‘Make sure you drink the tea.’
I nodded and took a couple of sips. ‘Stephie, I don’t know what came over me back there.’
‘You found a dead body. It’s bound to have an effect.’
‘I was fine at the time.’
‘It’s delayed shock, probably.’
It was a testament to the quality of Lina’s salami, and the fact that I was absolutely starving, that even the mention of dead bodies didn’t affect my appetite. A minute later all that remained was a scatter of crumbs.
‘Want another?’ Stephie asked.
I shook my head. ‘Who’s the dinner party for?’
‘To say goodbye to my neighbours.’ There was an awkward hiatus in the conversation. ‘Now that you’ve found Frank’s daughter, that’s you off the job, presumably,’ Stephie said.
‘He wants me to follow up.’
‘Follow up on what? The girl’s dead.’
‘There are a few loose ends.’
‘Such as?’
‘A couple of people who need checking out.’
‘Shouldn’t the police be doing that?’
‘Frank’s not a big fan.’
Stephie folded her arms and frowned. ‘When you say a couple of people, you’re talking about murder suspects, right?’
‘Not necessarily. Harry had some associates who might be able to point us in the right direction.’
‘Wouldn’t they tell the police if they knew anything?’
‘They might not be aware they do.’
‘And let’s say someone does give you a heads up? What then?’
‘I report back to Frank.’
‘Who’s not a big fan of the police?’ I shook my head. ‘And who used to know a few people who don’t exactly play by the rules?’
‘He’s a legitimate businessman now.’
‘Dream on, Kenny. Tell Frank Parr you know who killed his daughter and he’s not going to say thanks very much and pass the information on.’
‘What are you suggesting, Stephie?’
‘You know exactly what I’m suggesting.’
She may have had a point but it wouldn’t be Frank I’d be telling. Either I reported my suspicions to Farrelly, who would act on them with extreme prejudice, or the police got there first, which meant that Satan’s chauffeur would be coming after me. Not a happy outcome in either instance.
‘And what happens if you don’t tell the cops?’ Stephie continued. ‘If they find out that you’ve withheld information, you’ll be in deep shit.’
‘Thanks, Steph, you’re making me feel a lot better.’
‘All I’m saying is that you’re out of your depth. Why not tell Frank that you’ve done as much as you can and cash your chips in?’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
Stephie’s phone trilled. She pulled it out of her bag, examined the screen, and opted not to answer. I had a feeling about what was coming next.
‘About Manchester . . .’ she began.
‘I’ve been mad busy, Stephie.’
‘That why you haven’t been in the V recently?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Not because you couldn’t face telling me that you don’t want to go.’
‘Of course not.’
‘But you really don’t want to go?’
‘I haven’t been able to give it much thought.’
Stephie examined my features in much the same way DI Standish had when questioning me. Although she looked a lot better, it still made me feel guilty.
‘I don’t get why this is such a hard decision, Kenny. Moving’s always inconvenient but you won’t be filling half a dozen Pickford vans.’ Stephie looked round the room to emphasise her point. At best you could describe the flat as refreshingly uncluttered; at worst it had the ambience of a safe house. ‘And if things don’t work out,’ she continued, ‘then I’m sure your brother will keep the place available for a few months. All it’s used for is out-of-town clients, isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘When’s the last time one stayed here?’
‘February.’
‘For how long?’
‘Two nights.’
‘Not exactly burning your bridges, then.’
‘What about work?’
‘What about it?’
‘Odeerie won’t hold my job open.’
‘Then you’ll sign on until you find another. Your brother’s not charging you rent, which means there’s minimal financial risk . . .’ Stephie shook her head as though something had just occurred to her. ‘Jesus, would you listen to me,’ she said. ‘Here I am selling you the idea when by rights it should be the other way round.’
‘I know.’
‘So why isn’t it, Kenny?’
There was no ready answer. I’d been telling the truth about not thinking about Stephie’s offer but she was right: what was there to think about? No reason I shouldn’t say yes there and then. ‘Give me another couple of days,’ I said.
Stephie responded with an exasperated sigh.
‘If you haven’t decided by next Tuesday,’ she said, gathering her bags together, ‘you can forget the whole thing.’
‘I just need to be absolutely sure.’
‘No one’s ever absolutely sure about anything in life.’ Stephie stood up from the sofa. ‘I’ve left the bread and the salami in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Drink lots of water and make sure you get a decent night’s sleep.’
‘Thanks, Steph.’
‘That is what you’re going to do, isn’t it?’
‘I’d be a fool not to,’ I said.
EIGHTEEN
After Stephie left, I made myself another sandwich and brewed up a pot of strong coffee, into which went a couple of shots of Monarch. For a while I thought about Manchester, but couldn’t come to a conclusion. Then I spent a while wondering why I couldn’t come to a conclusion about Manchester. More whisky didn’t give me any greater clarity but did make me feel better.
At ten o’clock I climbed into my dinner suit. Looking in the mirror, it was all I could do not to pull an imaginary Walther out of a non-existent shoulder holster and put a couple of rounds into the sofa. The Monarch had weaved its magic and I felt decidedly optimistic about charming the doorman at La Cage.
How hard could it be to get into a sex club?
Several of Causal Street’s three-storey town houses had been converted into antique shops, and two minor African countries had embassies there. One blue plaque commemorated the residency of a lady novelist in the early 1930s, another a sculptor twenty years later. Now its private residents were mostly oligarchs or sheiks.
A Persian carpet gallery and a merchant bank flanked number thirty-four. Its brickwork had been painted dark grey, as opposed to the pristine white its neighbours had opted for. This and the ebony front door gave the place a forbidding aspect that served to neutralise the Monarch’s feel-good factor.
I double-checked that I wasn’t about to blag my way into the Eritrean High Commission and pressed the bell. A guy in his forties answered promptly.
‘May I help you?’
‘Is this La Cage?’
‘You’re mistaken, I’m afraid, sir.’
The doorman’s charcoal suit could have graced the wardrobe of a CEO and his side-parted hair had been neatly clipped. That said, he was six inches taller than me, and you could have stacked a dinner service on his shoulders.
‘My friend recommended I come along,’ I said.
‘And your friend’s name would be?’