Page 156 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

The night my father got me

His mind was not on me;

He did not plague his fancy

To muse if I should be

The son you see.

A. E. Housman XIV: The Culprit, Last Poems

The townhouse outside which Strike arrived half an hour later was tall and white, with columns either side of the glossy black front door.

When he got close enough to see it, he saw that instead of the standard lion’s head, the brass door knocker was in the shape of an electric guitar. Strike chose to ring the bell.

He heard footsteps and had just put his hand in his pocket for a business card, anticipating a housekeeper or perhaps even a butler, when the door opened to reveal a tall, grizzled Jonny Rokeby in person, wearing a black suit and an open-necked blue shirt.

‘Ah,’ he said, grinning as he stood back to allow Strike to pass. ‘Come in.’

In youth, Strike knew, Rokeby had been exactly as tall as his oldest son, though he was now a little shorter.

Rokeby had allowed his thick mane of shoulder-length hair to go grey, after years of dyeing it a purplish brown.

His walnut-coloured face was deeply lined, doubtless due to long sojourns in his holiday home in the Caribbean, as much as from years of drug-taking and drinking.

Unlike his eldest son, he was very thin.

‘In ’ere,’ he said, and he led Strike into a huge drawing room that was furnished in shades of chocolate brown and gold. It felt vaguely familiar, but in his distracted state, Strike didn’t know why.

‘Pru says you need ’elp.’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. Every particle of him revolted at having to say it, but it was this, or the certain annihilation of the agency. ‘I need a lawyer who can act fast. I’m paying, but I imagine you’ll be able to get hold of a good one quicker than I can.’

‘No problem,’ said Rokeby.

He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and pressed a number.

‘Denholm, it’s Jonny. Urgent. I’m at ’ome, call me…’E’ll ring soon as ’e picks that up,’ said Rokeby, placing his mobile on the coffee table. ‘Wanna drink?’

‘I’m driving,’ said Strike.

‘Wanna no-alcohol beer? I’m off the booze meself. Doctor’s orders. Sit down.’

Strike did as he was bidden, on a large brown sofa at right angles to Rokeby’s chair. The latter pressed a small bell on the glass table beside him, and a middle-aged Filipino woman wearing a silver-grey uniform appeared.

‘Can we ’ave a coupla those not-real beer fings, Tala?’

She left, and Rokeby turned back to Strike.

‘What d’you need a lawyer for?’

‘Dominic Culpepper’s trying to run another story on me,’ said Strike.

‘What’s ’is fuckin’ problem wiv you? Why—?’

Rokeby’s mobile rang. He picked it up.

‘’I, Denholm, sorry to ring so late… no, it’s me son… no, Cormoran… no, ’e’s the one ’oo needs you… yeah… ’e’s wiv me now. I’ll ’and you over.’

Strike took his father’s phone.

‘Evening,’ said Strike.

‘Good evening,’ said a dry, upper-class voice on the end of the phone.

‘I need help with a story Dominic Culpepper’s about to run.’

‘On what subject?’

‘A super-injunction taken out by Andrew Honbold QC. He wanted to stop the papers printing that he didn’t know whether he or I fathered a kid with a woman called Bijou Watkins.

I never had a sexual relationship with her, as she’ll confirm, and I’ve got a DNA test that proves the kid’s not mine, which Honbold’s seen.

I can forward you the information immediately, if needed. ’

‘Very good,’ said Denholm. ‘Culpepper, you said?’

‘That’s right.’

‘All right, I’ll get back to you in—’

‘Gimme the phone,’ said Rokeby loudly, gesturing at Strike. ‘Gimme.’

Strike handed it over.

‘Denholm? Make the fucker apologise for that bullshit about the ’ooker as well.’

‘There’s no—’ began Strike.

‘Tell fuckin’ Culpepper,’ said Rokeby, waving Strike down, ‘’e takes all of it back, or Cormoran’ll see ’im in court. All of it. I want the prick shitting himself… yeah… exactly… yeah. All righ’.’

Rokeby hung up and said,

‘’E’ll be back to us soon as ’e’s contacted ’em.’

‘I didn’t want the other thing dragged into this,’ said Strike, keeping a rein on his temper with difficulty.

‘Why?’ said Rokeby. ‘Z’it true?’

‘No, but—’

The smiling housekeeper reappeared with a tray, which she sat down on the highly polished mahogany table. Once she’d poured out two beers and left, Strike said,

‘I can’t afford years of litigation.’

‘Won’t be years. Denholm’ll sort it. ’E scares the shit out of the fuckers, ’cause they know ’is clients can rinse them.’

‘But I’m not in that financial bracket, so—’

‘I’ll p—’

‘I don’t want you paying for anything, I already told you that. I came here for your contacts, not your money.’

‘Fuck’s sake, lemme do this.’

‘No,’ said Strike.

‘Pride, is it?’ said Rokeby, speaking as though Strike had a sexually transmitted disease.

‘Something like that, yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Then take it out of your money. It’s still just fucking sitting there for you.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Why?’ said Rokeby, but before Strike could speak he said, ‘Revenge for your mum? Because you fink I cut ’er off, forced ’er to live poor?

