‘What are you doing with that guy, Frank? You could afford Lewis Hamilton as a chauffeur.’
‘He’s loyal.’
‘He’s psychotic.’
‘In publishing that’s not necessarily a bad skill set.’
‘Still handy with a pair of pliers, is he?’
‘That was a long time ago,’ Frank said softly. ‘We were different people then.’
‘Weren’t we just?’ I said, and downed the rest of my whiskey.
TWO
Frank arranged for me to be issued with a company credit card I could use to draw money from an ATM. He also had five hundred quid raised in cash to cover immediate expenses. In fact, it was all looking pretty good until I emerged from the lift to find Farrelly waiting in reception. He directed me into the post room where a pimply Asian teenager was watching a franking machine whirr through a batch of envelopes.
‘You’re on your break,’ Farrelly told him.
‘Actually I need to get these out by—’
‘I said, you’re on your break, Osama, so fuck off.’
The post boy grabbed his jacket and wisely fucked off.
‘You and me need to talk,’ Farrelly said. ‘Mr Parr’s daughter’s gone missing and he wants you to find her.’
‘I can’t comment on that, Farrelly.’
‘Yes, you fucking well can.’
He poked me in the chest with two granite fingers. I toppled backwards on to a chair and opted to waive client confidentiality.
‘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.