Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  ‘I’m a busy man.’

  ‘I’d recompense you for your time,’ I said.

  ‘How soon can you get here?’ he asked.

  Seven Dials is the hinterland between Soho and Covent Garden. In the nineteenth century it was the cholera-riddled hangout of thieves and prostitutes. More recently it’s been given a double-coat of trendy with the money brush. Streets that, in the seventies, you’d have thought twice about walking down after dark now feature bespoke jewellery shops by women called Suki, and three-hundred-quid-a-night boutique hotels.

  Rocco lived in a building sandwiched between a shop called Esoterica, which sold new-age bullshit to the terminally credulous, and a designer-fashion outlet that did much the same thing. I pressed the entrance buzzer and was instructed to come to the first floor. The apartment door was ajar. I knocked and was told to enter.

  The flat’s interior smelled of stale sweat and monosodium glutamate. Strewn over the carpet were discarded clothes and empty fast-food cartons. Keeping them company were ageing utility bills and discarded lager cans. If a couple of cleaners armed to the teeth had gone to work, it would have been a nice apartment. Eventually.

  Rocco was sitting on a leather sofa wearing black jockey shorts and a Stetson. He looked like a guy whose gym membership had lapsed the previous year. His pecs needed a training bra and his gut seeped like jelly from a dodgy mould. He had a Zippo in one hand and a spliff in the other.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You look rough.’

  ‘I had a late night.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Rocco said, brandishing the spliff. ‘This’ll do us both a favour.’

  I removed a week-old copy of Metro from a chair and sat down. The coffee table had a film of white dust that I guessed wasn’t Pledge residue. Rocco sparked the spliff up and inhaled deeply before extending it to me.

  ‘Bit early,’ I said.

  ‘Got vodka, if you fancy it.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He settled back on the sofa, contemplated the ceiling for a bit, and said, ‘I dropped six hundred quid last night.’

  ‘Nightmare.’

  ‘Wrong way to look at it.’ Rocco took another draw and held the smoke inside his chest. ‘Know much about poker?’ he asked, exhaling.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Rule one: don’t get emotional. Not about money or anything else.’

  ‘What’s rule two?’

  ‘Play the man, not the cards.’

  ‘Think I’ve heard that one.’

  Rocco smiled. ‘Easy to say; hard to do.’

  The weed was clearly weaving its magic, and while it may not have been doing much for my pleasure centres, it made the room smell marginally better.

  ‘Where d’you play?’ I asked.

  ‘Snake Pit on City Road.’

  ‘Are you a pro?’

  ‘Always.’

  I was about to ask how it was going, and then thought better of it. I may have known fuck-all about poker, but was pretty sure Amarillo Slim didn’t dry his pants on the radiator.

  ‘What’s happened to H, then?’ Rocco said, slurring his words slightly.

  ‘Probably nothing. You know what fathers are like.’

  ‘Frank never liked me much.’ Rocco changed position on the sofa. A testicle peeped out from the side of his pants.

  ‘Can’t imagine why,’ I said.

  ‘Because no one’s good enough for his precious daughter,’ Rocco said, adding, ‘And because he’s a tosser’, in case I hadn’t fully got the picture.

  ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘We still are.’

  ‘But you’re separated?’ He nodded. ‘Why d’you split up?’

  ‘What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Just trying to get some background.’

  ‘You don’t look much like a private eye.’

  ‘That’s because I’m a skip-tracer.’

  Zero interest from Rocco as to the difference. ‘D’you really want to know why me and H broke up?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Promise not to tell Frank?’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘I’m not really her type.’

  ‘I don’t think that would bother him much.’

  ‘It might if he knew why. H doesn’t like men.’

  ‘She’s gay?’

  ‘Got it in one, Sherlock. Frank kept asking why she never had any boyfriends. H produced me to put him off the scent.’

  ‘Getting married was a bit drastic, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was an impulse thing. And it wasn’t as though we didn’t get on well.’

