Page 333 of The Hallmarked Man
‘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.All of it.I want the prickshitting himself…yeah… exactly… yeah. All righ’.’
Rokeby hung up and said,
