‘Tried to calm her down, mostly.’
‘He didn’t seem aggressive at all?’
A waiter came over and gave Graham a drinks order. He looked at the chit for a few seconds before considering my question. ‘More guilty than aggressive.’ His eyes widened. ‘Jesus, you don’t think he was the one who . . . ?’
‘Sounds like the guy you’re talking about is her brother,’ I said. ‘They used to work together, so it was probably connected to that. You didn’t hear anything else?’
‘Just what I told you.’
‘Did they stay much longer?’
‘Maybe another ten minutes.’
‘And that was the last time she was in here?’
‘Unless she came in on a Sunday.’ Graham glanced at the order the waitress had given him. ‘I should really be getting on with these.’
‘Just one more thing,’ I said. ‘Was there anyone else Harry showed up with regularly in the last few weeks?’
Graham shook his head. ‘She came in for lunch a couple of times but they just looked like business types.’
I drained my sour and said, ‘Thanks, Graham, you’ve been a big help.’
He didn’t seem too pleased to hear it. ‘Look, you won’t mention my name, will you? JP makes us sign a confidentiality document. It means we can’t give anything to the press but that probably includes private detectives.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ I said.
‘Well, I hope you find out who killed her,’ he said. ‘She seemed like a nice person. You sure about her brother?’
‘Pretty sure,’ I replied.
SEVENTEEN
The walk from Cube to Lipman’s, where I intended to hire a dinner suit, afforded the opportunity to mull over Graham’s information about Harry Parr. That Roger hadn’t mentioned a stand-up row with his sister meant little in itself. By all accounts, Harry had been temperamental and it might not have been anything out of the ordinary. Calling Roger a hypocritical piece of shit could well have been inspired by his using an unauthorised accounting system for the quarterly report.
Even if it had been more serious, I wasn’t convinced that Roger was the murdering type. His demeanour had been relatively relaxed when I’d interviewed him at Griffin’s offices. Either he’d been convinced his sister was still alive, or he should consider a career on the stage. Nevertheless, I intended to ambush Rog with the information when the opportunity presented itself – just to see what his reaction was.
More pertinent was whether Harry intending to move from Griffin to Plan B put Frank in the frame for her murder. I couldn’t convince myself it did. Sure, he would have been livid his daughter was throwing in her lot with his ex-business partner but it was quite a feat to imagine him killing her for it, not to mention luring her to a deserted house to administer the coup de grace.
If Frank had lost the plot to such a degree then he would have been far more likely to hit Harry over the head with whatever had been to hand at the time. And even if he had gone the roundabout route, why hire me to look for her killer? Not to mention insisting that I remain on the job after the body had been discovered.
No, whoever had murdered Harry Parr, it wasn’t a family member. For my money, her killer had been the stranger she had mentioned to Dervla Bishop, and my best chance of discovering his identity lay at La Cage.
The assistant in Lipman’s asked what kind of event I was attending. I told him that I was up for a Golden Mould at the Plastic Injection Awards. It seemed easier than saying that I was visiting a Mayfair sex club to track down a murderer. He had no further questions and focused on locating a 36 Regular jacket to go with my thirty-inch-waist trousers and elasticated bow tie.
I tacked across south-east Soho, crossed Shaftesbury Avenue, and turned into Brewer Street. Neon signs advertising poppers, prix fixe meals and luxury apartments were flickering into life. A shift change was under way. Office and shop workers were being replaced by culture vultures en route to the latest production of Beckett and out-of-town reps trying to source a competitively priced blowjob.
I was feeling peckish and there was nothing in the flat. Fortunately Lina Stores was open, which meant I could get some fresh ravioli. I held the door for a woman exiting with several bags. ‘Cheers, Kenny,’ she said. ‘You’re a gent.’
‘Stephie.’
‘At least you remember my name.’
‘Look, I’ve been meaning to call, but . . .’
‘No need to explain,’ she said. ‘I got the message.’
‘That’s not it at all.’
‘Course it isn’t.’
‘Seriously, Stephie, I’ve been running around like a blue-arsed fly. You must have heard what happened to Harry Parr.’
‘Yeah, that was terrible,’ she said, voice softening. ‘But at least the police have found her now.’
‘They didn’t.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I found her.’
As soon as the words were out, my energy departed like the oil from a ruptured sump. Had Stephie not extended a steadying hand, I’d have dropped to the pavement.
‘Christ, Kenny, are you okay?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, although the evidence suggested otherwise.
‘D’you want me to call an ambulance?’
‘It’s a dizzy spell. Just give me a couple of minutes.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, you can’t stand here all night. Let’s get you home.’
What with me hardly able to walk, and Stephie laden with plastic bags, we must have looked like a couple of dipsos on a spree as we hobbled to the flat.
‘Hot sweet tea is what you need,’ she said, after settling me on the sofa.
‘Or a shot of whisky.’ Stephie frowned. ‘How about hot sweet tea with a dash of whisky?’ I suggested.
‘When’s the last time you had a decent meal?’
‘1997.’
‘Seriously, Kenny.’
‘I don’t know. A couple of days ago, maybe.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. No wonder you feel like shit.’
She reached into one of her bags and produced a salami and a loaf of bread. My stomach regained an interest in life.
‘No mustard?’ I asked.
‘Don’t push your luck, sunshine,’ she replied.
While Stephie was in the kitchen, I checked out her copy of the Standard. The front page carried a photo of Frank leaving his house in Eaton Square. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. AGONY OF A FATHER was the headline. Most of the article on page four detailed Frank’s rise to fame from pornographer to media mogul. Hard facts about the search for his daughter’s killer were few and far between.
There was a picture of Harry further down the page. Her smiling face provided a marked contrast to her father’s haggard features. If psychopaths were incapable of feelings, then Frank was in the clear. Stephie returned, carrying a tray.
‘This was meant for a dinner party, so I hope you’re grateful.’
She laid the tray on the table, took one of the mugs and settled on the opposite sofa. I took a sip of tea and bit into freshly baked bread and cured meat.
‘Taste all right?’
‘Fantastic.’