I used the spare hour to boot up my Toshiba and do some research. Plan B had been founded by Callum Parsons and existed to help those with limited resources battle addictions both physical and psychological. It was based in King’s Cross and free at the point of use. Unfortunately the place had lost its state funding last year, and was running a crowdsourcing appeal to help it stay open.
All of this I picked up from the centre’s website. It also carried a biography of Callum detailing how he had almost lost his life to substance abuse. If you wanted to download an electronic copy of his book, Never Too Soon, Never Too Late, then you could do so for ￡4.99 in the certain knowledge that all profits would go to the centre.
The most illuminating profile had appeared in the Guardian eighteen months ago. Callum had been divorced twice and had no children. The interviewer remarked that he had an almost messianic zeal when it came to describing Plan B’s mission. She put it to him that he had refocused his addictive personality on to something that did more good than wallpapering drug dealers’ bank accounts with cash.
Apparently Callum had pondered a while before nodding in agreement.
I had no indication that Harry Parr had known him other than the inscription in her copy of Never Too Soon . . . Perhaps Callum was overly effusive when signing for fans, but I didn’t get that impression. According to the journalist, frying his brain with narcotics hadn’t done much to soften his ‘considerable intellect and combative nature’. All of which meant that it was going to be challenging when it came to visiting him later that afternoon. Most people I speak to weren’t maths prodigies at the age of twelve, with a measured IQ of a hundred and sixty.
I turned off the laptop and set out for Shoreditch.
On the Tube I picked up a copy of the Metro. Harry Parr’s death was officially a murder inquiry. The police made no further comment beyond saying that Rocco Holtby had been questioned and released without charge. Whether his daughter’s murder would cause Frank to pull out of the Post bid was the source of much conjecture. Considered opinion seemed to be that it probably wouldn’t. I agreed. When Frank set his mind on something, not much got in his way. Of course, he’d never been tested in such an appalling fashion, but I had a feeling that, in the next couple of weeks, he would be the new proprietor of the Post. How happy that would make him was another story.
Thirty years ago, Shoreditch was just another run-down chunk of East London. Now it was home to the UK tech industry and myriad galleries in the wake of the Brit Art explosion. I walked past Moorfields Eye Hospital and into the streets behind the Spinnaker pub. They were lined with three-storey buildings that had once been warehouses and factories. Some even had the remains of winching gear attached to their walls and the names of former proprietors stencilled on the brickwork.
Dervla’s studio was in Quebec Street. I ascended a short flight of steps from the street and pressed the button with a fisheye lens next to it.
‘Come to the second floor,’ Dervla said over the intercom. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
The lift was the old-fashioned type with pull-across lattice doors. Dervla appeared gradually from the feet up. She was wearing Converse trainers, faded black jeans and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
‘How are you, Kenny?’ she asked as the machinery juddered to a halt.
‘Pretty good,’ I said. ‘All things considered.’
I unhooked the door and dragged it back. Dervla smelled of turps and sweat. ‘Sorry if I seem a bit wired,’ she said after we’d shaken hands. ‘I’ve been working all night. Must have drunk a gallon of coffee.’
‘How’s it going?’ I asked.
‘Slowly. Installations are bastards to get right.’
‘Don’t you have assistants?’
‘Only to help with the heavy lifting. I like to do as much as I can personally.’
I wondered whether the change in mood really was due to caffeine, or if something stronger was responsible. Certainly Dervla seemed more vibrant than she had twenty-four hours ago, not to mention friendlier. Hopefully it was purely down to half a jar of Nescafé and the magic of the creative process.
I followed her through the pair of swing doors and was immediately disappointed. Instead of housing the artist’s next incendiary creation, the huge whitewashed room was empty, apart from a paint-spattered wooden table and half a dozen plastic chairs.
‘I alternate between floors,’ Dervla said. ‘I’m working on the third right now.’
‘D’you own the whole building?’ I asked.
‘Sure do. One of the perks of having Sheridan as an agent is that you tend to make a few quid. If the arse drops out of the art business, I can always rent this place out. Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good.’
Dervla picked up a kettle and filled it at an ancient stone basin before returning it to base. She opened a small fridge, pulled out a carton of milk, and sniffed at it dubiously. ‘Hope you like it black, Kenny.’
‘Black’s fine.’
‘No sugar either.’
‘Not a problem.’
Dervla put a teaspoon of instant into a mug. She spilled a few granules on to the table and quickly swept them on to the floor. Perhaps a bit of small talk would put her at her ease. ‘I went to see your painting the year it won the McClellan,’ I said. ‘It was very impressive.’
‘It’s the only thing I’ve done that everyone seems to like.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Sherry wouldn’t like it if I became too populist.’
‘I don’t think John Lewis will be selling prints of it any time soon,’ I said, recalling the desolate picture of mother and child. ‘It was pretty gritty.’
‘Funny thing is, it took less than a day to paint,’ Dervla said. ‘I just woke up one morning and there it was in my head. All I had to do was get it down.’
‘Not always so easy, then?’
‘No, it isn’t. Despite what you might read in the Daily Mail.’
The kettle clicked out. Dervla filled the mug with hot water and brought it over. Steam rose into the chilly atmosphere of the room. She took a seat on the opposite side of the table. ‘Sorry about yesterday.’
‘Didn’t bother me, although Sheridan was a touch agitato.’
Dervla nodded. ‘Sherry might come over as though he’s a hard-arse, but underneath all that blather he’s a decent guy. For a while . . . well, let’s just say things weren’t looking too clever, and he’s the one who talked me down.’
‘You’re completely past all that?’
‘NA totally works for some people. Thank God I’m one of them. I sponsor someone now. She called just after the auction began.’
‘And that’s why you ducked out?’
‘Someone was there for me when I needed them; so it’s only fair I reciprocate. How’s your coffee? Say the word if you want some milk.’