The first pages were collectively titled Capra Descending. They featured a series of black-and-white photographs of a severed goat’s head. Flesh progressively rotted until there were just tatters on the skull. It didn’t do much for my appetite.
Next up were the infamous pubic weaves with the pensioners who had contributed the necessary standing beside the finished article. It made you think a bit to see the motto Carpe Diem picked out in a black Gothic script. Not least of all because ninety-three-year-old Tommy Fossey was gurning toothlessly at the camera.
But Dervla’s work wasn’t all about confrontation and outrage. There were some exquisitely executed charcoal sketches, and the painting of the woman and child that had won the McClellan. I was perusing the latter when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
‘My name’s Sheridan Talbot-White. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’
The patrician voice belonged to a grey-haired man in his mid-fifties wearing a black linen jacket over a white shirt tucked into a pair of skinny jeans.
‘Kenny Gabriel,’ I said. ‘We spoke on the phone.’
‘Yes,’ he said with less enthusiasm. ‘So we did.’
‘Is Dervla here?’ I asked.
‘Upstairs making a phone call. Remind me, what was it you wanted to speak to her about?’
‘It’s a private matter.’
‘I am Dervla’s agent.’
I nodded and said, ‘D’you know how long she’ll be?’
‘No more than a few minutes, although Dervla is on a tight schedule today, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take up too much of her time.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I said.
Guests arrived at a steady rate. Some were dressed exotically; others looked as though they had come directly from a homeless shelter, albeit one sponsored by Alexander McQueen. When a portly ex-advertising grandee with a hard-on for modern art waddled in, Sheridan was on him like a harbour shark.
By then, I’d been bumped off my position at the lectern. The only place busier was the table bearing the booze and food. I felt uncomfortable for two reasons: firstly, I appeared to be the only person not on nodding terms with everyone else in the room. Secondly, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to quizzing Dervla Bishop about the murder of her girlfriend. Chances were that she’d tell me to sling my hook and I’d be even more persona non grata than I was already.
I had just succeeded in blagging another glass of champagne, against stiff opposition, when Dervla made her entrance. She was wearing a black vintage dress over faded jeans. The shiny material emphasised the paleness of her skin and the delicate bones of her shoulders. Her nose was slightly hooked and her dark-brown eyes a little too close together. She might have washed her cropped hair in the last forty-eight hours, but I wouldn’t have bet on it. Despite all of this, Dervla Bishop was still the sexiest woman in the place.
After collecting an orange juice from the waiter, she joined her agent and the billionaire collector. They chatted for a few minutes, with Sheridan’s braying laughter sounding out like a foghorn at regular intervals. If there were a private members’ club for prize pricks, Sheridan would have been president for life.
The other guests gave the trio sideways glances, presumably wondering when they would get to talk to the queen bee. The same question was on my mind, when Sheridan pointed in my direction. Dervla detached herself and approached.
‘Kenny Gabriel?’ she asked in a Home Counties accent. ‘Sherry said you wanted to talk to me about Harry Parr?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Look, I know this must be a difficult time . . .’
‘Follow me.’
I trailed Dervla across the room like a superannuated footman. She nodded at a couple of grinning acolytes, but didn’t break her stride until we’d reached a pair of low-slung armchairs. Dervla settled into hers; I collapsed into mine. She produced a phone, pressed a couple of buttons, and placed it between us.
‘Say the date, who you are, and that you undertake not to share any information I may give you with a third party.’
‘You’re recording this?’
‘I’m aware of what you do and the company you work for. This is just for the record. Although I’d still like to see a card, please . . .’
I left my details on the phone and then fished a dog-eared card out of my wallet. Dervla scrutinised it for a few moments. I noticed a line of tattooed italic script running up her arm. The first word looked like Destiny. I couldn’t make out the rest.
Apparently satisfied, she handed the card back.
‘You can hang on to it, if you like,’ I said.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Dervla replied.
‘If you were worried about seeing me, then why did you agree to a meeting?’
‘I wasn’t worried,’ she said. ‘I was curious. Which is what you were banking on. Hence all the cloak-and-dagger stuff with Sherry.’
‘To a point,’ I admitted. ‘I’d like to discuss Harry Parr.’
‘So I understand. Who is your client?’
I hesitated. Dervla’s index finger hovered above her phone. The implication was clear – if I didn’t answer her questions, it was interview over.
‘Her father,’ I said.
‘Frank Parr went to OC Trace and Find?’
‘Actually, he approached me directly.’
‘Why?’
‘We knew each other years ago. He needed someone he could trust not to talk to the papers. Initially Frank thought Harry had just done a runner and wanted me to find out where she was. Now . . . obviously it’s a different matter.’
‘Who told you about Harry and me?’
Divulging my client had been a hasty decision. I didn’t intend to compound it by revealing my source. If it meant the interview was over, then tough shit.
‘I really can’t tell you that,’ I said.
Dervla covered her face and groaned. ‘She left a note, didn’t she?’
‘A note?’
‘Look, don’t get the wrong end of the stick. I’m incredibly sad about Harry, but I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. Something like this was always likely to happen.’
‘You think she committed suicide?’
‘She didn’t?’
‘I’m afraid Harry was murdered.’
Dervla blinked several times as though I’d flung a handful of sand in her face. ‘Is that what the police think?’ she asked.
‘They haven’t commented.’
‘Then how d’you know she was murdered?’
‘Because I found her body.’
‘Seriously?’ I nodded. ‘My God, that’s horrible.’
I wasn’t sure whether Dervla was referring to me discovering Harry’s corpse, or the fact that she’d been killed in the first place. Either way, she was still finding out more information from me than I was from her.
‘When did you last see Harry?’ I asked in a bid to reverse the flow.
‘About three months ago.’
‘You weren’t together any more?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘Reveal your source? Yeah, so you said. Well, whoever it was doesn’t have a clue what they’re talking about. Harry and I hadn’t been an item for months. In fact I’m not entirely sure we ever really were . . .’
‘So there’s nothing you can help me with?’