Page 157 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

‘She give you the middle name “Blue”, for fuck’s sake. What was I supposed to fink? You listen to Blue Oyster Cult?’

‘When Mum was around,’ said Strike. ‘Not since.’

‘I don’t rate it. But they were fuckin’ unbeatable, live. ’Mazin’ live, I gotta give ’em that, an’ Leda loved the gigs. She used to say to me—’

‘What d’you mean, “used to say to you”?’ said Strike, drawn in against his will. ‘It was once, right?’

‘’Course it wasn’t only fucking once,’ said Rokeby impatiently. ‘Twenny times, probably. More. ’Appened every time she was around. She told you it was on’y once, did she?’

Strike didn’t answer. All Leda had ever told him about his conception was that it had happened during the ‘best fucking party’ she’d ever attended, clearly imagining that he’d see it as a matter of pride that he’d come into existence in a New York loft, while surrounded by seventies rock stars and their myriad hangers-on.

Her subsequent anger at Rokeby for his refusal to admit paternity until forced into it by a DNA test meant she’d rarely mentioned his name during Strike’s childhood, except to rail against him.

‘It wasn’ on’y once, an’ it wasn’ in the middle of the fuckin’ room on no bean bag, neiver,’ said Rokeby irritably.

‘It’s like Marianne Faithfull and that fuckin’ Mars Bar.

People make up bullshit and wanna believe it.

It was in a side room an’ nobody was fuckin’ watchin’, ’cause I wasn’t into that and nor was she.

An’ I was s’posed to be gettin’ married to fuckin’ Carla a monf later, so obviously I ’ad to say it never ’appened, din’ I?

An’ that party was one night after Leda ’ad been at a Blue Oyster Cult gig, so when you come out wiv ’air like Eric’s—’

‘OK if we stop discussing who my mother might or might not have fucked?’ said Strike through clenched teeth.

‘All righ’,’ said Rokeby, with a shrug. He swigged more beer, then said, ‘Fing about your mum was, she was funny, proper funny. I always liked that. I like a woman wiv a sense of humour. Fuck knows why I married fuckin’ Carla, she’s abou’ as funny as gettin’ your foreskin caught in your zip.

Where’d Leda get “Strike” from, anyway?’

‘He was a kid who came to town with the fair,’ said Strike. ‘She left him a week after she married him.’

‘Huh,’ said Rokeby. ‘I always fort she made it up. So you use the name of a bloke you never met?’

‘I use it because it was my mother’s,’ said Strike. ‘Can we drop—?’

‘Listen, I ’ear fings, from the others,’ said Rokeby, leaning forwards.

‘I know you fink I wanna look good to the press, sayin’ we’re in touch, but you’re wrong.

I bin tryin’ to keep the papers off your fuckin’ back, ’cause if they fink you might sell me out, they’ll be after you like fuckin’ jackals…

wanna sandwich or somefing? I was s’posed to be goin’ out to dinner before Pru called and said you was comin’. I could do wiv somefing.’

Strike’s dislike did brief battle with his extreme hunger, because he’d left his damn sandwich at Heston uneaten, thanks to this business.

‘Yeah, I could do with something,’ he said reluctantly.

Rokeby hit the bell by his side again, then said,

‘Pru says you don’ wan’ kids.’

‘No,’ said Strike.

‘I was too young when I ’ad me first. Didn’ understand what it was. Then, the later ones, I spoiled ’em. Ed’s in fuckin’ rehab again,’ sighed Rokeby. ‘So, why’s that Culpepper fucker after you, anyway?’

‘I proved his wife was having an affair.’

‘Huh,’ said Rokeby, sipping his beer. ‘You wiv anyone? Got a woman?’

‘No,’ said Strike.

‘I was sorry to ’ear abou’ that Charlotte.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Strike.

‘Gorgeous but crazy,’ said Rokeby. ‘Been there meself. Carla was like that. One day you wake up an’ fink, yeah, great tits an’ beau’ful face, but fuckin’ ’orrible person. I got it righ’ in the end, though. Jenny an’ me bin togevver since ’81, didja know tha’?’

‘I did, yeah,’ said Strike, choosing not to mention that some might not consider Rokeby’s third marriage an unqualified triumph, given his multiple, well-publicised infidelities.

‘She’s left me free times, then come back,’ said Rokeby. ‘We b’long togevver, simple as. She’s in Australia righ’ now, producin’ some film…’

Strike’s own mobile rang and, seeing Robin’s name, he answered.

‘Hi, everything all right?’

‘I’m… OK,’ she said, but he could hear the strain in her voice. ‘I’m fine, but I’m at a police station.’

‘Wh—?’

‘That man who threatened me with the masonic dagger—’

‘What?’ He stood up and walked towards the drawing room door, unable to sit still while listening to this.

‘Please – please – don’t start shouting at me,’ said Robin, and Strike could tell she was crying. ‘ Please. I know I fucked up. I didn’t see anyone behind me on the way to Beaconsfield, but I should have checked the car – he’d put a tracking device on it.’

‘You sure you’re all right?’ said Strike, though plainly she wasn’t all right, and he wasn’t sure why he was saying something so stupid.

‘Yes, he didn’t use a knife, he was trying to – to abduct me, or something, he got in the car—’

‘How d’you know it was the same bloke?’

‘He was wearing the same green jacket,’ said Robin, who was fighting sobs. ‘But I used the spray and that’s how I got him off me, and there was a man coming down the street who heard me scream and he helped, he dragged him off me and held him down and called the police.’

‘Jesus Chr—’

‘I’ve just finished giving my police statement and he’s being interviewed… I s’pose this could end up being a good—’

‘How the fuck’s it a good thing?’

