The furniture in the sitting room of flat 10 consisted of two cream leather sofas and a pine refectory table. An abstract painting full of bewildering lines and whorls hung from one wall. Sunk into another was a TV screen under which sat a Bose docking station. The kitchen was no cosier. All the cupboards contained was half a dozen packets of savoury rice and a can of peeled tomatoes. In a Smeg fridge was a bottle of Stoli and a lonely egg. It was how people left their kitchens when they intended to be away for a week or two. I checked the bin and found it empty.
Harry’s spare room doubled up as a study. A desk stood under a window that looked out over the street. Next to it was a laser printer. Conspicuous by its absence was a computer, but there was nothing unusual in that. By all accounts, Harry Parr was a workaholic, so chances were that she’d take her laptop on a break.
Frank had probably gone through the desk drawers, but I gave them a shufti anyway. In the second, I found a bundle of credit card bills. These days, leaving your financial information unshredded is one remove from tattooing your bank details across your forehead. I transferred the top bill to my back pocket.
If Harry Parr skimped on the groceries, the same wasn’t true for the smellies. There were enough pots, jars and bottles in the bathroom to open up a branch of Molton Brown. A single toothbrush stood in the holder, along with a barely used tube of Colgate. Lots of people take their toothbrushes with them when they go on holiday. Just as many buy fresh ones when they arrive.
Lying on a pile of Vogue back copies was a paperback titled Never Too Soon, Never Too Late. The author’s name was Callum Parsons. According to the biog on the back cover, Callum was a co-founder of Griffin Media and a respected media figure until addiction to alcohol and drugs brought him close to death. Fully recovered, he now ran the Plan B drop-in centre.
Harry Parr having a copy of a book written by her father’s ex-business partner was interesting enough. What made it doubly so was the inscription across the title page: To Harry, in the hope that it can provide both ideas and inspiration. All the love in the world, Callum.
Had Frank seen the paperback? Fifteen years ago, Callum Parsons had been obliged to sell his shares to Frank, and had reportedly lost a couple of million on the deal. It couldn’t have made Callum feel too philanthropic about the man who had since taken the company to greater heights.
The bigger question was how Callum had met Harry. It might have been at a signing, but the inscription seemed a little too affectionate for that. I made a mental note to research Callum Parsons and his drop-in centre. Regardless of how much cash Harry was getting from Frank, if she had a drug problem she might have been left in debt to people who preferred a more direct route than the county court for settlement.
I inspected the main bedroom last. If Harry had gone away, there would probably be a few empty hangers in the wardrobe. It had been packed so tightly with outfits that I had to plunge my hand into the wedge of garments to create some space.
It connected with something clammy to the touch.
THREE
The rubber dress would have fallen to mid-thigh on most women. It was low-cut, but had two extensions from the breasts to form a halter around the neck. Leather laces threaded through silver-ringed eyeholes to keep it in place. According to the label, a company called Bombaste had made the outfit. They had a shop on Bateman Street specialising in upmarket erotic and fetish gear.
The company had won awards from the Design Council. If you want a riding crop made from the finest sauvage leather, or art deco nipple clamps, then head for Bombaste. And be sure to take a sackful of cash with you. Harry’s outfit probably wouldn’t have left much change out of a grand.
That it was in her wardrobe wasn’t anything unusual. Check out the knicker drawers and medicine cabinets of half the country and you’ll find something designed to quicken, thicken or heighten the sexual experience. Chances were that Harry had bought the dress to role-play with a boyfriend, or wear at a ‘vicars and tarts’ party.
Feeling like a cross between a burglar and a voyeur, I replaced the dress on the rail and left the flat. Mr Rolfe’s door was open. He was standing over a bloke in blue overalls who was attacking the pipes under the kitchen sink. I coughed loudly a couple of times. Rolfe turned to face me.
‘Oh, hello there,’ he said, as though I were a visitor from the distant past. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Nothing unusual,’ I said. ‘Looks like Harry went on holiday.’
‘Without telling anyone?’ Rolfe took the key. ‘Isn’t that a little peculiar?’
The plumber’s wrench slipped and he muttered a curse.
‘You know how it is,’ I said. ‘Sometimes people in high-stress jobs decide enough’s enough and they need a break.’
‘If you say so,’ Rolfe replied.
‘I wonder, if you hear anything, whether you’d give me a call?’ I handed him a card. ‘Use the mobile number, not the landline.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Rolfe asked.
‘Anything out of the ordinary.’
Rolfe looked as though he was about to say something else. The plumber’s wrench slipped again and he beat him to it. ‘Fucking bastard fucker!’ he yelled.
I took it as my cue to leave.
After leaving Beecham Buildings, I headed towards Greek Street. The autumn wind was chilly and a light drizzle had lacquered the pavements. Hopefully, Jack’s wake would be over. I’d reached that time of life when any reminder of mortality is unwelcome, even if accompanied by free drinks and a bowl of Bombay mix.
The Vesuvius first opened its door in 1968 as a club where expat Italians could lose money playing cards, usually to its owner, Jack Rigatelli. It was in a basement, so irritating things like daylight didn’t distract anyone from the serious business of gambling. On the way down, the carpet stuck to your feet like Velcro and the walls were a touch greasier than those at the Garrick. None of which was out of kilter with what was to come. Fifty years of inadequate ventilation had lent the V the kind of bouquet that was almost impossible to find since the smoking ban had been introduced.
Jack drank too much vodka and rarely sat down to a meal that wasn’t mired in saturated fat. The only thing stopping him from adding penury to the list was ownership of the building above the club. What with production companies and fledgling PR agencies all desperate for a trendy address, it provided a steady income, most of which was invested at the bookies.
The V’s owner had collapsed in Betfred shortly after placing a monkey on a five-horse accumulator. Stephie, his Mancunian business partner, had organised a memorial do. When I pushed open the downstairs door there were fewer than half a dozen people still in the club, none of whom I recognised. Steph was gathering up greasy plates and empty glasses.