‘Five. She’s got a PTA meeting. I’m happy to stay late, though, Cal . . .’
‘No need for that. Tell anyone coming in now that we’re open at eight tomorrow, and give them the out-of-hours number.’
She nodded and left.
‘Seems like a nice girl,’ I said.
‘Yes, Truda’s one of our success stories. She’s about to qualify as a nurse. God knows how we’ll manage without her.’
‘Tough to find a replacement?’
‘Actually, it was going to be Harry.’
Callum had been full of surprises. This was the biggest so far.
‘She was planning to work here?’
‘Volunteer,’ Callum said. ‘Other than Janice, I can’t afford to pay anyone.’
‘But wouldn’t that have meant leaving Griffin Media?’
‘Harry was disillusioned with her life. I invited her to visit the centre and she was impressed by our work.’
‘And applied for a job as a receptionist?’
‘Only in the short term. Moving forward, she planned to make her contribution as a fundraiser. The last time we met was to discuss how that might happen.’
‘When was that?’
‘I’d need to look at my diary to give you the exact date. Off the top of my head, I’d say about three weeks ago.’
‘Did you hear from Harry again?’
‘Nothing. I’d concluded that she’d changed her mind when I heard the news. Have your enquiries led anywhere?’
I shook my head. ‘Harry didn’t have any enemies that I can find. But then she doesn’t seem to have had many friends, either.’
‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ Callum said. ‘Part of her wanted to be in a relationship; part of her didn’t. It was difficult to reconcile the two elements.’
‘Would anonymous sex be a way to bridge the gap?’
‘It might be. But then sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, as Freud famously remarked. I’m curious to know what made Frank choose you to investigate this.’
‘I knew him a long time ago. He heard I was in the business and gave me a call when he thought that Harry had just gone AWOL.’
‘Why not go to a major agency?’
‘Frank was concerned Harry’s disappearance might make it into the press.’
Callum sat back and tugged on an earlobe. It seemed to me that he wasn’t entirely convinced by this explanation. I was right: he wasn’t.
‘An outfit with a good reputation wouldn’t jeopardise it by leaking information about its clients. They’d be out of business in no time.’
‘Maybe Frank was just paranoid.’
‘Doesn’t sound like the man I used to know.’
Nor did it to me. At our initial interview this week I’d been surprised by Frank’s nervous body language. I’d put it down to paternal anxiety. Perhaps there was another reason.
‘Why else would he hire me?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, Mr Gabriel. And right now I have work to get on with.’
Callum stood up, signalling the end of our meeting. We didn’t shake each other’s hands. I’d reached the bottom of the stairs when Kaz emerged from the waiting room.
‘All right, Kenny?’ she said. ‘How’d you get on?’
‘Very illuminating.’
Kaz’s grin made her look like a little girl. I felt an urge to hug her. The moment passed. ‘It’s always hard the first time,’ she said. ‘That’s the thing about Callum: he makes you ask yourself all kinds of questions.’
‘He certainly does.’
‘You’ll get there in the end, mate. Maybe I’ll see you in here again sometime.’
‘Who knows?’ I said, and she scampered up the stairs.
Kaz had seen more of life than most people twice her age. It had given her wisdom beyond her years. Certainly she was right about asking myself questions. One in particular resonated. Perhaps it had been lurking in my subconscious for a while. If so, then my interview with Callum had dragged it resolutely to the surface.
Last summer, Odeerie had been banging on about a book that included a quiz to see if you were a psychopath. According to its author, not all of them were rampaging around with chainsaws and severed heads. Many channelled their urges and became ultra-successful. Work and medication might continue to keep a lid on things for decades, but a couple of missed doses, combined with some very bad news, and the pot might suddenly boil over. Had this been the case with Frank Parr?
And, if so, had he murdered his daughter?
SIXTEEN
I intended to blow some expenses on a very late lunch or an early dinner at the Fitzrovia Townhouse Hotel as there might not be much on offer at La Cage. In addition to munching my way through Jean-Paul Braithwaite’s finest, I might also discover whether Harry Parr had been in the place since visiting with her brother.
The cab dropped me off outside a Victorian building that had JONAH WILSON’S HAT FACTORY picked out in fancy brickwork halfway up its stone fascia. Windows that mercury-crazed hatters had once peered out of now admitted light into rooms costing four hundred quid a night. The Fitzrovia Townhouse had opened in a blaze of publicity two years ago. Images on its website showed huge brass beds in oak-panelled rooms and freestanding baths deep enough to snorkel in.
At street level was Cube, the restaurant run by Jean-Paul Braithwaite. The Yorkshireman had risen to fame on the back of a TV show in which he treated a selection of tyro chefs to some ‘bluff northern honesty’. This usually meant telling a hapless contestant that his iced raspberry soufflé with a cinnamon straw was a ‘pile of shit with a cinnamon straw’, or a tearful wannabe celebrity chef that he ‘wouldn’t feed his dog her fucking veal carpaccio’.
Fancy food and ritual humiliation had turned Braithwaite into a household name, although to be fair the guy could cook a bit. He was a triple-starred Michelin chef, and Cube was one of the most exclusive places to eat in London. All of which probably accounted for the stunned look on the face of the ma?tre d’ when I enquired if he had a table. ‘You haven’t made a reservation, sir?’ he asked.
‘Thought I might not have to at this time of day.’
‘We have nothing available, I’m afraid.’
‘How about if I waited at the bar?’
‘It would be a long wait, sir.’
‘How long?’
‘Four days.’
‘Maybe I could have a drink anyway,’ I suggested.
The ma?tre d’ probably employed waiters younger than my scrofulous leather jacket, and I got the impression he wasn’t exactly thrilled by my polycotton non-iron shirt. Nevertheless there was a couple behind me who were clearly eager to get to the table they had probably reserved in March. No point causing a scene.
‘As you wish, sir,’ he sighed.