‘ Please do not shout at me! ’ shouted Robin.

‘Sorry – sorry, I’m just—’

‘At least he’s in custody – and Strike, he’s got curly hair. He could be Oz. This might be it. His driving licence says he’s Wade King, but that’s all I know so far. I’ll call you back once I know more. They want me to wait here until they’ve heard what he’s got to say.’

‘All right,’ said Strike. ‘Which station are you at? I’ll come and pick you up.’

‘It’s OK, Ryan’s coming to get me,’ said Robin.

‘All right, well – keep me posted… thank fuck for that spray.’

‘I’ll probably need to explain why I had it in my bag,’ said Robin distractedly. ‘God knows what I’m going to say. Speak to you later.’

She hung up, leaving Strike standing in the wood-panelled hall, staring at a Damien Hirst butterfly mandala without seeing it. Recalling himself, he headed back into the drawing room.

‘Everyfing all right?’ said Rokeby.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘That was my partner.’

‘Robin?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Pru likes ’er. Says she’s a good person.’

‘She is, yeah.’

‘Pru finks you two should be togevver.’

‘Really,’ said Strike.

‘Yeah. She finks you’re in love wiv ’er. Don’ tell Pru I told you that, though, she’ll be pissed off at me.’

The drawing room door opened and the housekeeper entered carrying a second tray, this time laden with two triple-decker sandwiches and fresh beers.

‘’Ow did you—?’ began Rokeby.

‘I started making them when I heard you weren’t going to dinner,’ she said, smiling.

‘Worf your fuckin’ weight in gold, you are, Tala,’ said Rokeby. ‘Fanks, darlin’.’

‘You could still go to dinner,’ said Strike. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

‘Din’t wanna go in the first place,’ said Rokeby, through a mouthful of sandwich, as the housekeeper departed again. ‘Can’t fuckin’ stand me son-in-law. Danni’s new ’usband, but don’ tell Danni I said that.’

‘We’re not in touch,’ said Strike.

‘’E’s a PR ’otshot,’ said Rokeby. ‘An’ a tosser.’

Strike’s sandwich was very good. The two men ate for a minute, and Strike suddenly realised where it was that Rokeby’s drawing room reminded him of: the Ritz bar outside which he and Robin had almost kissed. Then Rokeby said,

‘Want some advice?’

‘No,’ said Strike, and Rokeby laughed.

‘I ’ate fuckin’ advice, an’ all. That’s why I don’t like Danni’s fuckin’ ’usband.

Keeps givin’ me ’is PR perspective, then saying “that’s for free, Jonny”.

One of these days I’m gonna ask ’im ’ow much ’e charges to keep ’is fuckin’ mouf shut.

I was only gonna say, all that counts, in the end, is if you’re wiv a good person.

I learned that the ’ard way. An’ there ain’t as many good people around as you fink. Not proper good.’

For a moment, Strike was transported back to Ted’s wake, and Polworth raising his pint to the ceiling. Proper man, Ted.

‘Don’t let Robin go, if that’s what you want,’ said Rokeby. ‘Life’s too fuckin’ short.’

The mobile on the table rang and he picked it up.

‘Denholm,’ said Rokeby, passing Strike the phone again.

‘Strike here,’ said the detective.

‘I’ve informed the paper you can provide cast-iron proof you’re not the father,’ said the upper-class voice on the end of the phone.

‘I’ll send it to you now.’

‘No need, he took me at my word,’ said Denholm, ‘which he knows from experience is the wisest, cheapest course. I’ve also told them you never slept with the woman and will take legal action if you’re named.

On the other matter, the journalist is going to be spoken to before they decide whether to back down.

I gather Culpepper insisted the woman’s story was genuine, but, by the amount of blustering I’ve just heard, I think his superior might have had suspicions at the time.

I’ve made it clear, of course, that the damages you’re owed will be mounting for every day they refuse to make an apology, given the harm done to your reputation, and consequences for your livelihood. ’

‘Thank you,’ said Strike. ‘I want you to bill me for this. Not my father.’

‘I’m not cheap,’ said Denholm, sounding faintly amused.

‘Sounds as though damages might help cover the bill.’

‘They should,’ agreed Denholm. ‘I’ll be back in touch once I’ve got their decision on the Candy girl, but the baby story is definitely quashed. Withdrawn from the website and a hasty reprint is underway.’

For the second time in as many weeks, Strike felt a wave of almost dizzying relief. He handed Rokeby back his phone.

‘’E sorted it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘An’ what abou’ the prostitute fing?’

‘He’s working on it,’ said Strike. With some difficulty, he added, ‘I appreciate this. Thank you.’

‘I ain’ done nuffing ’cept make a phone call,’ said Rokeby. ‘S’not much. Can I ’ave a favour back?’

‘What?’

‘I wanna keep in touch. Not for me fuckin’ image, not for any of that shit.

I don’t like not knowin’ ya. You’re my flesh an’ fuckin’ blood.

I know I was an arsehole, all right? I know I can’ go back an’ be daddy now, but I’m old.

You never fink you’ll get there, if you’ve lived a life like I ’ave, I should be fucking dead, but I’m old and I don’t wanna die wivvout knowin’ ya.

You fink I ’aven’t got the right to be proud, maybe, but I am. I’m proud of ya.’

Rokeby’s bloodshot eyes had filled with tears.

‘You don’t ’ave to take nuffing, I’m not tryna buy ya, I know you didn’ like me offerin’ money, before. I jus’ wanna know you. Jus’ a beer or somefing, not nowhere public. Anuvver beer, when there ain’t some fuckin’ journo after you. One beer.’

Strike looked at him for a few conflicted seconds, then said,

‘Yeah, all right. We’ll have a beer.’