‘Harry was gay. She married Rocco because you kept suggesting she settle down with someone. It was never going to last, but she wanted to teach you a lesson.’
‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’
‘It’s the truth, Frank.’
‘Who says it is?’
‘Rocco.’
‘That piece of shit would come up with anything if he thought it could make him a few quid. Okay, Harry might have gone to this club now and again. Might have done. But I know my own daughter, Kenny, and she wasn’t gay.’
I took a deep breath and said, ‘Roger confirmed it.’
A long silence followed.
‘Harry told Rog she was gay, but not me?’
‘He sort of worked it out for himself.’
‘But I didn’t notice?’
‘Sometimes we see what we want to see, Frank.’
‘What else?’ he asked.
‘She was friendly with Callum Parsons.’
Judging by Frank’s silence, this seemed almost as much of a surprise about Harry as the revelation concerning her sexuality.
‘What d’you mean by friendly?’ he asked.
‘They met at a book signing. Harry knew that you and Callum had been business partners. He runs a centre for recovering addicts and she visited a couple of times.’
‘She was a druggie as well as being gay?’ Frank sounded as though he expected ‘practising Satanist’ to be next on my list of revelations.
‘No,’ I reassured him, ‘but she was interested in the work the centre did. According to Callum, she planned to quit Griffin and help out as a fundraiser.’
‘What?’
‘She didn’t talk to you about that?’
‘Of course she didn’t. It’s complete bollocks. Harry had been on at me to make her MD for years. Why would she suddenly change her mind and throw her life away on a bunch of alkies?’
‘I’m just telling you what Callum said, Frank.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Why would he lie?’
‘Because he might be connected to her murder. Or hadn’t that crossed your mind?’
‘What’s his motive?’
‘Revenge. You know how much money he lost cashing his shares out early. In his fucked-up head, that’s all my fault.’
There wasn’t much point informing Frank about how Callum had found enlightenment and tranquillity. Far better to move the conversation in a different direction. ‘Have you heard anything from the police?’ I asked.
‘All they’ll say is that they’re pursuing multiple lines of inquiry.’
‘Will you have a word with Farrelly?’
‘About what?’
‘Tell him not to come after me.’
‘He’s gonna take some convincing.’
‘Yeah, but he listens to you, Frank.’
‘Just don’t piss him off any more.’
‘I wasn’t trying to piss him off in the first place.’
‘And I want you to find out more about that fucking weasel.’
‘What weasel?’
‘Callum Parsons.’
‘Look, Frank,’ I said, ‘I’m not really sure—’
He broke the call before I could finish the sentence.
It had gone one when I woke up in Stephie’s spare room. It took a few moments for my brain to work out where I was. The events of the previous twelve hours surfaced like a smack of deadly jellyfish. I groaned and my head sank back on to the pillow.
On a chest of drawers was a photograph of Don standing next to A. P. McCoy. Both men were beaming. The jockey was wearing mud-spattered silks. Stephie’s husband had been over six foot tall. The disparity in height lent the picture a comic aspect. Don had maintained that riders were great company, as the fact that they could break their necks in any race made them squeeze the marrow from each and every day.
What were the odds that, a few years after the photograph had been taken, the jockey would be enjoying a happy retirement and the bookie would be cold in his grave? Sometimes I wonder how human beings can blithely walk the earth when our existence is so precarious. All it takes is a random kink in our DNA or a chunk of burger going down the wrong way and it’s game over.
A fresh towel lay on the bottom of the bed, along with a toothbrush still in its wrapper. I carried both into the bathroom, where I examined my face in the mirror. Grey stubble covered my jaw and my hair resembled fronds of diseased seaweed clinging to a misshapen rock. It was going to take quite a bit of work to make myself presentable. Were it not for the banging on the door, I would happily have spent an hour under the soothing jets of the shower.
I switched off the unit and heard Stephie’s voice. ‘I’ve bought you some fresh underwear and socks,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave them outside.’
‘Thanks, Steph.’
‘And a pair of Jamie’s old jeans and a jumper.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Fancy some eggs and bacon?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Well, they’ll be ready in ten minutes, so shift your arse.’
Stephie’s son was taller and broader than his father. Thankfully his Levis came with a belt that just about kept them around my waist. The sweater was a mustard V-neck that matched the bruising around my eye. Whatever my sartorial shortcomings were, at least I no longer resembled a three-week-old river corpse.
The kitchen had been fitted out to give it a rustic feel. The units had oak doors and the floor was covered in terracotta tiles. Stephie was standing next to a steel range on which a pan sizzled. The smell of frying bacon reminded me that I hadn’t eaten in a while. On a pine table was a steaming cup of coffee. I sat and gulped half of it down.
‘Feeling better?’ Stephie asked.
‘Loads.’
‘Did you speak to Frank Parr?’
I nodded.
‘And?’
‘He’s going to have a word with Farrelly.’
‘Will he listen to him?’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘You look half-human at least,’ she said after a quick appraisal. ‘God knows what the neighbours thought.’
‘I don’t think anyone saw me.’
‘Let’s hope not.’
Stephie placed three rashers of bacon, a couple of eggs and a plump banger in front of me. I concentrated on doing the fry-up some serious damage before resuming the conversation. ‘You’ve closed the V, I take it?’
She took a swig of tea and shook her head. ‘Antonio might not be selling the building after all.’
Jack Rigatelli’s brother lived in Milan. Stephie had assumed that Antonio would put the building on the market. My spirits rose at the news he might not.
‘Then there’s no need for you to move to Manchester.’
Stephie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at me levelly for a few seconds. ‘Do you ever listen to a word I say, Kenny?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I said, opting to lay a forkful of sausage back on the plate.
‘I’m not going to Manchester because the Vesuvius is closing down. I’m going because I need change in my life.’
‘Yeah, I get that, Steph. But remember what Dr Johnson said . . .’
‘Take one of these a day and get some counselling?’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t she prescribe the antidepressants?’
‘No, that was Dr Leach. I’m talking about the Dr Johnson. Boswell wrote his biography . . .’ No recognition from Stephie. ‘He said that anyone tired of London was tired of life.’