by Greg Keen
‘Harry hasn’t been around for a couple of days. All Frank wants me to do is check she’s all right.’
Farrelly bent over and put his shaven head within inches of mine. His breath had a metallic smell, as though he’d been gargling with mercury.
‘Know what I used to think you were?’ he asked.
‘A charming bloke with an above-average sense of humour?’
‘Fucking smart-arse. And you still are.’
‘Well, it’s been a lovely chat . . .’ I said, getting up. A pneumatic hand clamped on to my shoulder and forced me back down.
‘You’re okay at kissing arses and cracking jokes,’ Farrelly continued. ‘But you’re a bottler when it comes to the crunch. You’re the last person I’d hire to find out what happened to my daughter.’
Farrelly’s thumb and forefinger dug into my neck, pinching a nerve that probably only he and the CIA knew how to locate. Pain ricocheted through my upper body.
‘But now Mr Parr’s given you the job,’ he continued, easing the pressure slightly, ‘I’m gonna make sure you don’t take the piss. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Every day you let me know how you’re getting on.’
‘Is this Frank’s idea?’
‘No. And you’re not going to tell him, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘If you need some help, then you call me.’
‘What sort of help?’
Another bolt of agony flew through my shoulder.
‘That sort,’ Farrelly said.
Harry Parr’s flat was in Beecham Buildings, a red-brick mansion block close to the British Museum. Next to the entrance door was a panel of brass buttons with the residents’ names inscribed against them. I was about to press the one marked ROLFE for the fifth time when a voice barked out of the grille.
‘Are you the plumber?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Damn. Who are you, then?’
‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel. Harriet Parr’s father said that you could let me into her flat. I’m assuming you’re John Rolfe.’
‘How do I know Mr Parr sent you?’
‘Feel free to call him, if you want to.’
Seconds later, the electronic lock buzzed open.
The lobby floor was covered in black-and-white tiles polished to high lustre. Meagre daylight was augmented by four art deco uplighters. Built into one of the cream plaster walls was a letter rack. I checked the pigeonhole allocated to flat 10. It contained a gas bill and a flier from a local pizza restaurant. Absolutely no sign of a ransom demand.
Waiting for me on the third-floor landing was a slightly built man in his late seventies wearing a tweed jacket, a Tattersall shirt and a pair of cavalry-twill trousers. The trimmed beard made him look like a Russian aristocrat. ‘Is the lift on the blink again?’ John Rolfe asked.
Too breathless to speak, I shook my head.
‘You should be more careful at your time of life,’ he said. ‘Come in and I’ll pour you a glass of water. I’ll apologise in advance for the smell . . .’
Despite three sash windows opened to their fullest extent, John Rolfe’s flat stank like an abattoir in a heat wave. The sitting room had a high ceiling from which hung an ornate chandelier. On a heavy mahogany sideboard were a dozen framed photographs. The earliest was a black-and-white shot of a young man in battle fatigues, a cigarette hanging jauntily from his mouth. The cartoony colours of early Kodachrome depicted the sixties generation. I was looking at a more recent photograph of a teenager with his arm around a surfboard when Rolfe returned with my water.
‘That’s my grandson, Jake,’ he said.
‘I can see the resemblance.’
‘He and his parents live in California, so I don’t get to see them that often. Phyllis and I used to go out quite often.’
‘Phyllis is your wife?’
‘Was. She died three years ago.’
‘Sorry to hear it,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ Rolfe replied. ‘May I offer you a proper drink?’
Tempting, but the sooner I located Harry Parr the better. If she got over her strop and called home, then bang went my bonus. ‘I’m on a bit of a tight schedule,’ I said.
‘Of course.’ Rolfe handed me a key. ‘I don’t want to pry, but has something untoward happened to Miss Parr?’
‘Almost certainly not,’ I said. ‘How well do you know Harry?’
‘We exchange pleasantries on the stairs, but she keeps herself to herself, as do I.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘I think a fortnight ago.’
‘How did she seem?’
Rolfe fingered his beard and considered the question. ‘Actually, a little more agitated than usual. I wondered if she was going through a tough time at work.’
‘Did she say anything to that effect?’
‘No, and I wouldn’t have dreamt of asking. People deserve their privacy. Heaven knows there’s so little of it in this day and age.’
‘Did Harry get many visitors?’ I asked.
‘Not since she moved back in.’
‘Which was when?’
‘After she separated from her husband. I was surprised she didn’t put her flat on the market when they married, although perhaps Miss Parr sensed the relationship wouldn’t last. Often one knows these things subconsciously.’
‘And since she came back there’s been no sign of Rocco?’ Rolfe shook his head. ‘Did anyone else come to visit?’
‘Not that I noticed. Are you some kind of private detective?’
‘More a family friend.’
‘Is Mr Parr concerned about his daughter’s well-being?’
The intercom buzzed. Without a word, John Rolfe fled the room. I didn’t blame him. If he hadn’t been so keen to get the plumber in, I’d have begun looking for Harry Parr under his floorboards.
