‘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.