‘OK, so you worked this space, you clearly know your stuff,’ Steele says to Parnell. ‘What do you know about him?’
‘Not that much, and it was years ago, remember? I know he isn’t muscle. He’s a money man, an investor.’ A money-launderer, to give him his proper title. ‘And he’s slick, well-educated – he does the salt-of-the-earth Cockney thing, but he’s public school through and through. He had a career in the City back in the Nineties.’
‘His annual bonus wasn’t enough?’ I say with the requisite amount of vinegar.
‘Clearly not,’ says Parnell. ‘But it was easy to stray onto the wrong side of the law back then. White-collar crime wasn’t a priority – God, it barely was a crime. There were none of the regulations there are now, so you’d see it all the time – nice boy joins the firm, sees it’s a dog-eat-dog world, spots a way to make money, and before you know it, he’s gone from massaging the figures on a spreadsheet to setting up shell companies to help drug cartels or arms traffickers move money. Next stop – he wants a piece of the real action himself, he wants to be the trafficker, ’cos that’s where the mega-money is. Now, I’m not saying Fellows was ever a nice boy, or this is what happened in his case, I’m just saying it happened a lot back then.’
‘Do we know which outfit Fellows works for?’ asks Steele.
‘No idea. I haven’t come across him for years, and to be honest, it’s not that simple. It’s not like the Mafia. British gangs don’t have the same rank and structure. Everything’s fluid, you get loose coalitions, sharing of expertise. I know he used to work under the Kirby umbrella, but that was years ago. I’m talking ten, fifteen, maybe more.’
He offers me the last finger of KitKat, and I take it, smiling, even though my stomach has just plunged to the floor.
The phone’s in Steele’s hand. ‘Right, I’m going to make a call, do some digging. You pair, just get in his face for the time being. And watch him like a hawk – because I don’t care how slick he is, he’s not a robot. If he’s been thinking he got away with it for all these years, he’s going to have some sort of reaction.’
Not necessarily.
I barely flinched at the mention of the Kirbys: Dan, Dean, Richie and Gabe.
They’d never know that I, at the age of seven, once served Gabe sandwiches in the back room of McAuley’s during one of Dad’s ‘meetings’. Or that Jacqui went on a date with Dean’s son, back when Dad was still climbing the ladder and having your teenage daughter shagging a coke dealer wasn’t your worst nightmare but smart play.
‘Boss, before we go . . . slightly different tangent . . .’ I get my mind back on the job, quick smart. ‘Has Cookey been through all of Holly’s foster parents yet? A Sean and Linda, I can’t remember the surname.’
‘Speak to him, but I think so.’ If Steele doesn’t ‘know so’ it means nothing much was gleaned. ‘Why, what’s the problem?’
‘Not a problem, exactly. I’d just like to meet them. Cookey’ll have been asking them about past grudges, that sort of thing. Ticking boxes, crossing them off the to-do list.’
‘And what do you want to do?’ Her hand’s still hovering over the receiver.
‘I just want to get to know Holly a bit better. Her friends . . . well, they obviously loved her, but they weren’t entirely complimentary. And now all this stuff with Dale Peters . . .’ How do I put this? ‘I don’t like her all that much, that’s my problem.’ I’ve said it in the simplest way possible – thank you, Susie Grainger. ‘And I know that shouldn’t matter – and it doesn’t, not really – but she was with Sean and Linda Whatever-they’re-called for two years, and Dyer said they stayed in touch with her, the only ones that did, so that must mean they saw something in her. Something . . . I dunno, good, worthwhile?’ I’m aware this makes me sound like a tosser. ‘I just want to know what that was. You understand, right?’
Whether she understands or not, she barks, ‘Fine. I’ll get Cookey to call them back, get them in. You two, get gone. Because I don’t like Simon Fellows all that much and believe me, that is a problem.’
*
After kicking off the day in a windowless room reeking of meat, our game of Hunt the Gangster gets some warm air in our lungs at least. Simon Fellows, unsurprisingly, isn’t the easiest man to track down. We start at his known address – a chic three-storey pad on a cobbled mews in Little Venice, just a stone’s throw from the brightly coloured narrowboats bobbing serenely on the Regent’s Canal. We’re greeted by a woman – Alma – wearing a tabard and a growly expression, who tells us that while Fellows lives here, he doesn’t ‘live’ here, and yes, she’ll try to get a message to him but no, she’d rather we didn’t come in as she’s just washed the floors. Quite why the floors need washing when Fellows hasn’t walked his Gucci loafers over them in weeks is anyone’s guess, but she doesn’t seem in the humour to be asked.
She does, however, point us to another address in less picturesque Lewisham; a haulage yard ten miles south, where we’re greeted by more shakes of the head and a suggestion that as it’s Friday, La Trompette in Chiswick might be our best bet, or possibly the Gaucho over East. We call both. Get nothing. Turn up at both. Still nothing. Over the course of three hours, we’ve been pointed North, South, East and West, and call me paranoid – many have – but our magical mystery tour has a distinctly orchestrated feel to it. A network of lackeys playing pass-the-parcel with the police.
We’re just about to head back when Parnell’s phone rings. He’s driving so I answer, hitting speakerphone as I say hello.
‘Well, you don’t sound like a Luigi Parnell, so I assume you’re the other one. Sorry, darling, my cleaner didn’t catch your name.’
I pull a ‘what-the-fuck?’ face, feeling caught off-guard. I know Alma said she’d try to get a message to him, but I assumed by ‘try’, she meant ‘I might some time this decade if I can be bothered’. Parnell jerks his head towards the phone, urging me to speak.
‘Detective Constable Cat Kinsella. Thanks for calling.’ Not for the first time, I inwardly thank myself for the decision to take Mum’s maiden name after she died. A tribute to Mum. A fuck you to Dad. And protection against anyone – anyone of Fellows ilk – ever connecting me to the McBride name. ‘We’ve been all over looking for you, Mr Fellows. You’ve got lots of friends and employees, and yet no one seems to know your phone number. Funny that.’
‘Need to know, Cat, need to know. Can’t be too careful with your personal details these days, not with all these cyber criminals doing God knows what with your data.’ Parnell shakes his head at the sheer gall of the man. ‘Hey, can you hold on a sec?’ A shout of ‘Kelsey, you little devil, get away, they’re still cooling’ and then he’s back with me. ‘So shoot, how can I help?’
Parnell jumps in. ‘We need to speak to you in person, Mr Fellows. Can you tell us where you are, or you can come to Holborn station? Either way, it’ll be under caution. I’m sure you know the drill.’