He hung up. He could see only one possible solution to his dilemma, and nothing but this extremity could have brought him to it. Strike took a lungful of nicotine and called his half-sister Prudence.
105
A. E. Housman
The townhouse outside which Strike arrived half an hour later was tall and white, with columns either side of the glossy black front door. When he got close enough to see it, he saw that instead of the standard lion’s head, the brass door knocker was in the shape of an electric guitar. Strike chose to ring the bell.
He heard footsteps and had just put his hand in his pocket for a business card, anticipating a housekeeper or perhaps even a butler, when the door opened to reveal a tall, grizzled Jonny Rokeby in person, wearing a black suit and an open-necked blue shirt.
‘Ah,’ he said, grinning as he stood back to allow Strike to pass. ‘Come in.’
In youth, Strike knew, Rokeby had been exactly as tall as his oldest son, though he was now a little shorter. Rokeby had allowed his thick mane of shoulder-length hair to go grey, after years of dyeing it a purplish brown. His walnut-coloured face was deeply lined, doubtless due to long sojourns in his holiday home in the Caribbean, as much as from years of drug-taking and drinking. Unlike his eldest son, he was very thin.
‘In ’ere,’ he said, and he led Strike into a huge drawing room that was furnished in shades of chocolate brown and gold. It felt vaguely familiar, but in his distracted state, Strike didn’t know why.
‘Pru says you need ’elp.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. Every particle of him revolted at having to say it, but it was this, or the certain annihilation of the agency. ‘I need a lawyer who can act fast. I’m paying, but I imagine you’ll be able to get hold of a good one quicker than I can.’
‘No problem,’ said Rokeby.
He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and pressed a number.
‘Denholm, it’s Jonny. Urgent. I’m at ’ome, call me…’E’ll ring soon as ’e picks that up,’ said Rokeby, placing his mobile on the coffee table. ‘Wanna drink?’
‘I’m driving,’ said Strike.
‘Wanna no-alcohol beer? I’m off the booze meself. Doctor’s orders. Sit down.’
Strike did as he was bidden, on a large brown sofa at right angles to Rokeby’s chair. The latter pressed a small bell on the glass table beside him, and a middle-aged Filipino woman wearing a silver-grey uniform appeared.
‘Can we ’ave a coupla those not-real beer fings, Tala?’
She left, and Rokeby turned back to Strike.
‘What d’you need a lawyer for?’
‘Dominic Culpepper’s trying to run another story on me,’ said Strike.
‘What’s ’is fuckin’ problem wiv you? Why—?’
Rokeby’s mobile rang. He picked it up.
‘’I, Denholm, sorry to ring so late… no, it’s me son… no, Cormoran… no, ’e’s the one ’oo needs you… yeah… ’e’s wiv me now. I’ll ’and you over.’
Strike took his father’s phone.
‘Evening,’ said Strike.
‘Good evening,’ said a dry, upper-class voice on the end of the phone.
‘I need help with a story Dominic Culpepper’s about to run.’
‘On what subject?’
‘A super-injunction taken out by Andrew Honbold QC. He wanted to stop the papers printing that he didn’t know whether he or I fathered a kid with a woman called Bijou Watkins. I never had a sexual relationship with her, as she’ll confirm, and I’ve got a DNA test that proves the kid’s not mine, which Honbold’s seen. I can forward you the information immediately, if needed.’
‘Very good,’ said Denholm. ‘Culpepper, you said?’
‘That’s right.’
‘All right, I’ll get back to you in—’
‘Gimme the phone,’ said Rokeby loudly, gesturing at Strike. ‘Gimme.’
Strike handed it over.
‘Denholm? Make the fucker apologise for that bullshit about the ’ooker as well.’
‘There’s no—’ began Strike.
‘Tell fuckin’ Culpepper,’ said Rokeby, waving Strike down, ‘’e takes all of it back, or Cormoran’ll see ’im in court.
Rokeby hung up and said,
‘’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.