The grille on the lift seemed stiffer than when I’d used it last. The steel latticework groaned as I dragged it open and screeched when I pulled it back again. The brass safety catch clicked home and I began my ascent.
Floor one was dark; the second bathed in sodium-yellow light that came from a safety bulb protected by a metal cage. The lift juddered a couple of times on the way to floor three. When it arrived, I pulled the door open and stepped out. Seconds later there was the sound of footsteps on the cement stairs.
Dervla was out of breath. She wore black jeans and DMs. Her grey T-shirt was smudged with grease and had sweat stains around the armpits.
‘One flight and I’m knackered,’ she said. ‘I’m knocking the fags on the head this year, no excuses.’
‘Maybe you should give up stairs,’ I suggested. ‘Where’s Frank?’
‘In there,’ Dervla nodded towards the door. ‘Sorry about all the secrecy stuff, Kenny. I’m not sure it’s absolutely necessary, but Frank insisted.’
‘Why?’
‘If we’re going to nail Harry’s killer, he reckons there’s no other way.’ She exhaled heavily. ‘It’ll mean you playing a part, though.’
‘What kind of part?’
‘Nothing major: you just make a couple of calls and pretend to know something you don’t. Although that’s more or less what you do on a daily basis, isn’t it?’
‘Pretty much,’ I said. ‘How long has Frank been here, Dervla?’
‘He turned up first thing this morning.’
‘You know the police want to interview him in connection with Harry’s death.’
A frown crinkled Dervla’s brow. ‘Haven’t they done that already?’
‘As a suspect.’
‘Seriously?’
I nodded.
‘Well, they’ll soon change their minds.’
‘So let’s call them.’
‘Not without proof,’ Dervla said. ‘That’s where you come in.’
‘Are you sure Frank’s right?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely. So will you be when he tells you.’
‘Is it Roger?’
If Frank knew about the leaked memo then perhaps he’d done some more digging that incriminated his son. It was the only logical possibility I could think of.
All it did was bring an amused smile to Dervla’s face. ‘It’s a lot more left-field than that,’ she said.
‘Then who?’
‘I think it’s best you hear that straight from the horse’s mouth.’
Dervla pulled open one of the swing doors. I took a few steps inside. Something solid connected with the back of my head.
THIRTY-SEVEN
My cheek was resting on a cement floor and my hands were secured behind my back. April was looking down at me. She was smiling like she used to when I cracked some corny joke – more embarrassed than amused. Another April was smiling too: the token stretch of the mouth that’s offered up when someone arbitrarily points a camera. Her skin was the colour of putty and her hair had been given a utility chop. Most disturbing were the eyes. They were as dull as a cod’s on a marble slab.
Each photograph had been enlarged and printed on a canvas sheet that hung from the roof. Beneath them, on a raised dais, was the set from a gritty period drama. A threadbare sofa formed the centrepiece. Beside it were a battered standard lamp and a three-bar electric fire. Stage right was a battered freestanding stove and a small kitchen table; stage left a double bed with a floral duvet stretched across it.
On the sofa was an unconscious little girl.
Blonde hair obscured the girl’s face, although there was something familiar about her sky-blue dress. Skinny legs terminated in chunky pink trainers. The lights in their soles pulsed like mini distress beacons. Lightning flashed across the neural storm in my skull. It provoked an involuntary groan.
‘Good, you’re awake,’ Dervla said. ‘I was beginning to worry. Sorry I hit you so hard.’ She crouched beside me. ‘If we propped you against the wall it might make you feel more comfortable and you’d definitely have a better view.’
‘What’s going on?’ I croaked.
‘Installations need an audience, Kenny. Oddly enough that only occurred to me a couple of hours ago, which was when I arranged for Frank to give you a call. You were part of the story at the beginning, so I thought you should be there at the end.’
‘What story?’
‘Mum’s, of course.’
‘Your mum?’
Dervla stared at the photographs of April hanging on the wall. The intense look on her face answered my question.
‘You mean April was your birth mother?’
‘That’s right, but there’s no need to look so worried, Kenny. What’s going to happen here won’t involve you. Not directly, at least.’
If this was designed to relax me, it fell short of the mark.
‘Who’s the girl?’ I asked.
‘Hester.’
‘Roger Parr’s daughter?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s she doing here?’
‘She hasn’t suffered, if that’s what’s concerning you. I gave her a sedative. She’s been asleep for hours.’
Bile rose unexpectedly into my mouth. I spat it out and took several deep breaths. The room defocused. I teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. The moment passed and my vision returned.
‘Let’s get you sitting up,’ Dervla said.
My hands chafed as she dragged me over the cement floor. The pain was nothing compared to that in my head. Eventually I was propped against the wall like an eleven-stone rag doll. At least I had a more complete view of the room.
Frank was strapped into an ancient barber’s chair. Two thick nylon bands ran around his torso and his hands were handcuffed to the armrests. In his mouth was an orange ball choke. One eye was closed and his nose comprehensively broken.
‘How long’s he really been here?’ I asked.
‘Since last night,’ Dervla said, panting slightly from her exertion. ‘He came over when I told him I was about to put a bullet in his granddaughter’s head. It was the same method I used to encourage him to call you earlier. Amazing what people can achieve given the right motivation.’
‘What happened to his face?’
Dervla frowned. ‘He said a few things that made me lose my temper.’
I recalled the muffled sound of Frank’s voice on the phone. Bearing in mind his nose had swollen to almost twice its usual size, that was entirely understandable.
‘Dervla, no one’s been hurt yet, so I’m sure if you just call the police then everything can be sorted out.’
‘What d’you mean, no one’s been hurt? Harry’s dead, and so is that bitch of a journalist.’
‘Did you kill them?’
‘Of course,’ Dervla said, as though answering a particularly dumb question.
She crossed the room to a trestle table piled with a jumble of objects. Most I couldn’t make out, but the one she selected was easy enough to identify. For the second time in a week I was staring at a gun.
Farrelly’s had been a snub-nosed thing; Dervla’s looked more like a starting pistol, although I suspected it didn’t fire blanks.
‘Who do you intend to use that on?’ I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
Dervla looked towards Hester. Frank struggled violently. Judging by the blood encrusting his wrists, it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to free himself.
‘Hester’s a child,’ I said. ‘What’s she done to deserve this?’