by Greg Keen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2017 Greg Keen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477820186
ISBN-10: 1477820183
Cover design by Leo Nickolls
In loving memory of Gerry Keen 1933–2015
CONTENTS
START READING
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
If you get Sohoitis, you will stay there always, day and night, and get no work done ever. You have been warned . . .
—J. Meary Tambimuttu
ONE
It had been a week since my best friend, Jack Rigatelli, had died and six days since I’d answered my phone. The furthest I’d ventured out was the pharmacy on Wardour Street to cash in my script for the pills Dr Leach had said would lift my mood. They hadn’t kicked in yet, but that was probably because I hadn’t opened the box. Maybe I was too depressed to take my antidepressants.
When the good doctor asked why I felt so down, I kept it brief. I was three years away from turning sixty, had forty-three quid in the bank, and was occasionally employed to find people who would rather not be found. Add to that the recent death of my best friend and it wasn’t a cause for unbridled optimism. She nodded a lot and said something about it being a long wait for cognitive therapy, but that the pills would tide me over. Which raised the question: why wasn’t I taking them?
Part of the answer was the side effects. The official website admitted that night- sweats, insomnia, nausea, dizziness and impaired sexual function would probably come my way. More disturbing was the feedback from user groups. AP from Fort Worth had experienced hallucinations and Bjorn from Osaka had tried to hang himself after only a fortnight on Atriliac.
But you can spend only so much time staring at the ceiling. It was Monday morning. I had a wake to go to and a life to get on with. So when the intercom buzzed, I got off the sofa and picked up the handset. ‘What?’
‘Kenny Gabriel?’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘Come down and I’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me and I might come down.’
‘It’s business.’
‘Did Odeerie Charles send you?’
‘No.’
I felt like telling my mystery caller to sling his hook, but forty-three quid isn’t enough to retire on. ‘Hang on,’ I said, and went downstairs. I opened the door.
Farrelly was standing in front of me.
Things had changed on the Charing Cross Road since I’d last seen Farrelly almost forty years ago. Outlets selling expensive coffee, or snide luggage, had replaced most of the second-hand bookshops, and the Astoria had been demolished to make way for Crossrail.
They say old age is a clever thief. He steals things without you noticing, until there’s nothing left. The same goes for urban development. It seemed like yesterday that Soho was a charming parish boasting peep shows, gambling dens and pubs full of pornographers and poets. Now it was all private members’ clubs and would you like a cinnamon sprinkle on your skinny macchiato, sir?
At least I was travelling in style. The Bentley’s cream leather upholstery was flawless. Its carpet supported my feet like well-nourished turf, and the air in the limousine’s interior had a faintly resinous tang.
‘Why does Frank want to see me?’ I asked Farrelly as we crossed Oxford Street.
‘He’ll tell you.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Can’t you give me a clue?’
The Bentley’s privacy screen rolled up. Farrelly was the same surly bastard he’d always been. The Harrington and jeans had been replaced by a suit and tie. His torso was still a V-shaped wedge of muscle. I wondered if the vein in his forehead was a regular feature, or if it only stood out when he came into contact with me.
Griffin Media was headquartered in an award-winning confection of concrete and glass on Tottenham Court Road. Farrelly drove into an underground car park, came to a halt and released the central locking system. He got out of the car and marched me towards the lift. The seventh-floor suite was discreetly lit and panelled in oak. Half a dozen meticulously pruned bonsai trees formed a guard of honour in the corridor.
Farrelly walked past an unquestioning PA, and rapped on his boss’s door. ‘Come in,’ said a voice I’d last heard on Question Time the previous week.
Attached to the walls in Frank Parr’s office were industry awards and framed covers of his more successful magazines. Half were computer titles, which was where Frank had made his fortune in the early eighties. In later years, he’d diversified into cooking, golf, music, travel and classic cars. Notable by their absence were the covers of the titles he’d published in the seventies and subsequently sold. But they weren’t the kind you put up on the wall. Not the boardroom wall, anyway.
Farrelly waited until his boss looked up from his computer screen before saying, ‘He’s here’, as though I was the bloke who had come to bleed the radiators. He left without waiting to be asked.
‘Good to see you, Kenny,’ Frank said. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Farrelly didn’t give me much choice.’
Frank picked up his phone, pressed a single digit, and said, ‘No calls, Lucy.’ He’d put on weight over the years that not even a three-grand suit could hide. That said, he had a full head of slicked-back hair, a wrinkle-free complexion, and the confident demeanour of the truly minted. We shook hands and he gestured for me to take a seat on a nearby Chesterfield.
