‘I’ve heard that one before and it’s total bollocks. Check out Oxford Street on a Monday morning, if you don’t believe me. Everyone looks as though they’re trudging towards a firing squad.’
‘And up north they’re clog-dancing over the cobbles?’
‘At least there’s a sense of community there.’
‘Yeah, and you can get yourself a portion of mushy peas and an Eccles cake and still have change out of a tenner to buy yourself a whippet.’
‘Well, you’re obviously not coming, so that’s sorted out at least.’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Sounded like it to me.’
A shrill beeping filled the air. Stephie jumped up and ran to the stove, where the frying pan was smouldering. She switched the gas off and dumped the pan into the sink. Steam billowed as she ran cold water over it.
The alarm was located halfway up one of the walls. I stood on a kitchen chair and prodded the Reset button with my forefinger. Nothing. I prodded it again. The beeping seemed to get louder, as though I were pressing a volume button.
‘What the hell’s wrong with it?’ I asked.
Stephie was opening a window. ‘Just leave it, Kenny,’ she said, hooking it on the latch. ‘The alarm stops when the smoke clears.’
‘You should still be able to switch the fucking thing off, though.’
I gave the red button its hardest prod yet. The unit detached and fell to the floor. The beeping changed key for a few seconds and then stopped entirely.
‘Well done,’ Stephie said.
‘I’ll stick it back up,’ I said.
‘Don’t bother. It can be a job for whoever moves in next.’
Stephie picked the alarm up and dumped it into the swing bin while I got down from the chair. A strong breeze was coming through the window.
‘Why me, Stephie?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Why did you ask me to move with you?’
‘Are you fishing for compliments?’
‘Nope. I’m curious, that’s all. The nearest thing we’ve had to a normal date was when we went to Pizza Express. So I’ll ask again: why me?’
‘You might not like the answer . . .’
‘Just tell me.’
Stephie put her hands on her hips and exhaled heavily. ‘Okay, then . . . You’re kind and you’re usually good fun to be around.’
‘Happy so far.’
‘You’re generous and you’re intelligent.’
‘Keep going.’
‘Obviously it works well in bed . . .’
‘I’m sensing there’s a but on the way.’
Stephie bit her bottom lip. ‘I think you’re the loneliest person I’ve ever met,’ she said. ‘Sometimes in the club, when you’re surrounded by people, it’s like you’re standing in the middle of a desert.’
‘Probably because I’m bored shitless.’
‘No, it isn’t. Whoever you’re with, you’re always on your own. Unless it was Jack, of course, and now he’s gone . . .’
‘You think I need to work on my social skills?’
‘No, Kenny, you need to work on your liking-other-people skills. The funny thing is, I thought I was totally safe when we first slept together because there was no chance we’d become emotionally involved.’
‘It wasn’t my rugged good looks and sexual charisma, then?’ Not a flicker of a smile on Stephie’s lips. ‘Are we emotionally involved?’ I asked.
‘I think we could be, Kenny. But if you don’t, then fair enough.’
I thought about Don’s Lexus sliding under a truck on the M1 on his way back from Chester Races. Then an image of Bella Sherren waiting for the cancer cells to complete their inexorable multiplication came to mind. The charity would inherit the house and the world move on as though the old woman had never been in it.
‘I’m sorry, Stephie,’ I said.
‘It’s not your fault, Kenny. You can’t feel what you can’t feel.’
‘I meant sorry for being such a dickhead. I must need my bumps feeling to even have to think twice about this.’
Stephie’s forehead creased as though I’d presented her with a testing crossword clue. ‘Is that a yes, then?’ she asked.
‘When do we leave?’ I replied.
TWENTY-FIVE
Oddly enough there wasn’t much conversation after the Manchester move was sealed. Things seemed a little awkward, if anything. Stephie said it was fantastic, and that she’d email me details of the flat she’d rented; I muttered something about remembering to notify the utilities and the phone company. She asked if I wanted another coffee; I replied that I’d better be off. Fifteen minutes after agreeing to the biggest change in my life in forty years, I was standing on the pavement checking my mobile. That said, even Atriliac would have had a hard time giving anyone the sense of lightness I felt knowing that, in a week’s time, I’d be two hundred miles away from Soho with a new life, a new job and a new partner.
And that was before I read Frank’s text.
Farrelly had been pacified. I forwarded the location of his car and said I’d be in touch when I’d investigated Callum Parsons more thoroughly. I intended to do some noodling on the web and maybe make a phone call or two – Frank was the client, after all – but in my book there were more relevant people to research.
I opened the flat’s front door with a high degree of caution. Rottweilers occasionally disregard their masters’ commands. The two hours of sleep I’d grabbed at Stephie’s had begun to wear off and I was strongly tempted to soak in a hot bath before hitting the sack. Instead I made a black coffee into which I added a shot of Monarch. Then I settled down to consider my next move.
Either Dervla Bishop had been fibbing to me about the status of her relationship with Harry Parr, or Harry had been bullshitting Rocco. The question was: why would either of them lie? As only one remained in the land of the living, it simplified matters when it came to searching for an answer. I knocked back my coffee and called Dervla.
‘Hello,’ she said after the phone had rung a dozen times.
‘Dervla, it’s Kenny.’
‘Who?’ It wasn’t a good start.
‘Kenny Gabriel. We spoke about Harry Parr yesterday.’
‘What can I do for you?’
Dervla’s clipped tone indicated that she didn’t welcome a second conversation. Under different circumstances I’d have asked if it was a good time to talk. As things were, I got to the point. ‘I was with Rocco Holtby this morning.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘He said that you and Harry were still seeing each other a couple of weeks before she died.’
‘How would he know that?’
‘She told him. Or do you think he’s lying?’
‘Wait a minute.’ The rap music in the background was silenced. ‘Probably not,’ Dervla said. ‘There’s every chance Harry told him we were still together.’
‘Even though you weren’t?’
A heartfelt sigh from Dervla. ‘Harry was a fantasist. That’s why she was into S and M. It gave her the opportunity to do lots of role-playing. If she didn’t get what she wanted out of a situation then she’d make up her own version of reality and convince herself it was true.’
‘Which is why she told Rocco she was seeing you?’
‘If you’re not prepared to take my word for it, do some research into stalkers. Most of them are convinced they’re in a relationship with their victim.’