At the end of the night, I went upstairs to tell him that we were shutting up shop and expected him to mention the incident, if only in passing. All he did was ask what I thought the take had been and what bookings were like for the weekend. As he didn’t seem in the sunniest of moods, I decided against bringing the subject up myself, and that was the end of the matter. Apart from one thing: April had Thursday nights off after that. Right up until she left the Galaxy, which was about six weeks following her run-in with Cartwright.
Her departure came out of the blue. She worked a Saturday night shift, said goodbye to everyone, and that was the last we saw of her. A week or so later, Frank announced that she’d returned to Scotland and that we were looking for a new waitress. No one had a forwarding address and I assumed that I’d never hear from her again. But a couple of weeks later I got a note from April. She had moved to Glasgow to be nearer her family, apologised for not saying goodbye and wished me luck with my plans to conquer the literary world.
And in case you’re wondering what happened to DI Cartwright, they found him dead in a multi-storey car park six months later with a knife sticking out of his ribs.
The kind chefs use for filleting.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Frank had been a good seven inches taller than either April or me. His features were strong and his smile measured. In the Standard photograph, his shoulders looked like a heavyweight’s. Back then my unruly hair covered my ears and most of my forehead. Along with the shit-eating grin and the acne scars, it made me look like a twelve-year-old at his first school disco. God alone knew how the staff at the Galaxy had taken me seriously. It could only have been because Frank told them to.
April’s face was hardest to read – her expression that of someone who couldn’t wait for the cameraman to release the shutter. The scalloped neckline of a crocheted dress laid bare the delicate bones of her shoulders. Against a chest dusted with freckles, I could just about make out the shape of a silver cross.
I had regularly teased April about her visits to church. Her faith must also have been at odds with the student culture at UCL. Nevertheless, that’s where she went every Sunday morning to bang out hymns and importune the Lord to deliver comfort and succour to his bewildered brethren. Much good it had done her.
The relationship with Frank couldn’t have ended well. Why else return to Scotland at such short notice? Perhaps she had expected him to leave his wife and then realised – or been informed – that it wasn’t going to happen. If so, then it would have been hard news to take. I hoped April had gone on to live in happier times.
I wondered why a picture of her was lying in Anna Jennings’ filing cabinet. Had the journalist somehow got wind of Frank’s affair? And what if she had? EX-PORNOGRAPHER HAD BIT ON THE SIDE FORTY YEARS AGO was hardly going to create a sensation, even among the morally self-regarding readers of the Gazette.
Far more likely that Anna had spent an afternoon at a newspaper library printing off anything she came across about Frank Parr. This picture was simply background material that might prove useful when it came to colour and context. I slipped it into my inside pocket before beginning to return the rest of the archive to the cabinet.
I locked the door, replaced the key on the ledge, and walked out of the gate with all the nonchalance I could muster. It was dark and, apart from a pensioner walking his collie, the pavement was free of potential witnesses. Chances were that Anna Jennings had been asked to cover a story at very short notice. But if something untoward had happened, I’d prefer not to have to explain to the police why I’d illegally entered her flat.
In a cafe on the high road I ordered a coffee and a Danish. On my table lay a discarded copy of the Standard. Its front page carried the news that Frank Parr had withdrawn his bid to acquire the Post. The reporter speculated that he had done so for personal reasons, although in a sidebar the business editor commented that City analysts had always considered the paper overvalued. There was even a hint that Frank had deliberately inflated the asking price to cock a snook at Lord Kirkleys. Either way, he was now free to concentrate on the digital side of his business.
I bit into my Danish and wondered what the truth was. Almost certainly the business guy had it right. The Frank Parr I knew wouldn’t have pulled out of a deal for any reason other than profit and loss. But time changes us all in one way or another. Maybe he had just thought fuck it, and thrown in the towel.
The news that Roger had leaked the memo wouldn’t make him feel any better. Hopefully his son would bite the bullet on that one. I didn’t want to add to Frank’s woes by telling him that his surviving child had sold him down the river.
Apart from the photograph in my jacket pocket – and I wasn’t exactly sure why I’d nicked that – my visit to Anna Jennings’ flat hadn’t been fruitful. I might be okay at finding blokes late with their alimony payments, but – let’s face it – I was an abject failure at tracking down killers. The very idea that I could nail Harry Parr’s murderer would have been hilarious if it weren’t so pathetic.
I’d decided to call Frank and tell him that I was quitting when my phone started ringing. Although not a recognised number, I pressed Accept.
‘Mr Gabriel?’ an elderly voice enquired.
‘How can I help you, Mr Rolfe?’ I asked.
‘You left me your card when you visited and said I should call if anything untoward happened.’
‘Has it?’
‘No,’ Rolfe said. ‘But several letters have arrived for Miss Parr and I was wondering what to do with them. Under the circumstances, I’m loath to bother her father with something so trivial.’
‘I’m sure if you send them on to his office they’ll reach Frank, Mr Rolfe.’
‘Do you have the address?’
I thought about looking this up for Rolfe before calling him back. Then it occurred to me that having Harry’s mail might give me a good pretext to visit Frank and claim my final cheque before going to Manchester. Not to mention deliver the bad news about Roger, if necessary. ‘I’ll come round and pick them up,’ I said.
‘What?’ Rolfe asked.
‘I said I’ll come round for the envelopes.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that . . .’
‘I said I’ll pick the mail up!’ I yelled into the phone.
‘There’s no need to shout,’ Rolfe said testily. ‘When will you get here?’
‘In about an hour’s time.’
‘I’ll expect you then,’ he said, and cut the line.
My ETA for Beecham Buildings was bettered by fifteen minutes. I was prepared to spend another ten ringing Rolfe’s buzzer, but he must have turned the volume on his hearing aid up since our phone call. I avoided the stairs and took the lift to the third floor. His door was ajar. I pushed it open and announced my arrival. Rolfe came out of the sitting room holding a sheaf of envelopes.
‘Good to see you again,’ he said, and we shook hands. ‘You’ve picked up quite a shiner there,’ he added. ‘Ought to put a chunk of beefsteak on it.’
‘Bit late for that now, Mr Rolfe,’ I said.
‘You’re probably right. Need to get something on it straight away. Hope you gave as good as you got.’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh, well. Better luck next time.’ He looked expectantly at me for a few seconds and said, ‘Well, what d’you think?’
‘About what?’