  ‘You just didn’t have sex?’

  Rocco adjusted the roach on his spliff. ‘Yes and no,’ he said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We met at a fetish club.’

  ‘Harry was into that?’

  ‘Does Popeye like spinach?’

  ‘Which club did she use?’

  ‘Most of ’em.’

  ‘Didn’t she prefer to go with a woman?’

  ‘Guys were cool too. It was more a dominance thing.’

  ‘What was Harry’s relationship like with her father?’

  ‘Depends which way the wind was blowing. Some days great, other days they’d have fucking huge barneys.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Work, usually. Harry had a lot of ideas about how the company should be run, but Frank wasn’t having any of it. He’s very conservative about business.’

  ‘Who usually backed down?’ I asked.

  ‘H. She couldn’t bear to piss him off for too long.’

  ‘She married you, didn’t she?’

  ‘Frank was all for that at the time. It was only afterwards he got the hump.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Harry?’

  ‘Few weeks ago.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Happy.’

  ‘Any reason why?’

  ‘Didn’t you mention something about payment?’ Rocco asked. I produced a fifty and handed it over. ‘That all?’

  ‘Unless there’s something else you’ve got to tell me . . .’

  I watched the struggle between loyalty and greed play out on Rocco’s face. Greed won out, as it usually does.

  ‘She’d got a new girlfriend. Two hundred quid if you want her name – and it’s a pretty famous one.’

  ‘How famous?’

  Rocco took off his hat and held it out. I peeled off another four notes and dropped them in the Stetson.

  ‘Dervla Bishop,’ he said.

  ‘The artist?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive.’ Rocco scooped the notes out of the hat and replaced it on his head. ‘H didn’t want it known.’

  ‘In case Frank found out?’

  ‘S’pose.’

  ‘How come you and he fell out?’

  ‘I asked him if he’d lend me some cash to buy a share in the Pit.’

  ‘He wasn’t keen?’

  ‘Told me if it was such a good deal then I’d have no trouble raising it from the bank. Like that’s going to happen with my credit record.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have used this place as security?’

  ‘It’s rented. I’m moving out in a couple of weeks. The landlord’s a twat.’

  ‘Is this where you and Harry lived when you were married?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, Frank bought us a house in the country. He had this idea we were gonna knock out a couple of sprogs and he could come up for Sunday lunches.’

  ‘Did Harry sell the house?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Has she been there since you broke up?’

  ‘Why would she? It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere. H is a city girl. Just goes to show how well her old man knew her.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got the keys?’ I asked.

  ‘I do, as it happens,’ Rocco said. ‘But if you think H is there then you’re barking up t
he wrong stick of rhubarb. She hated the place even more than I did.’

  ‘All the same,’ I said. Rocco took off his Stetson and held it out again.

  ‘A ton gets you the address.’

  ‘I can get it from Frank for nothing.’

  ‘Maybe, but he won’t know the alarm code.’

  Reluctantly I placed another couple of fifties into the hat. Rocco dropped what was left of his spliff into what was left of a cup of coffee and departed from the room. I heard a couple of drawers being opened and closed. Then Prince Charming returned.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, throwing a key ring towards me. ‘The one with the yellow cap opens the front door. The code’s four zeros.’

  ‘And the address?’

  ‘Fairview Lodge, Church Lane, Matcham.’

  ‘Postcode?’

  ‘Haven’t a Scooby but you can’t miss it. Place looks like it’s a thousand years old.’

  ‘I’ll return the keys as soon as I can.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Rocco replied. ‘Give ’em to Frank and tell him I was asking after him . . . Not.’

  ‘You know last night when you were playing cards?’ I said, getting to my feet.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Who was the mug?’

  ‘Dunno what you mean.’

  ‘Rule number three, Rocco.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If you can’t spot the mug, then it’s probably you.’

