‘Harry was a stalker?’ Dervla had said that Harry had been a nuisance. This seemed quite an upgrade.
‘How else do you describe someone who calls you every ten minutes and spends hours waiting outside your studio?’
‘You didn’t mention that when we spoke.’
‘I’m mentioning it now.’
‘Why didn’t you report her to the police?’
‘Because I decided to give her one last chance.’
‘Which she took?’
‘Over three months ago.’ Dervla’s tone had been chilling rapidly throughout our exchanges. By now icicles were hanging off it. ‘I’ve told you everything I know about Harry Parr,’ she said. ‘Bother me again and I’ll report you to the police. Understood?’
‘Of course.’
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us have work to do.’
I’ve received my fair share of bollockings in Odeerie’s employ. People trying to dodge their creditors aren’t too thrilled when you start asking questions as to whether they used to live at such-and-such address or remember signing a particular finance agreement. Rarely had I been dressed down with such clinical precision.
It’s been my experience that when people lie under pressure they become shouty or matey. Dervla had sounded exasperated, but measured. Judging by her tone, I believed her. Of course, she and Rocco could both have been telling the truth if Harry Parr was someone who cross-hatched fantasy and reality. But did that really chime with what I’d been told by friends and family?
Frank had made her the MD of his company, and Rocco had described a woman who was ruthless when it came to making decisions. Callum Parsons’ version of Harry had leant more towards a compassionate individual prepared to sacrifice her career for the benefit of others. The only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that she had been a gal with a temper who could go into one when the mood took her.
Buddhists believe there can be no such thing as a fixed personality when the universe is in a state of constant flux. The theory made sense when applied to Harry Parr. Depending on the prevailing conditions, she seemed to be able to go in any one of a number of directions.
Of course, one of these had led to her death and one thing was indubitably true: if I sat on my arse smoking fags, drinking laced coffee and contemplating the nature of impermanence, then I wasn’t going to be any closer to finding out who had ushered Harry Parr into the next dimension.
I looked up Anna Jennings, the journalist who had told Roger she had a big story about Frank. LinkedIn revealed that she wrote primarily about business matters, had studied law at Reading University and was available for copywriting. The photograph was of a brunette in her early thirties with a large nose and a big smile.
All I had was Anna’s email address. To acquire a more direct means of contact, I would have to be a bit creative. I went to the Gazette’s website and discovered that the feature editor’s name was Roy Parker. Then I called the switchboard and asked to be put through to Accounts Payable. A bored-sounding woman answered the phone.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Who’s that?’ I asked.
‘Jackie Murrell.’
‘Oh, hi, Jackie. Roy Parker here. How are you?’
‘Er, yeah – good, thanks,’ she said.
‘Sorry to bother you but I’ve lost the details for a freelancer. Anna Jennings gave us the story about Frank Parr and the Post. Don’t know if you remember it?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Good to know the staff are reading the paper,’ I said, and chuckled ingratiatingly. ‘Anyway, she’s working on something else for us and I need to chase her up for a deadline. Thing is, I’ve only got her email address and I need a number. Any chance you could be a sweetheart and pull one of her old invoices up?’
‘One minute,’ Jackie said. It was nearer two minutes before she was on the line again. ‘There’s a mobile and a landline. Which d’you want?’
‘Might as well take ’em both.’ Jackie obliged and read out the numbers. ‘And is she still based at Lansdowne Road?’
‘Not according to her letter heading,’ Jackie said. ‘It says 34C Bydale Road.’
‘That in town?’
‘SW12. D’you need the full postcode?’
‘No, thanks, Jackie,’ I said. ‘You’re a star.’
It was getting on for four by the time I left for South London, and dusk was settling. My calls to Anna Jennings had gone unanswered. If I saw Anna face to face, perhaps I could concoct something on the fly that would lead her to spill the beans about her big story. Always assuming she was in, and that the story had anything to do with Harry Parr.
I emerged from Balham Underground station still struggling to devise something that would convince a hard-bitten freelance journo to blow her scoop. The best I’d managed by the time I entered Bydale Road was the promise of a decent staffing job on one of Frank’s magazines and a shitload of his cash.
The houses were three-bedroom villas put up in the early part of the twentieth century. Now they were worth over a million quid each. Original features had been restored and small front gardens immaculately maintained. There were more four-wheel-drive vehicles parked in the road than you’d find at a Louisiana truck pull.
Number thirty-four was an exception to the norm. It had been converted into flats and the garden concreted over. Two grey wheelie bins stood between the front door and a six-foot wooden gate that led to the rear of the house. The bell buttons on the door were marked FLAT A and B respectively. A plastic panel in the one attached to the gate had Jennings inscribed upon it. Below it was a brass lock.
I rang the bell. No answer. I rang it three more times. Still no response. Usually my next move would have been to contact the neighbours and confirm that someone answering Anna’s description was living there. On this occasion I decided to give the gate a hopeful shove. It swung back on well-oiled hinges.
On one side of the passage was a high fence, on the other a red-brick wall. In a small portico to the rear of the property was the entrance to Flat C. The door was locked and it would take a battering ram to open it – unless you had the key, that was.
The first place I looked was the welcome mat. Then I checked underneath a solitary house brick and after that the letterbox to see if a string lay behind it. Nothing. I ran my fingers over the ledge above the door.
Something fell to the cement floor with a shrill metallic clatter.