‘Scotch?’
‘Irish,’ I said. ‘Bushmills if you’ve got it.’
Frank selected a bottle from the drinks cabinet and poured a generous shot into a chunky tumbler. He uncapped a soda bottle and emptied its contents into another. ‘Ulcer,’ he explained after a rueful smile. ‘Don’t bleedin’ get one.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ I said, taking the whiskey.
Frank settled into the sofa opposite. ‘When was the last time I saw you?’
‘December 2006.’
Frank took a sip of his soda. ‘Seem to recall you were a journalist then.’
I nodded.
‘But now you
’re some kind of private detective?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Legit?’
I nodded again.
‘What d’you do, exactly?’
‘Mostly skip-tracing work for a bloke called Odeerie Charles.’
‘Skip-tracing?’
‘People who’ve done a runner on their gas bill or not returned a hire car.’
‘Didn’t I read about some MP you found . . . ?’
Peter Carlton-Harris had been the Honourable Member for Haversham West. His clothes had been discovered on a Spanish beach with a suicide note. Everyone assumed he was sleeping with the fishes, apart from Mrs Carlton-Harris. Suspecting an affair, she had retained Odeerie to look into things. A fortnight later, I found Carlton-Harris holed up with a parliamentary researcher in a village five miles inland of Barcelona.
His family had holidayed there for the last twenty years. When people run, it’s usually to a place they’re familiar with, so it hadn’t been any great feat of detection. But the high-profile nature of the case meant that my name had made it into the papers and I’d had my fifteen minutes of fame before going back to combing Canvey Island for panel-beaters late with their child support.
‘Is this leading anywhere?’ I asked.
‘I might have a job for you.’
‘I don’t think so, Frank.’
‘My daughter’s missing.’
‘Since when?’
‘Wednesday. At least that’s the last time her mail was picked up and none of the neighbours can remember Harry being around since then.’
‘Harry or Harriet?’
‘She preferred Harry.’
‘What about work?’
‘She runs one of the divisions here. Last time she was in was Tuesday.’
‘Any sign of unhappiness or unusual behaviour?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ Frank said, twiddling one of his monogrammed cufflinks.
‘What do the police think?’
‘I haven’t told them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because all the bastards will do is fall over themselves trying to sell the story.’
‘Young woman goes AWOL for a few days? It’s hardly front-page news.’
Frank fiddled with his links again. It was the nearest I’d ever seen him get to nervous body language.
‘You know I’m bidding for the Post?’ he said.
Everyone knew. There had even been questions in the House about it, most of them along the lines of, ‘Does the Prime Minister think a man of Frank Parr’s doubtful character should be allowed to own a national newspaper?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Pretty well, but let’s just say that there are certain parties who would welcome me dropping out of the deal.’
‘Would Lord Kirkleys be likely to kidnap your daughter to warn you off?’ Kirkleys owned the Post’s competitor, and was Frank’s biggest rival in the bidding war.
‘I’m not talking about people with a direct interest,’ he said. ‘More a political agenda.’
‘You mean like MI5?’
‘You’d be surprised. This Post business has stirred up all kinds of weird shit.’
That the secret service had snatched Harry seemed even less likely than Lord Kirkleys locking her up in his gazebo. Far more probable was that the pressure was sending Frank’s paranoia index surging into the red.
‘Two hundred thousand people are reported missing every year,’ I told him. ‘Virtually all of them turn up after a few days. Harry’s probably just lying in the long grass.’
I was at the end of my Irish, and it was as good an exit line as any. Frank didn’t seem convinced. Despite myself, I started asking the usual questions. ‘Does she live with anyone?’ He shook his head. ‘Have you checked her place?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Diary?’
‘Only her work schedule.’
‘Was she meeting anyone on the day she went missing?’
‘She had lunch with her brother. Roger said she seemed perfectly happy.’
‘What about emails and Twitter?’ He shook his head. ‘Financial problems?’
‘What d’you think?’
‘Pressure at work?’
‘No more than usual.’
‘Emotional issues?’
‘She split up with her husband last year, but it all seemed amicable enough. I don’t think she’s seeing anyone special now.’
The phone rang. Frank looked irritated, but got up and answered it. ‘Lucy, I said no calls,’ he snapped into the receiver. A couple of seconds later he sighed and said, ‘Right, yes, I better had talk to him.’