I’ll tell you why I stopped her gettin’ it direct, it was ’cause your Auntie Joan called my office an’ said Leda was spunkin’ the money up the wall on boyfriends an’ drugs an’ you didn’t ’ave proper shoes.

Leda could’ve ’ad wha’ever she wanted if she could prove it was for you, but she never bovvered askin’ after I put a few safeguards in place.

Too much effort. Anyway, you borrowed some of it before, din’t you? ’

‘If I wanted to work, I had no choice. Nobody thought a one-legged man who’d never had a mortgage was a good business risk,’ said Strike. ‘And I paid it all back, in case your accountant never—’

‘I know you fuckin’ paid it back, but what was the fuckin’ point? It’s your money . It’s legally yours . What’re you gonna do when I die, burn it? Give it to a fuckin’ donkey sanctuary?’

‘RNLI, probably,’ said Strike. He drank some beer.

‘For your uncle, right? What was ’is name?’

‘Ted,’ said Strike.

There was an awkward silence in which Strike, who preferred not to look at Rokeby, directed his attention at the gigantic David Bailey portrait of the Deadbeats hanging over the fireplace.

‘Listen, I never knew Gillespie was badgering you to give the money back,’ said Rokeby.

‘’E din’t like what you said about me, when you borrowed it, but I never knew ’e was chasin’ you for it.

’E’s gone now. Retired. I was glad to see the back of ’im, to tell ya the truth…

I spent forty years off my fuckin’ face, I let people ’andle fings for me. I’m not fuckin’ proud of it.’

‘I don’t care about Gillespie,’ said Strike. ‘I was always going to give it back. I said so when I borrowed it.’

There was another short pause.

‘You and Pru see a bit of each other now, I ’ear,’ said Rokeby.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Funny. You two are the most like me of all of ’em.’

‘I’m just like Ted,’ said a furious sixteen-year-old Cormoran Strike through the mouth of his forty-two-year-old self, and wished he hadn’t.

‘I don’ mean personality,’ said Rokeby, who didn’t seem offended. ‘I mean, self-starters. D’you know what my old man was?’

‘Policeman,’ said Strike.

‘Yeah. Fuckin’ policeman! ’E’d’ve loved you, army and medals and shit. Shame he died before ’e knew I’d produced a proper man. We ’ated each ovver. Chucked me out on the fuckin’ street when I was fifteen. I ’ad to go an’ kip at Leo’s. You know ’oo Leo is?’

‘Your drummer,’ said Strike.

‘Yeah,’ said Rokeby. ‘So I made it out of nuffin’. Same as you.’

‘I didn’t make it out of nothing,’ Strike contradicted him. ‘Not everyone’s got a pool of money they can borrow from, to start a business.’

‘Not everyone’s got a mate called Leo ’oo stops ’em livin’ rough,’ said Rokeby.

‘Shit ’appens an’ luck ’appens. Thass life.

You deal wiv the shit an’ make the most of your luck when you can get it, ’cause it don’t come round too often.

The ’ole band started ’cause Leo’s mum an’ dad let me go live there, an’ now look.

I got so many places to sleep, I forget I’ve got ’alf of them…

you’ve ’ad enough shit out of me bein’ your farver, might’s well get somefing good out of it for a change.

You know what ’olding on to fuckin’ resentment does? Gives ya fuckin’ cancer.’

Strike forced himself to ask,

‘How are you? I heard—’

‘What, me prostate?’ said Rokeby dismissively. ‘They say it’s all right. Gotta ’ave checks an’ that.’

Another, longer pause followed. Strike drank some beer.

‘Listen,’ said Rokeby. ‘That day at the studio—’

‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ said Strike, willing the fucking lawyer to call back.

‘I know I acted like a cunt. I’d been up all night fuckin’ drinkin’, an’ I’d just done a load of coke to try an’ wake up, ’cause we ’ad to record.

Know why I was in a fuckin’ state? ’Cause the night before, Jimmy told us ’e ’ad fuckin’ AIDS.

Dirty needles at the Chelsea, the stupid fucker.

Then Leda shows up, no fuckin’ warning, dragging you—’

‘I told you, I don’t want to—’

‘I be’aved like a cunt, I’m fuckin’ admittin’ it, all right? I felt bad, after. I wasn’ proud of meself. Should I ’ave done better? ’Course I fuckin’ should. You never done nuffing you’re ashamed of?’

‘Plenty,’ said Strike. ‘I didn’t come here to discuss the past, I don’t need apologies. You were the only one who could help me with this, or I wouldn’t be here.’

‘You’ve got ’air jus’ like Eric Bloom,’ said Rokeby, eyeing it. ‘You know ’oo—?’

‘Lead singer of Blue Oyster Cult, yeah, and I got this hair from my Cornish grandfather,’ said Strike.

‘Well, ’ow was I s’posed to fuckin’ know that?’ said Rokeby. ‘I don’t wanna disrespect ’er, but she put it around, Leda, an’ Eric was the one she ’ad the real fing for, so you can see ’ow I fort, when you was born—’

‘I can see how all of it happened,’ said Strike, through clenched teeth. ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’