‘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—’
‘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 –
‘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?’