The furniture in the sitting room of flat 10 consisted of two cream leather sofas and a pine refectory table. An abstract painting full of bewildering lines and whorls hung from one wall. Sunk into another was a TV screen under which sat a Bose docking station. The kitchen was no cosier. All the cupboards contained was half a dozen packets of savoury rice and a can of peeled tomatoes. In a Smeg fridge was a bottle of Stoli and a lonely egg. It was how people left their kitchens when they intended to be away for a week or two. I checked the bin and found it empty.
Harry’s spare room doubled up as a study. A desk stood under a window that looked out over the street. Next to it was a laser printer. Conspicuous by its absence was a computer, but there was nothing unusual in that. By all accounts, Harry Parr was a workaholic, so chances were that she’d take her laptop on a break.
Frank had probably gone through the desk drawers, but I gave them a shufti anyway. In the second, I found a bundle of credit card bills. These days, leaving your financial information unshredded is one remove from tattooing your bank details across your forehead. I transferred the top bill to my back pocket.
If Harry Parr skimped on the groceries, the same wasn’t true for the smellies. There were enough pots, jars and bottles in the bathroom to open up a branch of Molton Brown. A single toothbrush stood in the holder, along with a barely used tube of Colgate. Lots of people take their toothbrushes with them when they go on holiday. Just as many buy fresh ones when they arrive.
Lying on a pile of Vogue back copies was a paperback titled Never Too Soon, Never Too Late. The author’s name was Callum Parsons. According to the biog on the back cover, Callum was a co-founder of Griffin Media and a respected media figure until addiction to alcohol and drugs brought him close to death. Fully recovered, he now ran the Plan B drop-in centre.
Harry Parr having a copy of a book written by her father’s ex-business partner was interesting enough. What made it doubly so was the inscription across the title page: To Harry, in the hope that it can provide both ideas and inspiration. All the love in the world, Callum.
Had Frank seen the
paperback? Fifteen years ago, Callum Parsons had been obliged to sell his shares to Frank, and had reportedly lost a couple of million on the deal. It couldn’t have made Callum feel too philanthropic about the man who had since taken the company to greater heights.
The bigger question was how Callum had met Harry. It might have been at a signing, but the inscription seemed a little too affectionate for that. I made a mental note to research Callum Parsons and his drop-in centre. Regardless of how much cash Harry was getting from Frank, if she had a drug problem she might have been left in debt to people who preferred a more direct route than the county court for settlement.
I inspected the main bedroom last. If Harry had gone away, there would probably be a few empty hangers in the wardrobe. It had been packed so tightly with outfits that I had to plunge my hand into the wedge of garments to create some space.
It connected with something clammy to the touch.
THREE
The rubber dress would have fallen to mid-thigh on most women. It was low-cut, but had two extensions from the breasts to form a halter around the neck. Leather laces threaded through silver-ringed eyeholes to keep it in place. According to the label, a company called Bombaste had made the outfit. They had a shop on Bateman Street specialising in upmarket erotic and fetish gear.
The company had won awards from the Design Council. If you want a riding crop made from the finest sauvage leather, or art deco nipple clamps, then head for Bombaste. And be sure to take a sackful of cash with you. Harry’s outfit probably wouldn’t have left much change out of a grand.
That it was in her wardrobe wasn’t anything unusual. Check out the knicker drawers and medicine cabinets of half the country and you’ll find something designed to quicken, thicken or heighten the sexual experience. Chances were that Harry had bought the dress to role-play with a boyfriend, or wear at a ‘vicars and tarts’ party.
Feeling like a cross between a burglar and a voyeur, I replaced the dress on the rail and left the flat. Mr Rolfe’s door was open. He was standing over a bloke in blue overalls who was attacking the pipes under the kitchen sink. I coughed loudly a couple of times. Rolfe turned to face me.
‘Oh, hello there,’ he said, as though I were a visitor from the distant past. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Nothing unusual,’ I said. ‘Looks like Harry went on holiday.’
‘Without telling anyone?’ Rolfe took the key. ‘Isn’t that a little peculiar?’
The plumber’s wrench slipped and he muttered a curse.
‘You know how it is,’ I said. ‘Sometimes people in high-stress jobs decide enough’s enough and they need a break.’
‘If you say so,’ Rolfe replied.
‘I wonder, if you hear anything, whether you’d give me a call?’ I handed him a card. ‘Use the mobile number, not the landline.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Rolfe asked.
‘Anything out of the ordinary.’
Rolfe looked as though he was about to say something else. The plumber’s wrench slipped again and he beat him to it. ‘Fucking bastard fucker!’ he yelled.
I took it as my cue to leave.
After leaving Beecham Buildings, I headed towards Greek Street. The autumn wind was chilly and a light drizzle had lacquered the pavements. Hopefully, Jack’s wake would be over. I’d reached that time of life when any reminder of mortality is unwelcome, even if accompanied by free drinks and a bowl of Bombay mix.
The Vesuvius first opened its door in 1968 as a club where expat Italians could lose money playing cards, usually to its owner, Jack Rigatelli. It was in a basement, so irritating things like daylight didn’t distract anyone from the serious business of gambling. On the way down, the carpet stuck to your feet like Velcro and the walls were a touch greasier than those at the Garrick. None of which was out of kilter with what was to come. Fifty years of inadequate ventilation had lent the V the kind of bouquet that was almost impossible to find since the smoking ban had been introduced.
