‘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 Withdrawn from the website and a hasty reprint is underway.’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.’
PART NINE
Reasoning from the trend of the cavern, he came to the conclusion that somewhere on that further side there were openings…
106
Who prop, thou ask’st, in these bad days, my mind?
In spite of what she kept telling Murphy, Robin wasn’t ‘all right’, ‘fine’ or ‘completely OK’. She was constantly on the verge of tears. She kept seeing her attacker’s face, distorted by the strange square shadows thrown by the oblique angle of the street light. She seemed to feel the strong hands throttling her. Swallowing was painful. When she looked in the mirror she saw dark grey bruising on her neck; when she showered, she saw more bruises on her hip and stomach, where her attacker had knelt on her. She was having flashbacks to the man who’d nearly killed her when she was nineteen, the gorilla mask inches from her face, the patch of white vitiligo beneath his ear, which she’d noticed and which her police liaison officer had told her later had been key in identifying and convicting him. The eight-inch scar on her forearm seemed to tingle, reminding her of yet another man who’d come at her, out of the dark.
If she told these stories to a stranger, they’d ask how on earth it was possible that she’d tangled with three different men intent on strangling or knifing her, and that was before she mentioned being held at gunpoint, or sexually assaulted by a cult leader. They’d think she was lying, that she was desperate for attention. It was absurd. It was ludicrous. These things simply didn’t happen. And if they did happen, they certainly didn’t all happen to the same woman. What was she doing to attract this? What was wrong with her?
She was the weak link. She was the one it was easiest to intimidate. For the rest of her life, she’d be dragging her history of victimhood behind her, for anyone to see and to use against her.
She couldn’t say any of this to Murphy. They couldn’t both be having enormous work crises at the same time. If he was worried about her now, when she hadn’t told him half of it – no, she hadn’t told him a hundredth of what was going on – Robin could just imagine what he’d say if he knew Green Jacket had followed her at least twice before, and threatened her with a knife and, she was almost certain, shoved a small gorilla into her hand in Harrods. She couldn’t tell Murphy that her attacker was almost certainly one of Branfoot’s ex-offenders, because that led directly to Malcolm Turnbull, the Met and the masons, and if she told him she’d been tailed by a second man in a Honda Accord, or about the threatening calls to the office, he’d just get angry. Why didn’t you tell me?
And the answer to that was simple: because he’d tell her to stop re-traumatising herself, to give up the job that had given her the scar and the bruises, the insomnia and the nightmares, which she didn’t doubt was the advice any sane person would give her. Murphy would want her to retreat into the hermit-like state she’d been in after her shattering rape, when she’d been almost incapable of leaving the house. He didn’t understand that this job had given her back a sense of self she’d lost at nineteen. In addition to every other thing the most recent attack had left her with, she’d been forced to face the stark fact that she’d rather give up anything, Murphy included, than the agency. That realisation made her afraid of speaking to a therapist. She didn’t want her career choice analysed and didn’t want to relive the rape all over again, with a box of tissues within easy reach and a nodding psychologist making notes.
Strike, meanwhile, had insisted over the phone that Robin take time off. They’d argued about it. Robin was terrified of not being able to leave her flat if she spent too long there. Finally, she’d agreed to work from home for a week.
What Robin didn’t know was that Murphy had phoned Strike the day after the incident in Beaconsfield. The conversation had been brief and blunt. Murphy had told Strike that Robin was in a very bad way. Strike responded by saying he’d be happy for Robin to take as long a break as she liked, and it was she who was insisting on a mere five days.
‘She only had a week off after Chapman Farm,’ said Murphy in an accusatory tone.
‘Which was also her choice,’ said Strike.
But when the call had ended, Strike, who was sitting in his BMW watching Two-Times’ office, was left with increased concern about Robin’s mental health. He didn’t need Murphy to tell him Robin should have taken longer off from work after leaving the cult she’d investigated the previous year, nor did he need to be taught about the realities of PTSD, because he’d suffered it himself.