  SIX

  Odeerie Charles hadn’t left his flat since his wife ran off with her Pilates teacher nine years ago. Everything needed to maintain Odeerie’s twenty-stone physique was ordered through the web. The same source was used to acquire the cash to pay for it.

  Ninety per cent of skip-tracing is done by trawling through databases and searching records. Lots of this is available free, some of it is pay-to-view, and some of it you just shouldn’t be looking at unless you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, and probably not even then. For the right price, Odeerie checks out all sources on a client’s behalf. The one thing he doesn’t do is house calls – that’s where I come in.

  The great man lives and works in an Edwardian mansion block on Meard Street. A juddery lift took me from the lobby to the second floor. The final movement of the Jupiter Symphony was audible through the door of flat 4. Despite looking like B.B. King, Odeerie prefers his music from the classical canon. I rang the bell and a few seconds later he answered, wearing a baggy grey tracksuit and tartan slippers.

  ‘Hallelujah! I’ve left about forty messages for you, Kenny.’

  ‘I have been grieving.’

  Odeerie purged the mordant tone from his voice. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry about Jack,’ he said. ‘But I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got a gig for you.’

  ‘Can’t do it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m busy with something else.’

  ‘If you’re doing away jobs, then I’m going to have to review our contract.’

  ‘What contract?’

  ‘Verbal agreement, then.’

  ‘There might be a few quid in it for you.’

  Odeerie performed a one-eighty turn and shuffled down the corridor. His office was in a converted second bedroom. Three screens on as many desks fed into a stack in the corner that an electric fan kept cool. The ticking of an oversized wall clock competed with the whirring blades and a shelf of books contained information that couldn’t be accessed online. He turned off the music and indicated that I should sit on a corduroy sofa while he perched on one of the chairs.

  ‘So, what’s so important that you’re refusing work from your regular employer?’

  ‘Someone’s daughter’s gone walkabout.’

  ‘You didn’t think to put it through the company?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Odeerie, you’re going to get a slice of the action anyway.’

  ‘That depends on what you want.’

  ‘Last five transactions on a card.’ I handed Harry’s statement over. Odeerie squinted at the logo.

  ‘Money would have to change hands.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Four grand.’

  ‘Christ, all you have to do is press a couple of buttons.’

  ‘What I have to do is bribe someone. You can’t hack credit card accounts, for fuck’s sake. They’ve got tighter security than the Pentagon.’

  ‘When could you have it by?’

  Odeerie’s head jerked up and I cursed myself for not haggling. He’d only asked for four thousand because he was pissed off I hadn’t referred the work.

  ‘Who’s Ms Harriet K. Parr, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Daughter of an old acquaintance.’

  ‘Most of the losers you know haven’t got a pot to piss in.’

  Odeerie would find out who Harry’s father was regardless. And I knew that I could rely on him to keep schtum.

  ‘Frank Parr,’ I said.

  ‘As in the media magnate?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And he’s a mate of yours?’

  ‘Used to be.’

  ‘When’s the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Nearly ten years ago.’

  Odeerie realigned his voluminous buttocks on the chair. ‘So a millionaire you haven’t seen in a decade gets in touch because his daughter’s been missing for . . . ?’

  ‘Five or six days.’

  ‘And you don’t think that’s odd?’

  ‘He’s got his reasons.’

  ‘How much is he paying you?’

  ‘Washers. I’m doing it for old times’ sake.’

  ‘How well d’you know him?’

  I provided Odeerie with a synopsis of how I’d worked for Frank in the Galaxy, leaving out how and why we’d parted company.

  ‘Thought Frank Parr used to be in porn,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that why everyone’s so uptight about him buying the Post?’

  ‘The club was his old man’s. Frank kept it going for sentimental reasons.’

  ‘And because it was useful to recycle the dough from the movies and the mags?’

  ‘Maybe. I just ran the bar and the restaurant for him.’

  ‘Weren’t you a bit young for that?’

