‘Where the fuck have you been?’ she asked.
‘Seeing a man about a dog.’
‘You skip your best mate’s funeral and his memorial do?’ Stephie shook her head in much the same way my old man used to when reading my school report: more in sorrow than in anger.
‘You know how I feel about that kind of thing,’ I said.
‘Everyone dies, Kenny. It’s a fact of life.’
‘What was the turnout like?’ I asked to get us away from the D-word.
‘We were backed up on to the street at one stage. Would have been great for new members if we weren’t closing down.’
Stephie had abandoned her usual jeans and T-shirt in favour of a navy business suit, which was a tad ironic the way things were looking.
‘You never know,’ I said. ‘Jack’s brother might still opt for the rental income.’
‘Antonio wants to sell. I got an email this morning.’
‘Can’t you buy the place?’
Stephie deposited half a dozen plates in the sink behind the bar.
‘It’ll go on the market for three million, Kenny.’
‘Why not put a bid in for the V on its own?’
‘Antonio won’t sell the building off as separate units. It’s too much hassle. And even if he did, I couldn’t afford it. You know the way property’s gone in Soho.’
Stephie had a point. Chances were the ground floor would become an artisan coffee shop, or similar. No way would its rise-and-shine customers want to be confronted by whey-faced ghosts staggering out of an underground shebeen.
‘At least you’ll get a decent whack from your twenty per cent,’ I said in an effort to cheer her up. ‘You could open somewhere else.’
‘Where? The only place I could afford would be nearer Watford than Soho.’
‘That’s it, then? No alternative strategy?’
Stephie turned the hot tap on. ‘Fancy something to eat?’ she asked. ‘I’m gonna lock up in ten minutes and leave this lot to soak overnight.’
‘The plates or the punters?’ I asked.
‘Both,’ she replied.
We ended up in Pizza Express on Dean Street. I put in an order for an American Hot with a side of onion rings and a Peroni. Stephie requested a Margarita and a bottle of sparkling water. People half our age occupied most of the tables. They’d probably spent the day hot-desking ideas up the concept flagpole in pop-up creative hubs. It was hard to imagine their energy and idealism dissipating over the years. I was giving it my best shot, when Stephie asked a question. ‘Where were you, then?’
‘What?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Tracking down a multi-millionaire’s daughter.’
‘Don’t take the piss, Kenny. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Honest to God. That’s what I was doing.’
‘Who’s the millionaire?’
‘Can’t tell you.’
‘Because you don’t trust me?’ Stephie raised her glass in an ironic salute. ‘Cheers, Kenny.’
I kidded myself that I’d have to tell Stephie about Harry Parr to keep her sweet. The real reason was to see the look on her face when she heard who Harry’s old man was. I leant over the table and murmured his name.
‘Hank Parr? Is he a country singer?’
‘Frank, not Hank.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Yes, you have. The guy who’s buying the Post.’
Recognition spread over Stephie’s features.
‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘Didn’t he use to publish all those top-shelf mags?’
‘They were a bit higher than top shelf.’
‘It’s his daughter who’s gone missing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he’s asked you to look for her?’
‘Yep.’
Stephie’s brow furrowed as though she were performing a complex piece of mental arithmetic. ‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’ she said.
‘I look for missing people all the time.’
‘Yeah, usually because they’ve done a runner on their gas bill, or not returned a hire car. I’m guessing that’s not why his kid’s gone AWOL.’
‘Wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘Why you, then?’
‘Frank read about me finding the MP,’ I said. ‘And I used to work for him.’
‘When he was knocking out porn?’
‘He had a club on Frith Street. I was the ma?tre d’.’
Stephie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of club?’
‘Cabaret. Frank’s dad left it to him when he died.’
‘Is “cabaret” code for some old banger getting her tits out, and two-hundred-quid bottles of Asti Spumante?’
‘Nope. The Galaxy was completely above board.’
Stephie stroked her chin and appeared to mull this biographical information over. ‘How much is he worth?’ she asked.
‘Just say what’s on your mind, Steph.’
‘No offence, Kenny, but if I had his cash and my daughter went missing, then I’d probably hire someone who was a bit more . . . high-profile.’
‘Is “high-profile” code for someone who knows what he’s doing?’
Stephie shrugged. ‘You did ask.’
‘Frank needs someone he can trust. And besides, Harry’s probably just gone on holiday without telling anyone.’
‘Well, you must have impressed him. How come you’re not still on the payroll?’
‘We had a disagreement.’
‘About what?’
‘Let’s say it was a personnel issue.’
Stephie scowled and sat back in her chair. Tough shit. I hadn’t spoken about what happened on a late-July night in the upstairs room of the Galaxy in almost four decades. It would take more than a feminine strop to get me started. Some things that are buried deserve to stay buried. Even if that did ruin my leg-over chances.
‘I take it we’re going our separate ways at the end of the evening,’ I said, just to make absolutely sure on that point.
‘Not necessarily,’ Stephie replied.
FOUR
Three years ago, Stephie’s husband, Don, had been returning from a race meeting in Chester when his Lexus skidded on black ice and ran into an artic. He was killed instantly. After the funeral no one heard from Stephie in six weeks. Then she turned up at the club and got on with things as though nothing had happened.
A few of us regulars said how sorry we were for her loss. All we received in return was a perfunctory nod. We assumed Stephie had been staying with her grown-up son in New Zealand. At any rate, things were back to normal, and normal is what we like in the V. Not that many people would recognise it as such.
Stephie and I first slept together on Christmas Eve last year. The club closed at lunchtime and I asked whether she fancied a nightcap. Already half-pissed, we went back to mine and put back another bottle of vodka. One minute we were on the sofa watching It’s a Wonderful Life; the next we were rolling around on the floor.
I awoke alone at ten o’clock on Christmas Day to a cracking hangover and an empty bed. My call to Stephie went straight to voicemail. The next time I saw her was in the Vesuvius three days later.
‘About the other night . . .’ I began in the time-honoured fashion.
‘What night?’
‘You know. When we . . .’
Stephie’s brow crinkled. ‘You mean when I came round for a drink?’
‘Yeah, that night,’ I said.
‘What about it?’ she asked.