‘Then I apologise.’ There’s no way I sound sincere. ‘Now, picking up on what you said about “happening” to be in North London. Your wife Debbie is also your PA, is that correct?’ Debbie & Dale 4Eva. I picture teenage sweethearts. The undisputed prom king and queen. Married at twenty-five, kids a few years later. And then one of them winds up in the middle of a murder investigation. ‘Well, Debbie ran PC Holmes and PC Thakkar through your appointments for that day.’ I sift through my notes, winding Peters tighter. ‘You had a breakfast meeting at your hotel in Earls Court at 8 a.m., followed by another meeting at Brunel University at 10 a.m., and then a 3 p.m. at Waterloo, not 2 p.m. as you said, so you did have time to stop and talk to us, after all. But anyway, my point is that’s Central London-West London-Central London. You weren’t scheduled to be anywhere near North London, and I’d go as far to say – as someone who knows London well – a detour to Dollis Hill would be a major pain in the proverbial. And that tells me two things, Dale.’ I give him a face full of disappointment. ‘One, you’re lying to us, and two, getting to that memorial service meant a great deal to you. Holly Kemp meant a great deal to you. Can you tell us why?’
He says nothing, filling the silence with sharp little breaths, steadily growing faster.
‘Because Debbie didn’t know why,’ I go on. ‘She had no idea why you’d be there. Seemed quite shocked, actually, according to PC Thakkar. Needed an extra sugar in her tea. Said you hadn’t set foot in a church since you got married thirteen years ago, and she’d had to nag you into that. You’d have preferred the local registry office. But you put your foot down about Maisie and Rhys being baptised, didn’t you?’
Parnell chimes in. ‘You’re a science man. A loud-and-proud atheist. You’ve got a blog – Godless in Gedling. I’m more of an agnostic, myself, but I gave it a read. It’s very good. Atheism is a Non-Prophet Organisation – very witty.’
Our tones might be blithe but the message is clear: We know you. We’ve drunk your tea, we’ve met your wife, we know your kids’ names. We’re all over your life.
So no bullshit.
‘Look, I didn’t know her, OK? I didn’t know Holly fucking Kemp.’ The words sputter from him, a confetti of anger bursting above our heads. ‘I knew her as Megan. Sweet, fragile, unassuming Megan. We met in 2011 . . .’
Parnell interrupts, which is good as I’m momentarily dumbstruck. ‘For the tape, Dale. Are you saying you met Holly Kemp in 2011 and she was calling herself Megan?’
‘Megan Moore. It used to be our joke that I always wanted “more” of Megan. But she was so shy, so afraid to let you in.’ He looks down. ‘Of course, that was all part of the act. That’s what she wanted me to think.’
‘Right, stop, stop, stop,’ I say, waving my hands. ‘The beginning, Dale. And the truth. One more lie and we’ll charge you.’
I’ve no idea what with, but he’s remarkably easy to intimidate and I’m not looking that gift-horse in the mouth.
He leans forward onto the table, shoulders hunched, eyes on his clasped hands. ‘We met on a night out in Nottingham. Two thousand and eleven, August, I think. I was on a Godawful stag do. It was at one of those fancy places where you go to be seen, full of footballers and glamour models, £200 bottles of vodka. Anyway, the bar really wasn’t my scene. Megan, or Holly . . . can I call her Megan?’
We nod in sync. If it keeps him talking he can call her the Queen of Bloody Sheba.
‘Megan looked like a glamour model, and it’s weird because I don’t usually go for that type, but there was something about her. A real warmth. We started chatting at the bar about how long it was taking to get served and then we didn’t stop talking all night. We weren’t even flirting, really. It was just like we had to know everything about each other, hungry for every little detail. Favourite films, books, foods. First kiss. First pet. Best holiday. Worst joke. I felt like I learned more about her in three hours than I knew about Debbie after nine years.’ Oh, for fuck’s sake. ‘Anyway, there was a late-night café across the road and she said why didn’t we go there, it’d be quieter. I didn’t even tell anyone I was leaving, but we stayed in that café for hours. I told her all about my consultancy. I suppose I was bragging about how well it was doing, but she never seemed impressed, as such, just fascinated. She was fascinated in me. In every word I said.’
‘Pay them compliments, boost their confidence, make every one of them feel like stardust.’
Advice once shared with me by a £3,000-a-night hooker.
‘So did you sleep with her that night?’ I ask.
‘No. I walked her back to her hotel. But then we met up the next day and well . . .’ He gets lost somewhere for a moment. ‘It was like being given the keys to paradise.’
‘Did she charge you?’ I ask, dropping the keys down the toilet.
‘No, of course not!’
Parnell speaks levelly. ‘It’s been suggested that Holly Kemp might have been working as an escort.’
Peters looks winded. ‘No, no, no. It was never like that. We fell in love, or at least I thought we did. We saw each other every week for the next few months, sometimes twice a week if we could make it work. She never seemed interested in money, that’s why I was so trusting . . .’
‘So were you going to leave your wife?’ I ask. ‘Your children? How old were they then, by the way?’
It’s not even slightly relevant but he deserves to squirm.
‘Look, if anything, being with Debbie over those few months felt like cheating on Megan. Debbie and I hadn’t been great for a long time. She was consumed with the children. I was consumed the business. We were hardly talking, sleeping in separate rooms. The usual story.’
The usual cliché.
It was a dark and stormy night, and the insecure man pushing forty left the mother of his kids and chief washer of his pants for the perky twenty-two-year-old who hung off his every word in her Agent Provocateur underwear.
‘So yes,’ confirms Parnell.
‘I would have left Debbie, yes, but it wasn’t that simple.’ He sits back, planting his legs wide, a belligerent stance he fails to carry off. ‘Megan was with someone too, you see. All she’d say is that it was complicated. She couldn’t just leave. It was obvious she was terrified, though – terrified to leave him, terrified of him finding out about me. That’s why we could never spend time in London. She said he had spies all over. So she’d come up this way or we’d book into hotels across the Home Counties – she loved The Grove, Foxhills, Cliveden.’
‘She never seemed interested in money.’ The absolute mug.
‘And you settled for that explanation?’ Parnell leans in, tilting his bulk forward, settling in for the man-to-man. ‘Because, Dale – and I’ll say straight up that this is all double dutch to me, I’m no expert in extra-marital affairs and I don’t intend to become one – but hypothetically speaking, if I’ve met a young lady and I’m splashing the cash in five-star hotels and telling her that I’m fully prepared to abandon my wife and two young kids, then I’m going to want a little bit more than “it’s complicated” when I ask her to show the same commitment.’