‘Then can I draw him a picture?’
‘Of course you can, darling.’
Hester hurried past her mother. Farrelly’s face returned to its usual impassive mask. The twinkle in his eyes disappeared as though it had never been there.
‘Your husband in?’ he asked.
‘He’s on a conference call,’ Tabitha said.
‘Tell him I want to see him in the garden.’
‘When?’ she asked.
‘Now,’ Farrelly replied.
An immaculate lawn rose gently from the rear of the house for thirty yards where it met a two-foot-high wall. Beyond this a number of flowerbeds had been laid out around an ornamental fountain that appeared not to have been operational for years. Three dolphins rose from a central plinth. I supposed that, when the water was turned on, jets would emerge from their mossy beaks.
Bent over the fountain was a man wearing jeans and a lumberjack shirt. He was scraping its bowl with a chisel that rasped each time it was drawn across the stone. A golden retriever watched him work. As Farrelly and I approached, Godfrey got to his feet with a low growl.
Mr Screwdriver rested the chisel and turned. In Brewer Street he had been wearing a Puffa jacket that disguised his physique. No disguising it in the work shirt. He was six-four and had the steroidal bulk of a prop forward.
‘Did you bring him here?’ he asked Farrelly.
‘That’s right, Shane. Kenny told me what happened when you and him last met up. Reckoned you’d want the chance to apologise.’
‘He didn’t come to any harm.’
‘Are you gonna say sorry or what?’
They say dogs can sense danger. Godfrey was no exception. During the exchange between Farrelly and Shane, he had slunk backwards on his belly. I fervently hoped his mistress was honouring her promise not to look out of the window.
‘Weren’t my idea,’ Shane said.
‘I don’t give a tuppenny fuck,’ Farrelly replied. ‘You’re the cunt who did it and you’re the cunt who needs to say sorry.’
Shane looked at Farrelly as though weighing up the likely cost of non-compliance. The guy was nearly twice his age and several inches shorter.
Nevertheless.
‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Happy now?’
Despite the less-than-heartfelt apology, I’d have been delighted to let Shane return to cleaning the fountain. Farrelly seemed less inclined to do so.
‘Not really,’ he said, slipping his jacket off. ‘Mr Parr’s daughter was missing and you tried to stop her being found.’
Shane shook his head and sighed. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’
‘He’s right, Farrelly,’ I said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Farrelly folded his jacket and handed it to me. The sleeves of his T-shirt clung to his biceps. The veins in his forearms were tangled and knotted. There was more fat on Shane’s chisel than there was on Farrelly’s stomach. ‘Wanna go first?’ he asked, as though offering a fellow guest first dibs at a wedding buffet.
‘Are you serious?’ Shane said, barely able to suppress a smile.
Farrelly kicked him in the groin. The gardener groaned and doubled up. Farrelly cupped his head and kneed him in the face. There was a sharp sound like a stick breaking. Farrelly repeated the move and Shane sank to the ground.
Essentially there are only three rules in a fight: be first, be brutal and don’t quit until your opponent is utterly fucked. What prevented Farrelly following through was a female cry from the direction of the house. Tabitha Parr was running towards us.
‘Leave him alone!’ she shouted. ‘Leave my brother alone!’
I’d been wondering why the Parrs had hired a gardener who was a drug user and borderline psychotic. Now I knew. Farrelly may have been making the same connection. He turned back to face his vanquished opponent at just the moment his vanquished opponent drove into him like a bulldozer.
Shane wasn’t the most charming guy in town but he was a tough bastard, I’ll grant him that. Not many come back from a kick in the nuts and a freshly broken nose. He hauled Farrelly to the ground and began to squeeze.
Farrelly attempted to break the bear hug by beating his fists on Shane’s shoulders. It didn’t come close to working. Next he attempted to get his thumbs into his eyes but Shane had tucked his chin into his chest to prevent this from happening. Farrelly’s strength was ebbing and he only had a few seconds of consciousness left.
He used them to sink his teeth into Shane’s ear.
Tabitha didn’t like the sound of tearing cartilage; nor did Godfrey. The former screamed and the latter barked furiously as he ran around in circles. The person who enjoyed it least was the man whose left ear was dangling from Farrelly’s teeth. Shane howled and tried to stem the spouting blood with gloved hands.
Farrelly spat the hunk of flesh on to the grass. He made it to his feet but staggered like a drunk unable to coordinate his actions. Eventually his nervous system reasserted itself and he picked up the chisel from the base of the fountain.
Tabitha Parr was tending to her wounded brother. Farrelly threw her aside as though she were a sack of dry leaves. He dropped to his knees and raised the chisel above Shane’s head. If I didn’t want to witness the guy being slaughtered, I would have to act and act fast.
Thank God it wasn’t necessary.
‘Mummeeeee!’ Hester shouted. She discarded a tray of lemon cupcakes, ran towards her winded mother and threw her arms around her.
‘That’s enough, Farrelly,’ I said.
The chisel remained poised.
‘Please don’t,’ Shane begged.
Farrelly took a couple of deep breaths, dropped the tool and got to his feet. Judging by the wince of pain, at least one of his ribs had popped.
‘We’re going,’ he said to me.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ I replied.
The last member of the Parr family to emerge from the house was Roger. He was wearing a double-breasted charcoal suit over a white shirt and Windsor-knotted tie. We met him as he was striding up the lower lawn, open-mouthed. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked.
‘I’m quitting,’ Farrelly said. Roger stared at him. Shane’s blood was smeared over his driver’s mouth and chin. His T-shirt was torn and covered in dirt. Most people tender their resignation via a formal letter. Farrelly had chosen a different method. ‘I’ll drop the motor off in the office car park tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You can pay me up to the end of the month and then we’re quits.’
‘I’m calling the police,’ Roger said.
‘No, you ain’t,’ Farrelly told him. ‘You been paid yet?’ he asked me as an afterthought.
‘I haven’t submitted an invoice.’
Farrelly tapped Roger on the chest. His finger left a smudge on his former employer’s immaculate shirt. ‘When he does, you’d best see to it pronto,’ he told him. ‘Otherwise he’s gonna tell everyone what a worthless piece of shit you are.’