off down the street. “Oh God—SHANKER!—the police will—where’s Angel—?”

Alyssa had already left the room in pursuit of her daughter, leaving behind her the much-tried toddler to wail and scream on the sofa. Robin, who knew she could not hope to catch the two men, felt suddenly so shivery that she dropped into a crouch, holding her head as waves of sickness passed over her.