‘’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.’
‘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—’