‘We’ll grab her on the way back,’ Al reassured Strike. ‘Eddie sends his best, by the way. Wishes he could’ve been here.’
‘How’s he doing?’ asked Strike, feigning interest. Where Al had shown himself keen to forge a friendship, his younger brother, Eddie, seemed indifferent. He was twenty-four and the lead singer in his own band. Strike had never listened to any of their music.
‘He’s great,’ said Al.
Silence fell between them. Their starters arrived and they ate without talking. Strike knew that Al had achieved excellent grades in his International Baccalaureate. One evening in a military tent in Afghanistan, Strike had seen a photograph online of eighteen-year-old Al in a cream blazer with a crest on the pocket, long hair swept sideways and gleaming gold in the bright Geneva sun. Rokeby had had his arm around Al, beaming with paternal pride. The picture had been newsworthy because Rokeby had never been photographed in a suit and tie before.
‘Hello, Al,’ said a familiar voice.
And, to Strike’s astonishment, there stood Daniel Chard on crutches, his bald head reflecting the subtle spots shining from the industrial waves above them. Wearing a dark red open-necked shirt and a grey suit, the publisher looked stylish among this more bohemian crowd.
‘Oh,’ said Al, and Strike could tell that he was struggling to place Chard, ‘er – hi—’
‘Dan Chard,’ said the publisher. ‘We met when I was speaking to your father about his autobiography?’
‘Oh – oh yeah!’ said Al, standing up and shaking hands. ‘This is my brother Cormoran.’
If Strike had been surprised to see Chard approach Al, it was nothing to the shock that registered on Chard’s face at the sight of Strike.
‘Your – your brother?’
‘Half-brother,’ said Strike, inwardly amused by Chard’s evident bewilderment. How could the hireling detective be related to the playboy prince?
The effort it had cost Chard to approach the son of a potentially lucrative subject seemed to have left him with nothing to spare for a three-way awkward silence.
‘Leg feeling better?’ Strike asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Chard. ‘Much. Well, I’ll… I’ll leave you to your dinner.’
He moved away, swinging deftly between tables, and resumed his seat where Strike could no longer watch him. Strike and Al sat back down, Strike reflecting on how very small London was once you reached a certain altitude; once you had left behind those who could not easily secure tables at the best restaurants and clubs.
‘Couldn’t remember who he was,’ said Al with a sheepish grin.
‘He’s thinking of writing his autobiography, is he?’ Strike asked.
He never referred to Rokeby as Dad, but tried to remember not to call him Rokeby in front of Al.
‘Yeah,’ said Al. ‘They’re offering him big money. I dunno whether he’s going to go with that bloke or one of the others. It’ll probably be ghosted.’
Strike wondered fleetingly how Rokeby might treat his eldest son’s accidental conception and disputed birth in such a book. Perhaps, he thought, Rokeby would skip any mention of it. That would certainly be Strike’s preference.
‘He’d still like to meet you, you know,’ said Al, with an air of having screwed himself up to say it. ‘He’s really proud… he read everything about the Landry case.’
‘Yeah?’ said Strike, looking around the restaurant for Loulou, the waitress who remembered Quine.
‘Yeah,’ said Al.
‘So what did he do, interview publishers?’ Strike asked. He thought of Kathryn Kent, of Quine himself, the one unable to find a publisher, the other dropped; and the ageing rock star able to take his pick.
‘Yeah, kind of,’ said Al. ‘I dunno if he’s going to do it or not. I think that Chard guy was recommended to him.’
‘Who by?’
‘Michael Fancourt,’ said Al, wiping his plate of risotto clean with a piece of bread.
‘Rokeby knows Fancourt?’ asked Strike, forgetting his resolution.
‘Yeah,’ said Al, with a slight frown; then: ‘Let’s face it, Dad knows everyone.’
It reminded Strike of the way Elizabeth Tassel had said ‘I thought everyone knew’ why she no longer represented Fancourt, but there was a difference. To Al, ‘everyone’ meant the ‘someones’: the rich, the famous, the influential. The poor saps who bought his father’s music were nobodies, just as Strike had been nobody until he had burst into prominence for catching a killer.
‘When did Fancourt recommend Roper Chard to – when did he recommend Chard?’ asked Strike.
‘Dunno – few months ago?’ said Al vaguely. ‘He told Dad he’d just moved there himself. Half a million advance.’
‘Nice,’ said Strike.
‘Told Dad to watch the news, that there’d be a buzz about the place once he moved.’
Loulou the waitress had moved back into view. Al hailed her again; she approached with a harried expression.
‘Give me ten,’ she said, ‘and I’ll be able to talk. Just give me ten.’
While Strike finished his pork, Al asked about his work. Strike was surprised by the genuineness of Al’s interest.
‘D’you miss the army?’ Al asked.
‘Sometimes,’ admitted Strike. ‘What are you up to these days?’
He felt a vague guilt at not having asked already. Now that he came to think about it, he was not clear how, or whether, Al had ever earned his living.
‘Might be going into business with a friend,’ said Al.
Not working, then, thought Strike.
‘Bespoke services… leisure opportunities,’ muttered Al.
‘Great,’ said Strike.