  ‘I was a quick learner,’ I said, and before he could get in another question I asked, ‘So when can you have the information by?’

  Odeerie pursed his lips. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime, maybe.’

  ‘Okay, but any sooner and you’ll let me know?’

  ‘What about this other job? If you can’t guarantee to be on it by Thursday, I really will have to farm it out to someone else.’

  ‘Thursday’s fine.’

  The fat man grunted and scratched an armpit. ‘Anything else I can do for you? Only I’ve got a pizza arriving in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind doing a quick search on one of your computers.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Nothing iffy. I want to google Dervla Bishop.’

  ‘The pubes woman?’ Odeerie asked.

  ‘Or award-winning artist, as she’s also known,’ I said.

  Dervla Bishop was the doyenne of the new wave of British artists, according to the Guardian. The Mail considered her an affront to common decency and a talentless charlatan. Much depended on whether you felt that a sampler woven from the pubic hair of pensioners constituted a bona fide commentary on old age. Personally I’d prefer a Canaletto on my sitting room wall, but what do I know?

  Indisputable was that, by her mid-thirties, Dervla’s work regularly commanded six figures at auction and a couple of pieces were on permanent display at Tate Modern. The pubic rugs were the most heavily featured pieces on Google Images. A close second was the painting that had won the McClellan Prize and propelled her to fame just after she had left Saint Martin’s. In the picture a sleeping woman’s mascara was smudged and a trail of drool emerged from her scarlet mouth on to a grimy pillow. The child lying next to her was staring at the ceiling with eyes that had seen too much already and knew more wa
s on the way. You could almost smell the damp and desolation in the room.

  Dervla should have taken the award for imagination alone. Her father was a prosperous businessman and she’d been privately educated before going to art college. But then I guess Mother and Daughter with Pippin the Pony was never going to win the McClellan. Not unless they were giving him a blowjob.

  The rest of Dervla’s Wikipedia entry revealed her to be thirty-seven and single. I couldn’t find anything about a regular partner, but Dervla wasn’t coy about her sexuality. There were pictures of her with various girlfriends attending movie premieres, charity benefits and other celebrity hoedowns.

  None of them was Harry Parr.

  Three years ago, Dervla had been busted for heroin possession. The judge made rehab a prerequisite to avoiding prison. The most recent pictures featured a young woman who looked a whole lot healthier than she had pre-trial.

  I rang the number for Dervla’s agent, who was listed as Sheridan Talbot-White. ‘STW Management,’ a female voice said.

  ‘Sheridan, please,’ I said breezily. ‘It’s Kenny calling. He’ll know what it’s about.’

  ‘One moment,’ the woman replied. A few seconds later, her boss came on the line.

  ‘Sheridan speaking,’ he said a little uncertainly.

  ‘Hello, Mr Talbot-White. My name’s Kenny Gabriel. I’d like to arrange an interview with Dervla Bishop.’

  ‘Which paper are you from?’

  ‘I’m not attached to a specific title.’

  ‘Dervla isn’t giving interviews at the moment,’ Sheridan said. ‘But if you’d like to—’

  ‘I need to talk to her about Harry Parr.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘It’s a she. Could you make sure Dervla gets my message?’

  Sheridan probably wasn’t used to taking orders, although it sounded as though he was jotting down my name and number.

  ‘Harry Parr, you said.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ll make sure Dervla receives your message, but as I said, she isn’t talking to the press right now.’

  ‘I’m not a reporter.’

  ‘Then why do you want—’

  ‘Thanks, Sheridan,’ I said, and rang off.

  SEVEN

  I said goodbye to Odeerie and took a taxi to Griffin’s offices. What with chucking money at people like confetti, and taking cabs hither and thither, I was becoming accustomed to being bankrolled by a man with bottomless pockets. Not that it would last. In a couple of days I’d be back to using an Oyster card and Shanks’s pony.