Predictably, he wants us on his turf, and so forty minutes later, we’re back where we started. Unpredictably, and what seems to be puzzling Parnell greatly as we follow Simon Fellows into an airy, sunlit kitchen at the back of the house, is that this so-called Mr Big, or Mr Big-ish at least, appears to be part-way through cooking a batch of rainbow cookies.
‘Your cleaner gave the impression you don’t spend a lot of time here,’ I say, taking in the domestic scene. The patio doors are wide open and outside a barefoot little girl is playing swingball, missing the ball every time and finding it gloriously hilarious.
‘Alma, bless her heart, has been married for forty-eight years and she could tell you the exact time her husband takes a shit every day. Size and consistency too.’ I frown, not quite following. ‘My lifestyle’s a bit flighty for her. She can’t see the point of having a nice gaff if you’re not sitting in it every night with your pipe and slippers.’
Fellows is tall, dark and sleek. Middle-aged, north of fifty, but with the patina of youth, or maybe botox, still gilding his features. Thickset but not fat, he looks every inch the tough guy, even with a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a glittery mermaid stuck to his cheek. He catches me looking at it, puts a hand to his face and laughs.
‘Yeah, whoever told you I dine at La Trompette on a Friday has got their facts four years out of date.’ He points behind to the little girl. ‘Ever since that little lady came along, Fridays are about my granddaughter. I don’t care what comes up, business, friends, lovers, Friday is Kelsey Day.’ He laughs again. ‘Although she’s a right little madam. Fickle, but then aren’t most women? Drives me mad saying she wants to do baking, then buggers off outside, leaving the legwork to me.’ He picks up a wire rack of cookies. ‘You want one?’
I’d love one. In fact, I’d love the whole batch. It’s been a long old morning on just a quarter of a KitKat, and my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut, as Parnell is fond of saying.
But this is about tone. And that’s what Fellows is doing, he’s trying to set it, knock us off-balance. Make this all casual, cosy, and by the look on his face, faintly amusing.
And Parnell’s not having it.
‘Mr Fellows, can you tell us about your relationship with Holly Kemp?’
Fellows turns and starts filling the kettle, a fancy see-through number that could do with descaling. ‘Call me Simon,’ he says, over his shoulder. ‘You know, I think remember your name, mate. Hardly going to forget a copper called Luigi, am I? Didn’t you work for that fat prick, Butterfield?’ He swings around, looking at me. ‘DCI from a while back, darling. Thought he was the King of Hammersmith until he got caught in flagrante with a fourteen-year-old trafficked girl.’
It’s a threat delivered with a hundred-watt smile. Every copper knows about DCI Steve Butterfield. About his rock-solid insistence that his drink must have been spiked, as he has no recollection whatsoever of the two hours where, according to photo evidence, he apparently lost his mind and threw away his marriage and highly celebrated career for a blowjob in an unmarked police car.
Parnell doesn’t blink. ‘I said, can you tell us about your relationship with Holly Kemp?’
Fellows leans on the kitchen island, cookie in hand. ‘Yeah, see, I heard you the first time, Luigi. Only I didn’t answer because I haven’t got a fucking clue who you’re on about.’
A tinkle from outside. ‘Grandpa, you said “fucking”.’
Fellows laughs. ‘Ears like a bat, that one. Except when you’re saying “bedtime”.’
‘Megan Moore,’ I say, scanning his face for a reaction.
‘Come again?’
‘Maybe you knew Holly Kemp as Megan Moore?’
‘Maybe baby.’
I give him a look that could bore through steel.
‘Oh look, sorry, darling, I’m in a stupid mood today, ignore me. Must be all these e-numbers.’ He takes a bite of cookie. ‘Come on then, what’s this about? What’s this Megan, Holly woman been saying about me? Because if it’s this MeToo crap, just remember I’m a wealthy man and that makes me a target for all sorts.’ I keep my cool, biting down hard. ‘On Kelsey’s life, I’ve never overstepped the mark with a woman, and if you think I’d lie on my own granddaughter’s life, you and me are going to fall out big-style.’
He could be telling a twisted truth, of course. Maybe he never has overstepped the mark, sexually. Or maybe he’s a member of that particular breed of vermin who genuinely thinks violence against their own partner doesn’t count. After all, what’s a throw against a wall or a kick in the stomach when they’re picking up the bill and buying you nice lingerie?
‘Couple of things, Mr Fellows.’ Parnell ignores the ‘Simon’ invite. ‘We’re from Murder, so let me put your mind at rest about any MeToo “crap”, and second, the victim, Holly Kemp, was long dead before that movement hit the headlines. She’s been dead six years. Shot dead. Executed.’
Murder. Dead. Shot. Executed.
Four opportunities for Fellows to show there’s a heart in his chest. He doesn’t. Just keeps munching his cookie, looking mildly curious at best.
I frown. ‘Seriously, you’re telling us the name Holly Kemp doesn’t mean anything at all.’
‘You need to get your ears syringed, darling. I said I don’t have a fucking clue.’ He throws his head back, raising his voice. ‘And yes, Grandpa said “fucking” again, Kels. Don’t tell your mother.’ When he drops his head again, the hundred-watt smile is now a snarl. ‘I can’t be any clearer, really. Her name means nothing. Less than nothing.’
Only that last line sounds personal.
‘It’s just she’s been on the news all week,’ I say, gesturing to a TV quietly playing in the corner. Another weather forecast. A place called Wisley hit thirty-five degrees yesterday, the poor bastards.
‘I don’t watch TV much. I only put it on for missy out there. And I certainly don’t watch the news. I like to keep my worldview more positive.’
‘So you’ve never heard of “The Roommate” case? Several women murdered in Clapham in 2012.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard of it.’ The twitch of his shoulders says, But what’s it got to do with me?
‘We believed Holly Kemp to be one of them, and her remains were found this week in a village in Cambridge-shire,’ explains Parnell. ‘This anomaly and her cause of death means we’re looking into her case again, testing some earlier assumptions.’
‘Not got enough recent murders to keep you busy, huh? No wonder there’s fucking corpses on the streets if you’re raking over years-old cases. Couple of fifteen-year-olds last weekend, wasn’t it? Shocking . . .’
Parnell talks over him. ‘And during the course of our renewed investigation, it’s been suggested to us that you were in a relationship with Holly Kemp.’
‘Suggested by who?’ He stands up, military erect. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know anything about her.’
‘By Holly,’ I say. ‘She gave a detailed account of a four-year relationship, in fact, to a close friend.’