‘Since when?’
‘Wednesday. At least that’s the last time her mail was picked up and none of the neighbours can remember Harry being around since then.’
‘Harry or Harriet?’
‘She preferred Harry.’
‘What about work?’
‘She runs one of the divisions here. Last time she was in was Tuesday.’
‘Any sign of unhappiness or unusual behaviour?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ Frank said, twiddling one of his monogrammed cufflinks.
‘What do the police think?’
‘I haven’t told them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because all the bastards will do is fall over themselves trying to sell the story.’
‘Young woman goes AWOL for a few days? It’s hardly front-page news.’
Frank fiddled with his links again. It was the nearest I’d ever seen him get to nervous body language.
‘You know I’m bidding for the Post?’ he said.
Everyone knew. There had even been questions in the House about it, most of them along the lines of, ‘Does the Prime Minister think a man of Frank Parr’s doubtful character should be allowed to own a national newspaper?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Pretty well, but let’s just say that there are certain parties who would welcome me dropping out of the deal.’
‘Would Lord Kirkleys be likely to kidnap your daughter to warn you off?’ Kirkleys owned the Post’s competitor, and was Frank’s biggest rival in the bidding war.
‘I’m not talking about people with a direct interest,’ he said. ‘More a political agenda.’
‘You mean like MI5?’
‘You’d be surprised. This Post business has stirred up all kinds of weird shit.’
That the secret service had snatched Harry seemed even less likely than Lord Kirkleys locking her up in his gazebo. Far more probable was that the pressure was sending Frank’s paranoia index surging into the red.
‘Two hundred thousand people are reported missing every year,’ I told him. ‘Virtually all of them turn up after a few days. Harry’s probably just lying in the long grass.’
I was at the end of my Irish, and it was as good an exit line as any. Frank didn’t seem convinced. Despite myself, I started asking the usual questions. ‘Does she live with anyone?’ He shook his head. ‘Have you checked her place?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Diary?’
‘Only her work schedule.’
‘Was she meeting anyone on the day she went missing?’
‘She had lunch with her brother. Roger said she seemed perfectly happy.’
‘What about emails and Twitter?’ He shook his head. ‘Financial problems?’
‘What d’you think?’
‘Pressure at work?’
‘No more than usual.’
‘Emotional issues?’
‘She split up with her husband last year, but it all seemed amicable enough. I don’t think she’s seeing anyone special now.’
The phone rang. Frank looked irritated, but got up and answered it. ‘Lucy, I said no calls,’ he snapped into the receiver. A couple of seconds later he sighed and said, ‘Right, yes, I better had talk to him.’
He made an apologetic sign, and pointed at the drinks cabinet. I poured myself another Irish and checked out the framed magazine covers. Of more interest than the gallery was the conversation Frank was having with his priority caller, someone by the name of Maurice. It revolved around the rumours that, if his bid were successful, he intended to sack half of the Post’s editorial staff and relocate its offices from Kensington to Docklands. From the instructions Frank was giving him, it sounded as though Maurice was some kind of PR adviser charged with denying the accusations levelled against his client. Five minutes after ticking Lucy off, Frank was back on the sofa.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, picking up his soda.
‘Problems?’
‘Someone leaked a confidential document. Maybe I’ll get you in here once you’ve found Harry.’
‘Who said I was looking?’
‘I thought we’d agreed.’
‘If you’re really worried, go to one of the big agencies. With your kind of money they’ll put several people on it and guarantee confidentiality.’
‘You know how many of their guys are ex-cops?’ I shook my head. ‘All of them,’ Frank said. ‘The only people you can trust are friends and family.’
‘How d’you know I won’t go to the papers?’
‘You know how,’ he said quietly.
I felt a jag of pain in my stomach, which could have been my irritable bowel kicking off. Then again, it could have had something to do with the tone in Frank’s voice. Back in the day it hadn’t been wise to refuse him a favour when asked.
‘I’m busy,’ I said, what with it not being back in the day.
‘How much do you usually get paid?’
‘Fifty quid an hour plus expenses.’
‘About five hundred a day, then?’ I nodded, although after Odeerie had taken his cut it was nearer two hundred. ‘I’ll double it,’ Frank said. ‘And a ten-grand bonus if you find her, which, if you’re right, should be a piece of piss.’
Hard cash was the clincher. And to be honest, it was kind of a buzz having Frank come to me for help. What I should have been wondering was why he was hiring someone he hadn’t seen in ten years and who wasn’t exactly at the cutting edge of his profession. It would have saved a hell of a lot of trouble down the line. But then we’ve all got 20/20 hindsight.
‘Have you been in touch with Harry’s friends?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think she had any.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Harry was wrapped up in her work.’
‘Everyone has friends, Frank.’
‘There was one person she kept in touch with from university. Roger called her, but she said that Harry hadn’t called for a couple of months.’
‘I need to have a chat with Roger.’
‘He doesn’t know anything.’
‘All the same . . .’
‘Okay,’ Frank said. ‘Rog works here too. He’s up north on business today. I’ll give you his number and you can see him tomorrow.’
‘What about the husband? You said she was still on good terms with him.’
Frank made a face and said, ‘I don’t want it getting out Harry’s missing, Kenny. That’s why I’m using you.’
‘I’ll be discreet,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have to say something.’
‘Okay, but play it close with Rocco. He’s a bit of a . . . well, you’ll see what he’s like when you meet him.’
I was about to explore this a little more when Frank glanced at his watch. I took the hint. ‘I’ll need at least two recent photographs of Harry, and I’d like to look round her place. Where is it?’
‘Great Russell Street. I’ve already checked the flat out. There’s nothing there.’
Although he was considerably richer than most of my clients, Frank had this in common with them: he liked to tell you not only what was wrong, but also how to put it right.
‘If I’m doing this,’ I told him, ‘then I need a free hand.’
He shrugged and said, ‘Just trying to save you time. An old boy called John Rolfe in the flat opposite’s got the spare key. He hardly goes out, but he’s a bit mutton, so you’ll have to speak up. I’ll have Farrelly drop the photographs off later.’