The one consolation was that Roger was bound to fuck everything up, what with him not being able to find his arse with both hands and a map. Over the next couple of years it would be extremely gratifying to watch Griffin lurch from one crisis to the next, until such time as it had to be sold. I made a mental note to submit my invoice to him personally. It would arrive with a note saying how interested I’d been to watch his interview. Roger wasn’t so dumb as to miss the message. Pay in full or the papers might mysteriously find out who had leaked the memos.
But the real reason I didn’t flog my story to the highest bidder was that it would have been selling a chunk of the past. And if I’d learned one thing during the last two weeks, it was that every reaction has an opposite and equal reaction. I recalled Jack Rigatelli’s line about there being no point in looking backwards in life.
Sometimes it was easier said than done.
My brother spent an hour with me one afternoon. As Malcolm was prominent in advertising, there had been attempts to doorstep him. Fortunately, he was able to respond with comments that sounded significant but had no real substance. There were reasons he was one of the most successful copywriters in the business.
He asked if I wanted to stay with him and the family until everything had died down. It was a kind offer, which I refused. I intended to hole up in the flat for a week or so and then make my way up north to join Stephie. We embraced awkwardly and agreed to meet for lunch at some indeterminate point in the future.
Stephie had gone to Manchester before news of what had happened in Dervla’s studio hit the airwaves. She called several times and left voicemail messages. There was no point in responding, as I had nothing interesting to say. Instead I texted her and said that, when I got out, we’d have a good natter and make a plan.
The neurologist was pleased with my progress and the pain gradually subsided. The day that I was released, it wasn’t much worse than the hangover I’d woken up with in the Bannock. I said goodbye to a couple of the nurses and headed to reception. There I was informed that my taxi awaited me in the car park.
On the other side of the revolving doors the cold engulfed me. We were in November by now and winter had properly set in. A black BMW flashed its lights and the driver leant over and opened the passenger door. I climbed into the empty seat and turned to give him my destination.
‘Don’t bother,’ Farrelly said. ‘I know where you’re going.’
THIRTY-NINE
I’d assumed that now Frank was dead, Farrelly would pine away like a geriatric pit bull whose owner had kicked the bucket. That hadn’t happened. The suit had been replaced with a brown leather jacket over a black T-shirt and jeans. Otherwise he still looked like a five-foot-nine stretch of you-really-don’t-want-to-fuck-with-me.
‘Er, I think I’m in the wrong car, Farrelly,’ I said.
‘No, you’re not,’ he replied.
‘Well, it’s really generous of you to give me a lift home but I think it’s best I walk. The doctor advised me to get as much exercise as possible.’
I tried the car door but the central locking was on. Farrelly stared out of the windscreen and said nothing. He did threatening silence in the same way Shakespeare did sonnets. He had a genius for the form.
‘I’m sorry about Frank,’ I said.
Nothing.
‘They did everything they could to save him.’
Nothing.
‘At least he knew his granddaughter was safe.’
Nothing.
A line of Marcus Aurelius has stuck with me since O level Latin: It is not death a man should fear; but he should fear never beginning to live. Just then I was bricking it on both fronts.
‘Tell me what happened,’ Farrelly said.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘In the studio.’
‘Erm, it’s been in the news quite a lot.’
The vein in Farrelly’s temple engorged. ‘I want to hear it from you. And don’t miss anything out.’
I covered everything from my arrival up to the point the police turned up. On hearing the gunshot, Tabitha had pulled the pipe she’d been handcuffed to clean out of the wall. It had been her footsteps I’d heard on the stairs. She burst into the studio to find her daughter alive, her father-in-law dead, and the freak who had visited her husband the previous week lying in a pool of puke.
The medics pronounced Frank dead at the scene. Tabitha and Hester went to hospital in an ambulance. I briefed the cops before drifting into unconsciousness. The next thing I knew, someone was repeating my name over a beeping heart monitor.
‘Why did she do it?’ Farrelly asked when I’d concluded.
‘Revenge.’
‘And that’s why she topped Harry an’ all?’
‘Dervla thought Harry was going to tell Frank who she really was. She couldn’t let that happen, so . . .’
‘Fucking crazy bitch.’ Farrelly’s verdict was less nuanced than that of the psychiatrists, but amounted to the same thing. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Apart from Roger was the person leaking documents about the Post. Oh, and I’m pretty sure he sent the guy to warn me off looking for Harry.’
Farrelly’s head jerked up.
‘How d’you know that?’ he asked.
I told him about seeing Mr Screwdriver when Roger was giving his statement on TV. Farrelly started the car.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To see Roger Parr.’
‘You can’t just rock up unannounced, Farrelly.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Roger might be out, for one thing.’
Farrelly put the engine into gear. ‘Not this afternoon, he ain’t.’
‘How d’you know?’ I asked.
‘I’m meant to be driving him to the office.’
The only thing Farrelly said on the way to Holland Park was to call a cyclist who cut him up on the Bayswater Road a cuntmonger. I’d never heard the term before. Perhaps it was like being an ironmonger, only without the iron.
We halted outside 30 Durlisher Road, where Farrelly pointed a black key at the junction box. The gates parted and he drove the BMW on to the drive and parked in front of the garage.
We got out of the car and the front door to the house opened. Hester Parr emerged. I must have made a big impression on the kid, as she ran towards us squealing with delight. I opened my arms and she leapt into Farrelly’s.
‘Hello, darlin’,’ he said. ‘How’s my little princess doing?’
‘I baked cupcakes, Farrelly,’ Hester said, excitedly. ‘D’you want to come into the kitchen and try one?’
Farrelly smiled. Under other circumstances I would have taken it as a sign to herald the end of days, but it didn’t seem to bother Hester.
‘That’s nice of you, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Is Shane around anywhere?’
‘He’s in the garden with Godders.’
Farrelly deposited her back on to the drive. ‘Why don’t you go inside and draw me a nice picture?’ he suggested.
‘Will you read me a story?’ she asked.
‘Course I will, darlin’. But first me and Shane are gonna play a special game.’
‘What sort of game?’
‘A bit like hide and seek.’
‘Can I join in?’
‘Promise not to look in the garden and we’ll play later. D’you promise?’
Hester nodded her head. She ran to the door, where her mother was waiting. Tabitha Parr was wearing a pair of wraparound sunglasses and looked several pounds lighter. If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it.
‘Farrelly’s going to play a game with Shane,’ her daughter informed her. ‘Then he’s going to eat cupcakes and play with me.’
‘That’s nice,’ Tabitha said. ‘Why don’t you go inside and finish off the icing?’