‘But you said—’
‘Escort Mr Gabriel to the custody officer, Sergeant Jacobs, and make sure he completes all the relevant paperwork.’
‘You’re letting him go?’ Jacobs sounded even more surprised to hear the news of my imminent release than Sarah Delaney had. Standish gathered his notes together.
‘For now, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘For now.’
THIRTY-SIX
It took half an hour for me to have my possessions returned and be granted unconditional police bail. In Sarah Delaney’s opinion, Standish already had a prime suspect for Anna Jennings’ death. While completing the paperwork, I tried to come to terms with the fact that Frank Parr had killed his daughter.
Too many people had questioned Frank’s motives for hiring a man with virtually no experience to find Harry. Had it really been, as Callum had suggested, a ruse to divert attention? I’d convinced myself that Frank had been impressed with my professional acumen. At best it was na?ve, at worst downright delusional.
And then there had been the business of him torturing Eddie Jenkins. I only had Frank’s word that the barman had been released. For all I knew, he and Farrelly had resumed where they left off. Farrelly had murdered a copper, which meant he wouldn’t have any scruples about a barman. And there had to be a reason why Frank had employed him continuously for going on forty years.
Almost as bad as being taken for a ride was the fact that I’d bought my own ticket. Were he caught, Frank would be jailed. The other possibility was that he had committed suicide, meaning that my chances of being paid were even more remote.
And what had happened to Tabitha and Hester?
After saying goodbye to Sarah Delaney outside West End Central, I walked in the direction of Brewer Street. I intended to fall into bed and get twelve hours straight. Had I not checked my phone, that’s what might have happened.
The first message was from Stephie, asking me to give her a call when I got the chance. Second up was my brother, who had just returned from a conference in Canada. He wanted to know what was happening about the flat and whether we could meet for lunch. Both could wait until morning; message three couldn’t.
‘Kenny, it’s Frank. I need to see you. Give me a ring as soon as you get this. Don’t call the police until we’ve had a chance to talk.’
The call was timed at 6.28 p.m. When I hit the Redial option it brought up Dervla Bishop’s name. The sensible thing would have been to let Standish know that his prime suspect had just called me and follow his instructions to the letter. Dervla’s phone rang half a dozen times before it was answered.
‘Kenny?’
‘What’s going on, Frank?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Vigo Street.’
Frank’s voice sounded thick, as though he had been sleeping or drinking. Bearing in mind his circumstances, the latter seemed more likely.
‘The police are looking for you,’ I said.
‘How d’you know?’
‘I just got out of West End Central fifteen minutes ago.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘And what?’
‘What did they say?’
‘That they’d appreciate a chat. Where the hell are you and why are you using Dervla Bishop’s phone?’
‘I’m in her studio. I can’t use my mobile in case they trace the number.’
A thrum of anxiety ran up my spine.
‘Is Dervla with you?’ I asked.
‘She popped out for a few minutes. Kenny, we have to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘We know who killed Harry but we need your help to prove it.’
‘Can’t you go to the police?’
There was a rasping noise on the line as though Frank had just dragged a piece of steel wool over his mobile.
‘That won’t work,’ he said. ‘How quickly can you get here?’
‘Twenty minutes, I suppose. At least tell me who it is.’
‘Not on the phone.’
‘Frank, d’you know that Hester and Tabitha are missing?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll explain about that when you get here.’
‘So, does that mean—’
‘Make sure you come alone,’ he said, and cut the line.
On the way to the studio, I attempted to stitch together the fragments Frank had given me into a coherent scenario. Presumably Dervla had got in touch with him. As far as I was aware, Frank didn’t know that she and Harry had been lovers. That meant Dervla must know who the killer was. Had he taken Tabitha and Hester for their own safety? If so, why hadn’t he told Roger what was going on?
The other possibility was that Frank had discovered who Harry had been sleeping with and decided to confront Dervla. Each had a temper, but if it had come to a physical confrontation there would only have been one winner. Perhaps when Frank had said that Dervla had popped out he meant terminally.
But then why call me? Did he want help with some kind of flight plan? I had an image of myself driving a hired car on to a ferry in Harwich with Frank hiding in the boot. If we were caught it would mean life for him and three or four years for me for attempting to pervert the course of justice.
Of course, Farrelly would be Frank’s first choice when it came to disposing of a body and fleeing the country. Unless, that was, the police were keeping him under observation, in which case Frank would have to go for the second-best option. All the stuff about knowing the identity of the killer was just a ruse to get me to the studio.
The final possibility I was considering as the cab drew to a halt was whether Frank was just quietly off his fucking swede. Didn’t serial killers subconsciously want to be caught? Frank might hold me responsible for not tracking him down in time and intend to make me victim number three. If Dervla didn’t answer the intercom when I buzzed then I had zero intention of entering the studio.
Remove half a dozen parked cars and Quebec Street would have looked more or less as it had a century ago. Three-storey buildings loomed above me, the rusted cogs of disused winding gear stark against the starlit sky. The only windows to show any light were those on the second and third floors of Dervla’s studio. I turned my collar up against the chill and pressed her intercom button.
‘Hi – Kenny?’ she said a few moments later.
‘Dervla, is everything okay in there?’ I asked.
‘Of course it is.’
‘Is Frank with you?’
‘Didn’t you speak to him?’
‘Well, yeah, but it was a bit peculiar. He said you know who killed Harry.’
‘We do.’
‘So why not go to the police?’
‘It’s not that simple, Kenny. A lot’s happened in the last twelve hours.’
‘Like what?’
‘Come up to the third floor and we’ll tell you all about it.’