‘Well then, correction, I do know one thing about this Holly Kemp. I know she’s a fucking liar!’ He pauses for a second, head tilting. ‘Was she a dancer, by any chance? And I don’t mean quickstep, foxtrot. Did she know her way around a pole?’
‘Why do you ask?’
He runs a hand over his slicked-back hair; blue-black, a definite dye job. ‘Well, I still had the clubs back then, and you smile at a dancer for more than a second, buy them a drink after a shift, and they think you’re engaged, think they’ve got their meal ticket.’
‘Oh, it was a bit more than that,’ says Parnell, hopping up on a bar stool, uninvited. I’m not sure if it’s a chess move or if his knees are playing him up. Either way, I join him. ‘Holly Kemp gave an account of a relationship that started when she was eighteen, which would have been in 2008, and which was still continuing shortly before she died.’
‘It wasn’t the most flattering account either,’ I tell him. ‘She said you were abusive towards her, that you threatened to kill her on several occasions if she ever left you. She was terrified of you.’
‘And if she was still around now, she’d have every right to be. I don’t like people spreading lies about me.’ His dark eyes glitter. He knows we know what happens to people who cross him. ‘You got a photo of this fruitcake then?’
I bring Holly up on my phone. Fellows walks around the island and stands behind me, leaning in closer than he needs to; so close I can smell the sticker adhesive on his cheek. There’s a long pause before he speaks – the kettle coming to the boil, Kelsey singing a song about five little monkeys outside. ‘No, can’t help, I’m afraid. Don’t recognise her.’
‘Why the hesitation?’
‘I see a lot of her kind, just wanted to be sure.’
Parnell swivels his stool to face him. ‘You know we’ll be showing Holly’s photo to everyone in your circle, Mr Fellows, and I don’t just mean the people who sent us on a wild goose chase around London this morning.’
I have to ask, ‘Were you here the whole time this morning, Simon, hiding behind an old biddy? What was she going to do? Attack us with the mop if we tried to come in?’
He laughs. ‘I wouldn’t let Alma hear you call her that! Sharp as a tiger’s tooth, that one. I bought her a gym membership last Christmas – she’s there at 6 a.m. every morning when you’re still hitting snooze, darling.’
‘You’re a good employer,’ says Parnell, eyes steady on his. ‘But you’ve made plenty of enemies who I dare say will be happy to help us. And then there’s your neighbours, the restaurants you frequented, the pubs you drank in. If anyone so much as saw Holly Kemp within a hundred feet of you, we’ll be back, and we’ll be drawing conclusions about why you lied about knowing her.’
‘Be my guest. I can make a list if that makes your lives easier.’
‘No need,’ says Parnell. ‘We can access plenty of information about you.’
A small bow. ‘I’m honoured.’
Kelsey skips in, smearing dry mud and twigs all over Alma’s recently washed floor. There isn’t a trace of Fellows in her. Pale and white blonde, blue veins shining through, like a sprite from a Scandi fairy tale. Her grandfather scoops her up with one deeply tanned arm.
‘Ever spent much time in Cambridgeshire, Simon?’ I spot a missed call from Jacqui as I slide my phone back in my pocket.
Fellows pretends to spit on the floor. ‘Sorry, just a little joke. I was an Oxford man. Keble College. We’re trained to hiss at the C word.’
‘You had a privileged start in life,’ says Parnell. ‘You could have done anything and yet . . .’ He leaves it there. Alleged, alleged, alleged.
Fellows looks around, smiling. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ve done too badly, do you?’
‘Let me give you a more specific C word,’ I interrupt, before Parnell makes an accusation that ties him up in paperwork until Christmas. ‘Caxton. It’s South Cambridgeshire, around forty miles from the university. Do you know it?’
‘No.’
‘You’re quite sure.’
‘Quite sure.’ He looks at Kelsey. ‘I’m not being much help to these nice people, am I, baby? But Grandpa’s trying. You should always try to help the police.’
‘Good of you, Mr Fellows. Maybe you can help by telling us where you were on the afternoon and evening of Thursday 23rd February, 2012? That’s the last time Holly Kemp was seen alive.’
It’s a question we have to ask but pretty pointless all the same. There’s a vague expectation that most people should be able to recall their movements over the past month or so without too much fluster. Anything beyond that, a blank face is the norm. Six years later – forget about it.
But Fellows’ face isn’t blank.
‘I can tell you exactly where I was. Street opened that day, I was there for most of it.’ We wait for an explanation. ‘Contrary to popular myth, I’m a legitimate businessman, Luigi. An investor. Street was a Peruvian-themed place over in Hoxton. The idea of street food was still up-and-coming then. Thought we’d catch the wave, make a fortune. It didn’t work out. We got the concept all wrong, tried to make it a fine dining experience. Turns out people don’t want to pay fine dining prices for food you’d normally buy off a market stall. We closed in 2014. You live and learn.’
We. As if he was choosing the colour scheme, curating the menu, rather than using the place to launder drug money.
‘You’ve got a good memory,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t tell you what I was doing on 23rd February this year.’
He shrugs. ‘Street was the first restaurant I invested in. My baby. I’m into double figures now. Much less hassle than the clubs, I’ll tell you. As a product, food’s a lot less stressful than women.’
He grins. I grin back. I won’t let him faze me.
‘What about New Year’s Eve 2011?’ I think about mentioning Holly’s allegation, but let’s see what he has to say first. ‘Can you remember where you were?’
‘Bantry Bay, Cape Town. Why?’
‘Quick on the draw again,’ says Parnell.
‘It was a friend’s sixtieth. An amazing night. Stays in the memory, you know? Do you want to see my passport stamp?’
‘Did you travel to Cape Town alone?’ I ask.
He lets out a sigh; not stressed, just bored. ‘If you mean did I travel to Cape Town with the woman I’ve told you I never met, then no, I didn’t.’
Parnell looks at me, then lowers his eyes. A sign we should keep our counsel. We need to figure this out first. Why wouldn’t Holly have mentioned Cape Town to Dale Peters? Why would she leave that significant detail out?
I keep my voice neutral. ‘So come on then, Simon. Give us a theory. Why do you think Holly Kemp, a supposed complete stranger, would fabricate an entire relationship? And why you?’
‘Mad as a March hare, obviously. Not right in the head.’
He draws two fingers to his temple, making the tiniest of circular motions before jerking them skywards with a cold, sharp laugh.
The universal cuckoo sign, the twirl of his fingers indicating that Holly had a screw loose?