‘Everything has been taken care of,’ Standish said. ‘And Mr Parr retained you to search for his daughter, who had gone missing – is that right?’
‘Correct,’ I said. It was the third time Standish had clarified the point.
‘But he hadn’t informed the police of her disappearance?’
‘No. Or at least that’s what he told me.’
‘Remind me why that was again,’ Standish asked.
‘Because he didn’t think anything serious had happened to her. She’d left without warning at least once before.’
‘According to Mr Parr.’
‘And her brother.’
Standish would probably find out about the row in due course, but I wasn’t about to do his job for him. Nor did I want to continue a discussion now running close on an hour.
‘You’d only been looking for Ms Parr since yesterday?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘And during this time you interviewed her ex-husband, Mr Rocco Holtby?’
‘They aren’t divorced yet.’
Standish carefully amended his notes. He was in his early forties with short greying hair. Judging by the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, I suspected he was no stranger to a weights machine. On his cheek was a wart that looked like a fossilised teardrop. I wondered if it was too close to his eye to remove with safety, or whether a DI’s salary didn’t stretch to cosmetic surgery.
‘Did Mr Holtby suggest you visit the house?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘I asked him for a key.’
‘Why did you suspect that Ms Parr might be here?’
I shrugged and said, ‘It was a matter of covering all the bases.’
‘You mentioned you were coming here to Frank Parr?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. He thought today rather than tomorrow.’
‘Why was that, d’you think?’
‘I imagine because he was concerned as to her safety.’
‘And yet he hadn’t gone to the police.’
‘So we’ve established. This is a witness statement, isn’t it?’
Standish wrinkled his nose and sniffed. ‘That’s right.’
‘Only, if I’m going to be interviewed under caution, then let me know and I can call a solicitor.’
‘Why would we want to interview you under caution?’ Standish said. It was probably one of the devilishly cunning questions they’d taught him at Hendon.
‘I’ve no idea. But it’s been a bloody long time and I’ve told you everything I know. People will be wondering where I am.’
Standish looked down at the document for what I sincerely hoped was the final time. ‘Okay, I think that’s about it. If you’re happy with everything, then sign and date at the bottom.’
I skim-read the statement before making my mark. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘How long had she been dead?’
‘We can’t determine that until forensics are completed. And even if I did know, I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Looked like a few days,’ I said, hoping to lure him into a breach of professional etiquette. Standish tucked the pen into his shirt pocket.
‘You back to London?’ he asked.
‘If the trains are still running.’
‘Last one’s at eleven fifty. I’ll have someone drop you off at the station.’ The DI stood up. ‘There’s a chance we’ll need to talk again. Not going anywhere, are we?’
‘Well, there is my trip to Courchevel.’
Standish frowned. ‘That could be a problem,’ he said. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘I was joking. There’s no snow this time of year.’
‘Not many would be laughing after what you’ve seen today.’
‘Isn’t it the best medicine?’ I asked.
‘Depends what’s wrong with you,’ Standish replied.
In the Matcham station waiting room a couple of teenagers were sharing a bottle of vodka and sporadically chanting a football anthem. A middle-aged man in a Barbour jacket, attempting to read a copy of Wolf Hall, glanced at them disapprovingly. The boys’ refrain changed to: Who’s the wanker in the mac? After the seventh chorus, the man gave up and left to read on the platform. The boys cheered and the taller of the pair held the bottle out to me. I smiled and shook my head. The kid shrugged to suggest it was my loss.
When the train arrived, I selected an empty carriage and called Frank. According to Standish he had been informed about Harry’s death. Nevertheless, I felt the decent thing to do was to make contact with him. When his voicemail kicked in, I muttered something about how sorry I was for his loss, and speaking when he got the chance. That wouldn’t be pleasant; nor would admitting that I’d got it very wrong about Harry sulking in some five-star hotel. The police would want Frank to identify the body. Poor bastard. Rocco was technically the next of kin but they’d probably want to interview him as a person of interest.
I’d put the chances of Rocco having murdered his wife at around zero, otherwise why would he have given me the key to the place so readily? It could have been an elaborate ruse, but when it came to bluffing Rocco was clearly as much use as a six-year-old. Not that it would stop the boys in blue giving him the third degree, if my experience was anything to go by.
The last Tube got me to Piccadilly Circus at 12.30. I walked up Sherwood Street into Brewer Street. The main thing on my mind was whether there would be enough Monarch left in the bottle to get me to sleep. The answer was almost certainly not. A man in a black Puffa jacket and baseball cap crossed the road as I neared the flat. He slowed down, smiled and held his hand up. ‘’Scuse me, mate, you got the right time?’
I drew back my sleeve to consult my watch. Two muscular arms circled my waist and bundled me into the recessed doorway of the Parminto Deli. A short screwdriver was applied to my cheek, presumably to discourage me from shouting for help. A twist of the wrist and my eye would be out of its socket.
‘You’re Kenny, right?’ the guy asked. ‘Yeah, it’s you,’ he said when I didn’t deny it. ‘Where’ve you been all night, you old bastard?’
Only a faint nimbus of blue surrounded his pupils. He was ripped to the tits on something. A jaw that was rimed with stubble looked as rough as sandpaper. He could have been thirty or he could have been forty.
‘Anyway, it don’t matter,’ he decided. ‘The main thing is that you’ve got to stop looking for Harry Parr, or I’m gonna be back. And, trust me, you don’t want that.’
No argument there. The tip of the screwdriver was probing the lower orbit of my eye like a surgeon’s scalpel testing for the precise angle of entry.
‘Understand?’ he asked.
I nodded carefully.
The guy removed the screwdriver from my cheek and raked the tip over the palm of his left hand. A line of blood surged to the surface. He watched as it oozed across his palm. Without warning he applied his hand to my face. Slippery fingers traversed my features like a blind man assessing a stranger’s looks.