It was turning out not to be her lucky day. Tommy Kerrigan was the only one in the cramped office at the back. The Stan Laurel of the two. She had hoped it might be his brother Timmy, who, though much larger and thereby taking up more valuable office space, was marginally more pleasant. At least he was civil and didn’t give her the creeps the way the long, lugubrious pasty-faced Tommy did, with his milky eye and all. He looked like a cross between a funeral director and a vampire, and though nothing serious had ever been proven against him, he was known to have psychopathic tendencies. He also suffered from halitosis, which was definitely a minus in such a confined space.
There was room for one small chair on the opposite side of his desk, and Annie shifted some papers and sat down.
‘Well, well, look what the cat’s dragged in,’ Tommy said. ‘Detective Sergeant Annie Cabbot. We’ll have to stop meeting like this or people will talk.’
‘Detective Inspector,’ Annie corrected him. Even his voice was annoying, Annie remembered. An affected southern drawl with a nasal edge of Geordie.
‘Well, pardonnez-moi.’
‘You should do something about your clientele,’ Annie said. ‘They’re an ignorant bunch of yobs out there, feeding their faces and insulting your visitors.’
‘They’re not supposed to bring food in the arcade,’ said Tommy. ‘There’s a sign. But what can you do? I’m short-staffed.’
‘How’s business?’
‘Fair to middling. Not that it would interest you much.’
‘Club running OK?’ The Kerrigans also owned The Vaults, Eastvale’s only nightclub, on the opposite side of the market square.
‘Like a dream. Pleased as I am to see you again, Inspector, I’m a busy man, so if you could—’
But Annie beat him to it and slid the enhanced image of the young girl across the desk. ‘Recognise her?’ she asked.
Kerrigan examined the photograph and passed it back to her. ‘Should I? It’s not very good, is it? I mean, I probably wouldn’t even recognise my own daughter from that.’
‘What daughter’s that?’
‘Figure of speech.’
‘So the answer’s no?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Only she was present at one of Connor Blaydon’s parties that we know of, the one on 13 April, and we know you and your brother were also there.’
‘We did business with Connor, as I’ve told you. It’s only natural we’d socialise once in a while.’
‘The party looked like fun. I saw you and your brother in some poolside snapshots. There were home movies, too, shot secretly in some of the bedrooms.’
A flicker of alarm crossed Kerrigan’s features. ‘What movies?’
‘Oh, you didn’t know? Seems your business colleague’s butler, Neville Roberts, liked to film Blaydon’s guests having a good time. Too good a time, in some cases, if you know what I mean. And you should tell your brother about those thong swimming trunks. Nasty. Constitute a public menace, they do.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ Kerrigan said, ‘but even if we were photographed, unbeknownst to us and against our will, we did nothing wrong.’
‘Unbeknownst, eh? That’s a long word. Don’t worry, you don’t feature in any of the videos, unless you’ve already paid Roberts off for one. But you were there. Did Neville Roberts ever attempt to blackmail you? Did he have any video recordings to sell to you?’
‘Blackmail? About what?’
‘Those trunks of your brother’s, for a start. And the drugs.’
‘What drugs?’
‘Or maybe you were in bed with an archbishop?’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Never mind. Back to the photo.’
Kerrigan glanced at the image again and passed it back. ‘I still don’t recognise her.’
‘Never seen her in here, or the club?’
‘No.’
‘Are you also sure you never saw her or anyone like her at Blaydon’s parties?’
‘There were always plenty of girls around. But not like her.’
‘So you can tell something about her from the photo?’
‘Enough to know that if I’d seen anyone vaguely resembling her, I’d remember, and I haven’t. Most of the girls were... well, models or escort types... if you know what I mean.’ He sketched an hourglass figure in the air. ‘Shapely. Curvy. Definitely enhanced, in some cases, if not naturally well-endowed. This girl looks quite natural. You can tell that much even from this photo. So if that’s all...’
‘Not quite, Tommy. How young were the girls at these parties?’
‘You’ve seen the videos, so you should know.’
‘Humour me.’
‘They were all over the age of consent, if that’s what you’re getting at. Mostly in their twenties, I’d guess.’
‘Check their birth certificates, did you?’
Kerrigan gave her a look. ‘Oh, come off it. It was obvious. They weren’t kids. Most of the girls were strippers and tarts, like, with big tits and legs up to here.’ He lifted his arm. ‘All right if you like that sort of thing, I suppose.’
Annie knew that Tommy didn’t; he preferred young men, rough trade, if available. ‘Heard of a woman called Charlotte Westlake?’
‘Course I have,’ he said. ‘Charlie. She’s Connor’s personal assistant. Or she was. Took care of pretty much everything on the business side. Ran errands, organised events, booked entertainers. “Indispensable,” he used to say about her. But she hasn’t been around for a while.’
‘Was there anything of a romantic nature between them?’
‘Not that I ever noticed. But you never knew with Connor. I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He played his cards close to his chest. Especially when it came to his private life. I couldn’t even tell you which side he played for, if you follow my drift.’
‘Is she married, this Charlotte Westlake?’
‘Dunno. Never saw a husband around, at any rate.’
‘Was she involved in any of the action?’
‘Charlie? You must be joking. A bit of posh was our Charlotte, don’t you know. Cheltenham Ladies College and so on. Didn’t even like you calling her Charlie to her face.’
‘What about Neville Roberts?’
‘What about him?’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘To tell the truth, I always found him a bit creepy. You know, sly, shifty.’
Pot and kettle, thought Annie. ‘Go on.’
‘What’s to say? Connor swore by him.’ Tommy scratched his nose. ‘I reckon he was a bit of a snob, Connor was. Liked the idea of having a butler, you know. Someone to keep the Aga burning. Though Roberts wasn’t really a butler, more of a factotum.’
‘Factotum,’ Annie repeated. ‘Good one, that, Tommy. Your command of the English language is definitely improving.’
‘Fuck off.’
Annie stood up. The halitosis was getting to her. ‘Turns out Mr. Roberts was quite the expert in audio and video surveillance. As I said, he had a nice little sideline in filming Blaydon’s married or respectable guests doing the naughty. Know anything about that?’
‘No. But I’ll tell you something for nothing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘One or two of these “respectable” guests, if they found out they’d been secretly filmed, well, let’s just say I wouldn’t give tuppence for Roberts’s chances.’