He made an apologetic sign, and pointed at the drinks cabinet. I poured myself another Irish and checked out the framed magazine covers. Of more interest than the gallery was the conversation Frank was having with his priority caller, someone by the name of Maurice. It revolved around the rumours that, if his bid were successful, he intended to sack half of the Post’s editorial staff and relocate its offices from Kensington to Docklands. From the instructions Frank was giving him, it sounded as though Maurice was some kind of PR adviser charged with denying the accusations levelled against his client. Five minutes after ticking Lucy off, Frank was back on the sofa.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, picking up his soda.
‘Problems?’
‘Someone leaked a confidential document. Maybe I’ll get you in here once you’ve found Harry.’
‘Who said I was looking?’
‘I thought we’d agreed.’
‘If you’re really worried, go to one of the big agencies. With your kind of money they’ll put several people on it and guarantee confidentiality.’
‘You know how many of their guys are ex-cops?’ I shook my head. ‘All of them,’ Frank said. ‘The only people you can trust are friends and family.’
‘How d’you know I won’t go to the papers?’
‘You know how,’ he said quietly.
I felt a jag of pain in my stomach, which could have been my irritable bowel kicking off. Then again, it could have had something to do with the tone in Frank’s voice. Back in the day it hadn’t been wise to refuse him a favour when asked.
‘I’m busy,’ I said, what with it not being back in the day.
‘How much do you usually get paid?’
‘Fifty quid an hour plus expenses.’
‘About five hundred a day, then?’ I nodded, although after Odeerie had taken his cut it was nearer two hundred. ‘I’ll double it,’ Frank said. ‘And a ten-grand bonus if you find her, which, if you’re right, should be a piece of piss.’
Hard cash was the clincher. And to be honest, it was kind of a buzz having Frank come to me for help. What I should have been wondering was why he was hiring someone he hadn’t seen in ten years and who wasn’t exactly at the cutting edge of his profession. It would have saved a hell of a lot of trouble down the line. But then we’ve all got 20/20 hindsight.
‘Have you been in touch with Harry’s friends?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think she had any.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Harry was wrapped up in her work.’
‘Everyone has friends, Frank.’
‘There was one person she kept in touch with from university. Roger called her, but she said that Harry hadn’t called for a couple of months.’
‘I need to have a chat with Roger.’
‘He doesn’t know anything.’
‘All the same . . .’
‘Okay,’ Frank said. ‘Rog works here too. He’s up north on business today. I’ll give you his number and you can see him tomorrow.’
‘What about the husband? You said she was still on good terms with him.’
Frank made a face and said, ‘I don’t want it getting out Harry’s missing, Kenny. That’s why I’m using you.’
‘I’ll be discreet,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have to say something.’
‘Okay, but play it close with Rocco. He’s a bit of a . . . well, you’ll see what he’s like when you meet him.’
I was about to explore this a little more when Frank glanced at his watch. I took the hint. ‘I’ll need at least two recent photographs of Harry, and I’d like to look round her place. Where is it?’
‘Great Russell Street. I’ve already checked the flat out. There’s nothing there.’
Although he was considerably richer than most of my clients, Frank had this in common with them: he liked to tell you not only what was wrong, but also how to put it right.
‘If I’m doing this,’ I told him, ‘then I need a free hand.’
He shrugged and said, ‘Just trying to save you time. An old boy called John Rolfe in the flat opposite’s got the spare key. He hardly goes out, but he’s a bit mutton, so you’ll have to speak up. I’ll have Farrelly drop the photographs off later.’
‘What are you doing with that guy, Frank? You could afford Lewis Hamilton as a chauffeur.’
‘He’s loyal.’
‘He’s psychotic.’
‘In publishing that’s not necessarily a bad skill set.’
‘Still handy with a pair of pliers, is he?’
‘That was a long time ago,’ Frank said softly. ‘We were different people then.’
‘Weren’t we just?’ I said, and downed the rest of my whiskey.
TWO
Frank arranged for me to be issued with a company credit card I could use to draw money from an ATM. He also had five hundred quid raised in cash to cover immediate expenses. In fact, it was all looking pretty good until I emerged from the lift to find Farrelly waiting in reception. He directed me into the post room where a pimply Asian teenager was watching a franking machine whirr through a batch of envelopes.
‘You’re on your break,’ Farrelly told him.
‘Actually I need to get these out by—’
‘I said, you’re on your break, Osama, so fuck off.’
The post boy grabbed his jacket and wisely fucked off.
‘You and me need to talk,’ Farrelly said. ‘Mr Parr’s daughter’s gone missing and he wants you to find her.’
‘I can’t comment on that, Farrelly.’
‘Yes, you fucking well can.’
He poked me in the chest with two granite fingers. I toppled backwards on to a chair and opted to waive client confidentiality.