Jack drank too much vodka and rarely sat down to a meal that wasn’t mired in saturated fat. The only thing stopping him from adding penury to the list was ownership of the building above the club. What with production companies and fledgling PR agencies all desperate for a trendy address, it provided a steady income, most of which was invested at the bookies.
The V’s owner had collapsed in Betfred shortly after placing a monkey on a five-horse accumulator. Stephie, his Mancunian business partner, had organised a memorial do. When I pushed open the downstairs door there were fewer than half a dozen people still in the club, none of whom I recognised. Steph was gathering up greasy plates and empty glasses.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ she asked.
‘Seeing a man about a dog.’
‘You skip your best mate’s funeral and his memorial do?’ Stephie shook her head in much the same way my old man used to when reading my school report: more in sorrow than in anger.
‘You know how I feel about that kind of thing,’ I said.
‘Everyone dies, Kenny. It’s a fact of life.’
‘What was the turnout like?’ I asked to get us away from the D-word.
‘We were backed up on to the street at one stage. Would have been great for new members if we weren’t closing down.’
Stephie had abandoned her usual jeans and T-shirt in favour of a navy business suit, which was a tad ironic the way things were looking.
‘You never know,’ I said. ‘Jack’s brother might still opt for the rental income.’
‘Antonio wants to sell. I got an email this morning.’
‘Can’t you buy the place?’
Stephie deposited half a dozen plates in the sink behind the bar.
‘It’ll go on the market for three million, Kenny.’
‘Why not put a bid in for the V on its own?’
‘Antonio won’t sell the building off as separate units. It’s too much hassle. And even if he did, I couldn’t afford it. You know the way property’s gone in Soho.’
Stephie had a point. Chances were the ground floor would become an artisan coffee shop, or similar. No way would its rise-and-shine customers want to be confronted by whey-faced ghosts staggering out of an underground shebeen.
‘At least you’ll get a decent whack from your twenty per cent,’ I said in an effort to cheer her up. ‘You could open somewhere else.’
‘Where? The only place I could afford would be nearer Watford than Soho.’
‘That’s it, then? No alternative strategy?’
Stephie turned the hot tap on. ‘Fancy something to eat?’ she asked. ‘I’m gonna lock up in ten minutes and leave this lot to soak overnight.’
‘The plates or the punters?’ I asked.
‘Both,’ she replied.
We ended up in Pizza Express on Dean Street. I put in an order for an American Hot with a side of onion rings and a Peroni. Stephie requested a Margarita and a bottle of sparkling water. People half our age occupied most of the tables. They’d probably spent the day hot-desking ideas up the concept flagpole in pop-up creative hubs. It was hard to imagine their energy and idealism dissipating over the years. I was giving it my best shot, when Stephie asked a question. ‘Where were you, then?’
‘What?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Tracking down a multi-millionaire’s daughter.’
‘Don’t take the piss, Kenny. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Honest to God. That’s what I was doing.’
‘Who’s the millionaire?’
‘Can’t tell you.’
‘Because you don’t trust me?’ Stephie raised her glass in an ironic salute. ‘Cheers, Kenny.’
I kidded myself that I’d have to tell Stephie about Harry Parr to keep her sweet. The real reason was to see the look on her face when she heard who Harry’s old man was. I leant over the table and murmured his name.
‘Hank Parr? Is he a country singer?’
‘Frank, not Hank.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Yes, you have. The guy who’s buying the Post.’
Recognition spread over Stephie’s features.
‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘Didn’t he use to publish all those top-shelf mags?’
‘They were a bit higher than top shelf.’
‘It’s his daughter who’s gone missing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he’s asked you to look for her?’
‘Yep.’
Stephie’s brow furrowed as though she were performing a complex piece of mental arithmetic. ‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’ she said.
‘I look for missing people all the time.’
‘Yeah, usually because they’ve done a runner on their gas bill, or not returned a hire car. I’m guessing that’s not why his kid’s gone AWOL.’
‘Wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘Why you, then?’
‘Frank read about me finding the MP,’ I said. ‘And I used to work for him.’
‘When he was knocking out porn?’
‘He had a club on Frith Street. I was the maître d’.’
Stephie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of club?’
‘Cabaret. Frank’s dad left it to him when he died.’
‘Is “cabaret” code for some old banger getting her tits out, and two-hundred-quid bottles of Asti Spumante?’
‘Nope. The Galaxy was completely above board.’
Stephie stroked her chin and appeared to mull this biographical information over. ‘How much is he worth?’ she asked.
‘Just say what’s on your mind, Steph.’
‘No offence, Kenny, but if I had his cash and my daughter went missing, then I’d probably hire someone who was a bit more . . . high-profile.’
‘Is “high-profile” code for someone who knows what he’s doing?’
Stephie shrugged. ‘You did ask.’
‘Frank needs someone he can trust. And besides, Harry’s probably just gone on holiday without telling anyone.’
‘Well, you must have impressed him. How come you’re not still on the payroll?’
‘We had a disagreement.’
