‘Right,’ said Robin.
‘It was – one of those things. I didn’t particularly—’
He had just enough sense to bite off the end of that sentence, but Robin had heard it, anyway. Didn’t particularly fancy her.
But you slept with her anyway, thought Robin, because of course you did. And now look.
‘She wanted a relationship,’ said Strike, who thought this was a point in his favour. ‘She wanted to keep it going. That’s why – I could tell she was carrying a grudge, the night I saw her at the Dorchester. She claims I fucked up one of her best friend’s lives, too.’
‘Whose?’ said Robin in alarm, visualising fresh vistas of fertile scandals for the tabloids to explore.
‘No fucking idea. Probably some cheating wife we investigated. But she guessed I was there on a job, at the Dorchester, so when Mr A told his ex he knew what she was up to—’
‘Well, going forwards,’ said Robin (Strike would have said exactly the same, she knew, had it been a question of another employee), ‘maybe you shouldn’t be doing the kind of jobs where you might bump into former girlfriends.’
‘There aren’t that fucking many of them!’
‘But a lot of them come from that kind of social circle, don’t they?’ said Robin, who was determined to have her say; not to punish him, but because the agency meant more to her than coddling Strike’s feelings. ‘It’s a miracle this has never happened before. You’re the most recognisable member of the agency, as well. We just need to bear that in mind from now on.’
After fuming in silence for a few seconds, Strike bellowed ‘FUCK’S SAKE’ at no one in particular, though it made Robin jump.
‘You know what you need to do?’ Robin said, forcing herself to speak calmly. ‘Call Fergus Robertson.’
Strike glared at her, then said,
‘I thought of that, but I’m not—’
‘This won’t go away with “no comment”. Talk to Robertson, tell him the truth. You’ve always played fair with him.’
‘I didn’t want to have to—’
‘It’s too late for what you “didn’t want to have to do”,’ said Robin angrily. This was her agency as well, and she wasn’t going to stand by and watch it get trashed. ‘You need to give Robertson the facts. You’ve got to push back.’
‘It won’t be enough. I need to stop this at the source.’
‘What are you going to do, track this girl down and threaten her into recanting?’ said Robin, now losing patience. ‘How d’you think that’ll play out? “Cormoran Strike in further threats to sex worker”? Or are you planning to lay about Dominic Culpepper with a baseball bat? Because that—’
‘Give me my phone.’
‘You can’t threaten Culpepper, Strike! You can’t!’
‘I’m not going to. I’ll call Robertson and see if I can do some damage control.’
Robin gave the phone back but stood watching him.
‘I’d rather you didn’t listen,’ he told her.
‘Fine,’ said Robin coldly, and she left the room.
Strike waited until the door had closed before sitting down and pressing Robertson’s number.
‘’Ello, ’ello,’ said an amused voice on the end of the line. ‘Just thinking of calling you, seeing as you’re not returning any of my colleagues’ calls. Why’s Mr Culpepper so keen to get you, all of a sudden?’
‘Might be prepared to tell you that,’ said Strike, ‘as long as I’m guaranteed an accurate quote or two.’
‘Who’s giving the quotes?’
‘Me,’ said Strike.
‘Fire away,’ said Robertson, and Strike heard the turning of a page.
‘I’ve never hired any woman – emphasis on “any” – sex worker or otherwise, to entrap or lure an investigative target or witness,’ said Strike, and he heard Robertson’s shorthand moving rapidly across paper, ‘nor have I ever attempted to get sex by offering money, withholding payment, or by any other kind of threat. I have never met, spoken to or otherwise interacted with the woman calling herself Candy and her claims, for which she’s offered no proof, are completely without foundation.’
‘Gonna take legal action?’ asked Robertson, who was still audibly scribbling.
‘On the record, yeah, I’m speaking to lawyers. Off the record, I haven’t got the money to sue, as Culpepper fucking well knows.’
‘Right,’ said Robertson. ‘This all seems to have got very personal, very fast.’
‘There’s a reason for that,’ said Strike, ‘and I might be prepared to give you some pointers on where to dig, as long as you can guarantee I’m going to be accurately quoted…’
33
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress’d.
Robin was in the bathroom on the landing. She’d retreated there because she didn’t want to answer Pat’s questions and now, for the second time in three weeks, she was sitting on a toilet with her head in her hands, infuriated and enraged by Cormoran Strike.
Had she thought him some kind of Sir Galahad? No, never; she knew him too well, but like millions of women before her, Robin would rather have thought the man of whom she was so fond was better than this. She believed he’d never met Candy the sex worker, but the fact remained that if Strike could have just resisted having sex with a woman he’d inveigled into helping him on a job, Culpepper wouldn’t have had a peg on which to hang his scurrilous story.
Five minutes later, Robin returned to the office, to find Strike still shut up inside the inner office, and Pat with the telephone receiver clamped to her ear, listening to someone. Robin was hanging up her coat when Pat said,
‘I’m just going to put you on hold, Mr Rokeby.’
So fraught had the events of the morning been so far that Robin didn’t immediately register the name. Only on turning to face the office manager, and seeing Pat’s expression of mingled amazement and fear, did the import of what she’d just heard hit her.
‘It’s his father,’ Pat breathed.
‘Oh my God,’ whispered Robin. Of all the things that she thought might tip Strike completely over the edge this morning, his father was foremost. ‘What does he want?’
‘To speak to him,’ mouthed Pat, with a jerk of the head towards the out of sight Strike. ‘He says he can’t call him on his mobile, because he’s got him blocked. And he said, if he wasn’t available, he’d like to speak to you.’
Robin could hear Strike’s muffled voice, still talking to Fergus Robertson in the inner office. The call might end at any moment.
‘Tell him both of us are busy but that you can take a message and one of us will get back to him. And then text me the message, don’t send—’
The door to the inner office opened.
‘We going to have this catch-up, then?’ said Strike, scowling.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Robin, trying her best to sound matter of fact.