‘The fact that Harry confronted you about the memo gives you a motive for killing her,’ I said. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t tell the police about it when they interviewed you.’
‘Who says they interviewed me?’
‘Don’t piss me around. Of course they did.’
Roger’s fists uncurled, although the tension in his jaw remained. ‘Are you going to tell them about this?’ he asked.
‘Not the police,’ I said. ‘But I’m professionally required to let Frank know.’
‘Why? It makes no difference to anything.’
‘I’ll let myself out,’ I said, and got up from the sofa. Roger’s offer came when I was still ten feet from the door.
‘Five thousand to keep your mouth shut.’
‘What?’
‘In cash.’
‘I’m not blackmailing you, Roger.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, of course you aren’t. I’m sorry, Kenny, it’s just that . . . Well, you can probably imagine how my father’s going to take this.’ Roger’s lips tightened and he breathed heavily through his nose. I almost felt sorry for the bloke. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘at least let me tell Dad face to face. He’ll respect me for that, if nothing else.’
‘When?’
‘I’m at a conference in Birmingham today, but I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.’
‘What about the journalist? Is there anything you’ve told her she hasn’t printed?’
‘No. The last time we spoke she said she had a bigger story.’
‘About Frank? Didn’t you ask her what it was?’
Roger shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. You know what reporters are like.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Anna Jennings.’
‘And she works for the Gazette?’
‘She’s freelance but they picked up a lot of her stuff.’
‘Nothing’s come out under her name since Harry died?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed, but right now’s probably not a very good time to print anything negative about my father, is it?’
‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’
‘A week ago.’
‘How did you hook up in the first place?’
‘She interviewed me last year for an article about changing trends in media. I had her details and when I got the memo . . .’
‘You didn’t think to forward it anonymously?’
Roger’s face coloured. ‘I’d had a few drinks,’ he said. ‘You know how easy it is to send the wrong kind of email when you’re pissed.’
‘D’you have Anna’s details?’
‘Are you going to see her?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I don’t have a card or anything but I can give you an email address . . .’
Roger went over to the desk and switched on his laptop. While it was booting up, Hester came into the room followed by a subdued-looking Godfrey.
‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘Godders ate some white berries and then he was sick. D’you think he’s going to die?’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine, pumpkin.’
‘Shouldn’t we take him to see the vet?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Roger had located Anna’s address. He located a pad and started to write it down. Hester stared at me in the unembarrassed way that kids have.
‘What happened to your eye?’ she asked.
‘I fell over and banged it.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘A little bit.’
‘Mummy’s looked like that when it was my birthday. Afterwards we went to stay with Auntie Kath for ages. Daddy stayed here because he had work to do.’
‘No need to bother our visitor about that, darling,’ Roger said, tearing the sheet off the pad. He held it out to me. ‘You will be discreet, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Only I wouldn’t want things to get any worse.’
It was hard to imagine how things could get worse but I chose not to point this out to Roger. If his daughter hadn’t been in the room it might have been a different matter. ‘Twenty-four hours,’ I said instead. ‘And then I’m talking to Frank.’
‘You have my word I’ll have spoken to my father by then,’ he said. Godfrey made a couple of guttural barks before honking over the floor.
It pretty much said it all.
TWENTY-FOUR
Vehicles were bumper to bumper on the A40. To keep myself from nodding off, I reviewed my conversation with Roger. His anger when I had all but accused him of killing his sister had been too palpable to be faked. Less persuasive had been his promise to confess to his father about spilling his guts to Anna Jennings.
I didn’t think Roger had much to worry about. If he played the mea culpa card – or even told the truth as to how he felt about his sister – then Frank would eventually calm down. Added to which, he must already have known what a limp dick his son was, otherwise he wouldn’t have favoured his daughter in the first place.
At ten thirty I reached Camden and parked the Toyota in Pratt Street. I thought about texting Farrelly its whereabouts and decided against it. The way my luck was running, fate would almost certainly arrange an accidental meeting. It was a five-minute walk to Stephie’s flat. The surprise in her voice when she answered the intercom was nothing compared to that on her face when she opened the door.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘I’ve had a busy night.’
‘You’ve got a black eye.’
‘I know.’
‘And you’re covered in crap.’
‘I know.’
‘You reek of booze.’
‘Stephie, d’you think I could come in?’ I said before the inventory got any longer. ‘I need some kip and I can’t go home.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s a bloke waiting to kill me.’
Stephie insisted on an account of the previous night’s events. When I finished my story, she asked why I hadn’t called Frank straight away instead of fannying around. She had a point. Instead of flopping immediately on to the spare-room bed, I rang his number. After thirty seconds I was preparing for voicemail and wondering what kind of message I could leave that would make any sense, when he answered in person.
‘Got something for me, Kenny?’
‘Not exactly, Frank. I sort of need a favour.’
‘You sort of need one, or you do need one?’
‘Do need one.’
‘Go on . . .’
I took Frank through everything that had happened the previous night, apart from my interview with Roger.
‘Are you pissed?’ he asked. I told him I wasn’t. ‘D’you think I need this shit right now?’ was his second question.
‘There wasn’t much I could do. If I hadn’t intervened, Farrelly would have killed Rocco. At least I think he would.’
‘Serve the bastard right.’
‘I know how you feel, but he had nothing to do with Harry’s murder.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Farrelly was electrocuting him, Frank. Rocco would spill his guts if you gave him a Chinese burn.’
He took a few seconds to think this through.
‘So Harry took a call in this club before she left?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And whoever spoke to her is probably the killer?’
‘I can’t be certain, but there’s a chance.’
‘It was definitely a sex club?’ I assured him it was. ‘And Harry was into that?’
‘A lot of people are, Frank.’
‘What else have you found out?’
I thought about withholding certain pieces of information, but was just too tired to edit the story. Plus Frank was my client, so I had certain obligations.