‘Not even the sex of the person?’
‘All H said was that she had to meet someone.’
‘And that was definitely a result of the call?’
‘Seemed that way to me.’
‘There’s nothing else? Maybe something you’ve only just remembered . . .’
Rocco stared out of the car window. The darkness was lifting and the city waking to a new day. A street-cleaning machine trundled along a gutter on the opposite side of the road. In an hour or so the Tube would start running. People would file into offices and shops to clock on for another eight hours of drudgery. Lucky bastards. At least they wouldn’t have a pissed-off maniac on their trail.
‘Actually, there is something,’ Rocco said.
‘What?’
‘It’s not about that night. At least not directly.’
‘Go on . . .’
‘Harry said that she’d had a row with her brother that day at lunch.’
‘What kind of row?’
‘Roger had been leaking stuff about Frank’s plans for the Post. H traced an email to this journalist. She was shit-hot at anything IT.’
‘D’you remember the name of the reporter?’
‘No, but I think she worked for the bloke who was trying to buy the Post as well.’
‘Lord Kirkleys?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Did Harry threaten to tell Frank?’
‘Nope. H didn’t like her bro much, but she’d have known how much it would have upset Frank if he knew his own son was fucking him over.’
‘So she did what?’
‘Said that if he didn’t stop then she’d have no other option than to bust him.’
‘She would have told Frank, then?’
Rocco shrugged. ‘Well, yeah, I suppose. But Rog knows which side of his bread is buttered, so it wasn’t very likely.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘Nah, only time I met him was when we got married. You could see he thought he was a cut above, though. H said that he didn’t know if it was June or Tuesday when it came to work. If he hadn’t been his father’s son, he’d have been cleaning fucking windows for a living.’
‘So why put all that at risk?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Rocco said. ‘You’d have to ask him.’
‘Did you mention any of this to the police?’
‘Why would I?’
‘Why d’you think?’
It took a few seconds for Rocco to join the dots. He let out a protracted whistle.
‘Because it would give him a motive to kill her?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Fuck me. Imagine if he had. Maybe I should get in touch with this journo myself. Kirkleys would stump up a fortune for a story like that.’
‘Let me give you two reasons why that’s not a good idea, Rocco. Firstly there’s no way of proving it’s true.’
‘Doesn’t have to be. People can print anything these days. No one gives a fuck.’
‘Secondly,’ I continued, ‘it would piss Frank off.’
‘How would he know it was me?’
‘Because I’d tell him and then he’d send Farrelly after you.’
As quickly as the mercenary gleam had arrived in Rocco’s eyes, the mention of Farrelly’s name dispelled it. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s worth that.’
‘It really isn’t,’ I said. ‘Rocco, why did you lie to me about Harry Parr and Dervla Bishop?’
‘I didn’t,’ he protested. ‘I swear to God they were seeing each other.’
‘Yeah, but Dervla said they hadn’t spoken for months. You said they were still involved.’
He shrugged. ‘That’s what Harry told me.’
‘Why would she make that up?’
‘How d’you know she did?’
I didn’t have an answer to this, so I concentrated on my driving. A couple of minutes later we pulled up outside Rocco’s flat. It had been the longest night of my life and then some. I had a feeling the same was true for Rocco. We said goodbye without shaking hands. It said something about him – although I’m not quite sure what – that throughout everything he had still kept hold of his Stetson. He got out of the car and pulled it on. Despite a tattered shirt, shit-spattered trousers and multiple scorch marks, it seemed to put a snap into his stride.
I wondered if I should get one.
TWENTY-THREE
I sat in the car and pondered what Rocco had told me about Roger. Why had he leaked the information? Surely it couldn’t have been about the cash. The journalist might be blackmailing him but it seemed unlikely. One thing that working for Odeerie has taught me is that everyone lies. Often to themselves, frequently to other people, and especially to me.
I gave the fat man a call. It had just gone six thirty. ‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Been on a bender?’
‘Something like that. I need some information.’
‘To do with Harry Parr?’
‘It’s connected. I want her brother’s address.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
A bit of heavy breathing from Odeerie before he said, ‘Name?’
‘Roger Parr.’
‘Age?’
‘Mid-thirties.’
‘Does he live in London?’
‘Yeah. And he’s married with a young daughter, if that helps.’
‘When d’you need it by?’
‘The next ten minutes would be useful.’
‘Five hundred.’
‘All you have to do is turn your fucking laptop on!’
‘And I need to know where to look, Kenny, which you don’t. I’m guessing you’re still on Frank’s payroll . . .’
‘For a while.’
‘Why don’t you just ask him, then?’
‘I don’t have the time.’
‘You know I meant what I said about you’re either working for me or you’re working for him. If I can’t rely on you to—’
‘Five hundred’s fine,’ I said. ‘As long as you can get hold of it pronto.’
‘I’ll call you back,’ Odeerie said, and broke the line.
By rights I should have been out on my feet, but my system was high on adrenaline. Chances were that someone had released Farrelly by now, in which case he’d be on his way to the flat. That meant getting some kip wasn’t an option. Not unless I didn’t intend to wake up again.
The only way to stop Farrelly was by asking Frank to intercede. But I wanted to talk to his son first. It’s been my experience that confronting someone where they live is twice as unsettling as anywhere else. Sometimes they give you information; sometimes they throw punches. We’d have to see which way it took Roger.
Odeerie came through with his address shortly after a warden began writing me a ticket. A fixed-penalty notice was the least of my worries. Roger lived in Holland Park. I could probably get there by seven. If he’d set off for work, I’d be shit out of luck. Although I suspected Roger wasn’t an early bird.
I beat my ETA by three minutes. Thirty Durlisher Road was arranged over three storeys. It was painted white and set back twenty yards from the road, behind a pair of six-foot metal gates. Parked outside a triple-bay garage were a Range Rover and a Black BMW, both of which gleamed in the early-morning sun.
I parked further up the street, doubled back and pressed the intercom buzzer. A woman’s voice answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hi,’ I said. ‘I’m here to see Roger Parr. Is this the right address?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Not exactly,’ I admitted.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kenny Gabriel.’