‘Weren’t you a bit young for that?’
‘I was a quick learner,’ I said, and before he could get in another question I asked, ‘So when can you have the information by?’
Odeerie pursed his lips. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime, maybe.’
‘Okay, but any sooner and you’ll let me know?’
‘What about this other job? If you can’t guarantee to be on it by Thursday, I really will have to farm it out to someone else.’
‘Thursday’s fine.’
The fat man grunted and scratched an armpit. ‘Anything else I can do for you? Only I’ve got a pizza arriving in twenty minutes.’
‘I wouldn’t mind doing a quick search on one of your computers.’
‘What for?’
‘Nothing iffy. I want to google Dervla Bishop.’
‘The pubes woman?’ Odeerie asked.
‘Or award-winning artist, as she’s also known,’ I said.
Dervla Bishop was the doyenne of the new wave of British artists, according to the Guardian. The Mail considered her an affront to common decency and a talentless charlatan. Much depended on whether you felt that a sampler woven from the pubic hair of pensioners constituted a bona fide commentary on old age. Personally I’d prefer a Canaletto on my sitting room wall, but what do I know?
Indisputable was that, by her mid-thirties, Dervla’s work regularly commanded six figures at auction and a couple of pieces were on permanent display at Tate Modern. The pubic rugs were the most heavily featured pieces on Google Images. A close second was the painting that had won the McClellan Prize and propelled her to fame just after she had left Saint Martin’s. In the picture a sleeping woman’s mascara was smudged and a trail of drool emerged from her scarlet mouth on to a grimy pillow. The child lying next to her was staring at the ceiling with eyes that had seen too much already and knew more was on the way. You could almost smell the damp and desolation in the room.
Dervla should have taken the award for imagination alone. Her father was a prosperous businessman and she’d been privately educated before going to art college. But then I guess Mother and Daughter with Pippin the Pony was never going to win the McClellan. Not unless they were giving him a blowjob.
The rest of Dervla’s Wikipedia entry revealed her to be thirty-seven and single. I couldn’t find anything about a regular partner, but Dervla wasn’t coy about her sexuality. There were pictures of her with various girlfriends attending movie premieres, charity benefits and other celebrity hoedowns.
None of them was Harry Parr.
Three years ago, Dervla had been busted for heroin possession. The judge made rehab a prerequisite to avoiding prison. The most recent pictures featured a young woman who looked a whole lot healthier than she had pre-trial.
I rang the number for Dervla’s agent, who was listed as Sheridan Talbot-White. ‘STW Management,’ a female voice said.
‘Sheridan, please,’ I said breezily. ‘It’s Kenny calling. He’ll know what it’s about.’
‘One moment,’ the woman replied. A few seconds later, her boss came on the line.
‘Sheridan speaking,’ he said a little uncertainly.
‘Hello, Mr Talbot-White. My name’s Kenny Gabriel. I’d like to arrange an interview with Dervla Bishop.’
‘Which paper are you from?’
‘I’m not attached to a specific title.’
‘Dervla isn’t giving interviews at the moment,’ Sheridan said. ‘But if you’d like to—’
‘I need to talk to her about Harry Parr.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘It’s a she. Could you make sure Dervla gets my message?’
Sheridan probably wasn’t used to taking orders, although it sounded as though he was jotting down my name and number.
‘Harry Parr, you said.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ll make sure Dervla receives your message, but as I said, she isn’t talking to the press right now.’
‘I’m not a reporter.’
‘Then why do you want—’
‘Thanks, Sheridan,’ I said, and rang off.
SEVEN
I said goodbye to Odeerie and took a taxi to Griffin’s offices. What with chucking money at people like confetti, and taking cabs hither and thither, I was becoming accustomed to being bankrolled by a man with bottomless pockets. Not that it would last. In a couple of days I’d be back to using an Oyster card and Shanks’s pony.
My morning’s work hadn’t suggested that anything sinister had happened to Harry, although I’d be interested to hear what Roger Parr had to say. According to LinkedIn, Roger occupied a lower tier in Griffin’s hierarchy than his sister. Sibling rivalry is a powerful emotion and there might be a thing or two he’d like to get off his chest.
I checked my texts and found one from Stephie. Underneath the letters FYI was a link to a lettings site. A series of images began with a shot of a brownstone building. The next was of a living room that featured exposed brickwork and original oak ceiling beams. Then a bathroom that would have graced a decent hotel and a kitchen gleaming with brushed aluminium and stainless steel. Sunlight poured into each bedroom courtesy of high windows that looked on to a twinkling canal basin.
Although I hadn’t expected Stephie to rent a slum until she found somewhere to live in Manchester, this exceeded my expectations by a country mile. By the time we pulled up outside Griffin’s offices, I still hadn’t thought of a suitable response.
Roger’s PA met me in reception and escorted me to the second floor. Several dozen people – not many over thirty – were talking into headsets, or staring blankly at computer screens. In the centre of the room stood an office with glass walls. My guide tapped on the door and was told to enter by a light baritone voice. She pushed it open and gave me my first proper sight of her boss.
The picture on Roger’s LinkedIn profile was of a guy in his mid-thirties with a square jaw and side-parted blonde hair. Unusually, it bore a passing resemblance to its subject. In person, Roger was about six-two. He wore a double-cuffed shirt, braces and a woven silk tie. We shook hands, and he offered me a coffee. I politely declined.
‘Can you hold my calls for the next half-hour, Flora?’ He looked to me for confirmation that we wouldn’t need longer.
‘Half an hour will be fine,’ I said.
Flora turned on an elegant ankle and left the office. I occupied one of two chairs that stood in front of Roger’s desk. On a shelf were a dozen golf trophies and the walls were studded with pictures of Rog and various B-list celebrities. Some had been taken on the first tee at tournaments. Others were from awards dos or similar.
‘Quite a collection,’ I said.
‘Oh, those,’ Roger replied, as though he hadn’t noticed the silverware in a long time. ‘I keep meaning to take them down.’
‘You must have been pretty good.’
‘Scratch for a couple of years.’
‘Ever think of turning pro?’
‘Dad made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, and ninety-five per cent of professionals never really crack it.’
‘Nice to try, though.’