Shed No Tears

by Caz Frear

  Parnell’s leaning against the windowsill, eating a Kit Kat from the vending machine. He was all set to finish Peters’ stone-cold brioche until he saw the look on my face and tossed it in the bin. “But without a bullet to match to a gun,” he argues, “Simon Fellows could have a whole arsenal at his disposal and it still won’t help us.”

  “OK, fair enough, but we’ve got repeated threats to kill made in the months before Holly died. It’s something. It’s a start.”

  “Do we have any eyewitnesses, though?” Steele’s fizz wanes to a slow crackle. “The word of a dead thief—and that’s what Fellows’ brief will say she is—isn’t going to cut it.”

  “There was a New Year’s Eve party.” Parnell’s nodding at the corner of my vision. “It would have been 2011. We can dig into that. Ask around.”

  “Ask him first,” says Steele. “Swaines is getting known addresses now.”

  “How does Spencer Shaw fit into all this, though?” It’s been eating away at me amid all the excitement. “Fellows boots Holly in the stomach for looking at another man, but he’s quite happy for her to live with one?”

  “She’s his regular plaything, not his live-in girlfriend. She’s got to sleep somewhere.” Steele doesn’t sound altogether convinced by her own argument. “Or if he didn’t know about Spencer, that’s one big motive right there.”

  “Or if we’re hopping back to proposition number one, that Masters did kill her,” says Parnell, “it could also explain why she was looking for a new place to live. Maybe Fellows said she had to?”

  Fellows. Shaw. Masters. Accomplices. My head hurts. “So what’s Fellows’ record like?”

  Steele looks at me like I just asked if she’s written to Santa yet. Four-fifths exasperated, one-fifth endeared.

  “What? What did I say?”

  “The Mr. Bigs don’t have records, Cat. Other people get them for them.”

  Parnell cuts in. “Ah, but is Simon Fellows a true Mr. Big, Kate? The real Mr. Bigs are the ones you’ve never heard of. They don’t come up on Google searches and they certainly don’t hitch their wagons to eighteen-year-old trophies.” Steele’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Oh, I’m not saying they don’t sleep with them, but what Holly described to Peters was a relationship. A twisted one, granted.” He shakes his head. “No, the true Mr. Bigs live in respectable, un-showy mansions with their respectable, un-showy wives. They don’t do anything to draw attention to them-selves.”

  Like blackmailing police officers in broad daylight. My mind goes straight to Frank Hickey, the pencil-dick cipher.

  “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 Kit Kat, 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 who 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-story pad on a cobbled mews in Little Venice, just a stone’s throw from the brightly colored 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 humor 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 ri
ngs. 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 toward 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.”

  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 partway through baking 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 house 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 Kit Kat, 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, cozy, 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 I 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 blow job 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 additives.” 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 Cambridgeshire,” 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.”

  “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 toward 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?”