I watched the struggle between loyalty and greed play out on Rocco’s face. Greed won out, as it usually does.
‘She’d got a new girlfriend. Two hundred quid if you want her name – and it’s a pretty famous one.’
‘How famous?’
Rocco took off his hat and held it out. I peeled off another four notes and dropped them in the Stetson.
‘Dervla Bishop,’ he said.
‘The artist?’
‘Yep.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’ Rocco scooped the notes out of the hat and replaced it on his head. ‘H didn’t want it known.’
‘In case Frank found out?’
‘S’pose.’
‘How come you and he fell out?’
‘I asked him if he’d lend me some cash to buy a share in the Pit.’
‘He wasn’t keen?’
‘Told me if it was such a good deal then I’d have no trouble raising it from the bank. Like that’s going to happen with my credit record.’
‘Couldn’t you have used this place as security?’
‘It’s rented. I’m moving out in a couple of weeks. The landlord’s a twat.’
‘Is this where you and Harry lived when you were married?’ I asked.
‘Nah, Frank bought us a house in the country. He had this idea we were gonna knock out a couple of sprogs and he could come up for Sunday lunches.’
‘Did Harry sell the house?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Has she been there since you broke up?’
‘Why would she? It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere. H is a city girl. Just goes to show how well her old man knew her.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got the keys?’ I asked.
‘I do, as it happens,’ Rocco said. ‘But if you think H is there then you’re barking up the wrong stick of rhubarb. She hated the place even more than I did.’
‘All the same,’ I said. Rocco took off his Stetson and held it out again.
‘A ton gets you the address.’
‘I can get it from Frank for nothing.’
‘Maybe, but he won’t know the alarm code.’
Reluctantly I placed another couple of fifties into the hat. Rocco dropped what was left of his spliff into what was left of a cup of coffee and departed from the room. I heard a couple of drawers being opened and closed. Then Prince Charming returned.
‘There you go,’ he said, throwing a key ring towards me. ‘The one with the yellow cap opens the front door. The code’s four zeros.’
‘And the address?’
‘Fairview Lodge, Church Lane, Matcham.’
‘Postcode?’
‘Haven’t a Scooby but you can’t miss it. Place looks like it’s a thousand years old.’
‘I’ll return the keys as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Rocco replied. ‘Give ’em to Frank and tell him I was asking after him . . . Not.’
‘You know last night when you were playing cards?’ I said, getting to my feet.
‘Yeah?’
‘Who was the mug?’
‘Dunno what you mean.’
‘Rule number three, Rocco.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If you can’t spot the mug, then it’s probably you.’
SIX
Odeerie Charles hadn’t left his flat since his wife ran off with her Pilates teacher nine years ago. Everything needed to maintain Odeerie’s twenty-stone physique was ordered through the web. The same source was used to acquire the cash to pay for it.
Ninety per cent of skip-tracing is done by trawling through databases and searching records. Lots of this is available free, some of it is pay-to-view, and some of it you just shouldn’t be looking at unless you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, and probably not even then. For the right price, Odeerie checks out all sources on a client’s behalf. The one thing he doesn’t do is house calls – that’s where I come in.
The great man lives and works in an Edwardian mansion block on Meard Street. A juddery lift took me from the lobby to the second floor. The final movement of the Jupiter Symphony was audible through the door of flat 4. Despite looking like B.B. King, Odeerie prefers his music from the classical canon. I rang the bell and a few seconds later he answered, wearing a baggy grey tracksuit and tartan slippers.
‘Hallelujah! I’ve left about forty messages for you, Kenny.’
‘I have been grieving.’
Odeerie purged the mordant tone from his voice. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry about Jack,’ he said. ‘But I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got a gig for you.’
‘Can’t do it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m busy with something else.’
‘If you’re doing away jobs, then I’m going to have to review our contract.’
‘What contract?’
‘Verbal agreement, then.’
‘There might be a few quid in it for you.’
Odeerie performed a one-eighty turn and shuffled down the corridor. His office was in a converted second bedroom. Three screens on as many desks fed into a stack in the corner that an electric fan kept cool. The ticking of an oversized wall clock competed with the whirring blades and a shelf of books contained information that couldn’t be accessed online. He turned off the music and indicated that I should sit on a corduroy sofa while he perched on one of the chairs.
‘So, what’s so important that you’re refusing work from your regular employer?’
‘Someone’s daughter’s gone walkabout.’
‘You didn’t think to put it through the company?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Odeerie, you’re going to get a slice of the action anyway.’
‘That depends on what you want.’
‘Last five transactions on a card.’ I handed Harry’s statement over. Odeerie squinted at the logo.
‘Money would have to change hands.’
‘How much?’
‘Four grand.’
‘Christ, all you have to do is press a couple of buttons.’
‘What I have to do is bribe someone. You can’t hack credit card accounts, for fuck’s sake. They’ve got tighter security than the Pentagon.’
‘When could you have it by?’
Odeerie’s head jerked up and I cursed myself for not haggling. He’d only asked for four thousand because he was pissed off I hadn’t referred the work.
‘Who’s Ms Harriet K. Parr, then?’ he asked.
‘Daughter of an old acquaintance.’
‘Most of the losers you know haven’t got a pot to piss in.’
Odeerie would find out who Harry’s father was regardless. And I knew that I could rely on him to keep schtum.
‘Frank Parr,’ I said.
‘As in the media magnate?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he’s a mate of yours?’
‘Used to be.’
‘When’s the last time you saw him?’
‘Nearly ten years ago.’
Odeerie realigned his voluminous buttocks on the chair. ‘So a millionaire you haven’t seen in a decade gets in touch because his daughter’s been missing for . . . ?’
‘Five or six days.’
‘And you don’t think that’s odd?’
‘He’s got his reasons.’
‘How much is he paying you?’
‘Washers. I’m doing it for old times’ sake.’
‘How well d’you know him?’
I provided Odeerie with a synopsis of how I’d worked for Frank in the Galaxy, leaving out how and why we’d parted company.
‘Thought Frank Parr used to be in porn,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that why everyone’s so uptight about him buying the Post?’
‘The club was his old man’s. Frank kept it going for sentimental reasons.’
‘And because it was useful to recycle the dough from the movies and the mags?’
‘Maybe. I just ran the bar and the restaurant for him.’