Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  My morning’s work hadn’t suggested that anything sinister had happened to Harry, although I’d be interested to hear what Roger Parr had to say. According to LinkedIn, Roger occupied a lower tier in Griffin’s hierarchy than his sister. Sibling rivalry is a powerful emotion and there might be a thing or two he’d like to get off his chest.

  I checked my texts and found one from Stephie. Underneath the letters FYI was a link to a lettings site. A series of images began with a shot of a brownstone building. The next was of a living room that featured exposed brickwork and original oak ceiling beams. Then a bathroom that would have graced a decent hotel and a kitchen gleaming with brushed aluminium and stainless steel. Sunlight poured into each bedroom courtesy of high windows that looked on to a twinkling canal basin.

  Although I hadn’t expected Stephie to rent a slum until she found somewhere to live in Manchester, this exceeded my expectations by a country mile. By the time we pulled up outside Griffin’s offices, I still hadn’t thought of a suitable response.

  Roger’s PA met me in reception and escorted me to the second floor. Several dozen people – not many over thirty – were talking into headsets, or staring blankly at computer screens. In the centre of the room stood an office with glass walls. My guide tapped on the door and was told to enter by a light baritone voice. She pushed it open and gave me my first proper sight of her boss.

  The picture on Roger’s LinkedIn profile was of a guy in his mid-thirties with a square jaw and side-parted blonde hair. Unusually, it bore a passing resemblance to its subject. In person, Roger was about six-two. He wore a double-cuffed shirt, braces and a woven silk tie. We shook hands, and he offered me a coffee. I politely declined.

  ‘Can you hold my calls for the next half-hour, Flora?’ He looked to me for confirmation that we wouldn’t need longer.

  ‘Half an hour will be fine,’ I said.

  Flora turned on an elegant ankle and left the office. I occupied one of two chairs that stood in front of Roger’s desk. On a shelf were a dozen golf trophies and the walls were studded with pictures of Rog and various B-list celebrities. Some had been taken on the first tee at tournaments. Others were from awards dos or similar.

  ‘Quite a collection,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, those,’ Roger replied, as though he hadn’t noticed the silverware in a long time. ‘I keep meaning to take them down.’

  ‘You must have been pretty good.’

  ‘Scratch for a couple of years.’

  ‘Ever think of turning pro?’

  ‘Dad made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, and ninety-five per cent of professionals never really crack it.’

  ‘Nice to try, though.’

  ‘I’m happy doing what I’m doing,’ Roger leant on his desk and took a surreptitious peek at his Rolex. ‘Speaking of which, what can I do for you, Kenny?’

  ‘Did your father fill you in on why I’m here?’

  ‘You’re a private detective he’s hired to look for Harry?’

  ‘More or less,’ I said.

  ‘And you want me to answer a few questions.’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Your father said you had lunch together the last day she was in the office.’

  ‘That’s right. Harry and I rarely see each other, so we try to make time once a month for a natter and a catch up.’

  ‘You’re not close?’

  ‘It’s not so much that as we have different lifestyles.’

  Roger’s eyes strayed to the only picture in the office that didn’t show him hanging with the quality. It was of a girl around eight who would probably blossom into a woman as beautiful as the one holding her.

  ‘I’m a family man,’ he said. ‘Harry spends most of her time working.’

  ‘Being MD must be a big responsibility.’

  I’d lobbed this into the conversation to see if it created any waves. There was barely a ripple on Roger’s face.

  ‘Very,’ he said. ‘I’m happier taking a back seat.’

  ‘How would you describe her mood at lunch?’

  ‘Has Dad told you anything?’

  ‘About what?’

  Roger leant back in his chair and stared at the Newton’s cradle on his desk. He was trying to make his mind up whether to share something. Or at least that was the impression he wanted to give. The silence ended in a heartfelt sigh. ‘Dad and Harry were usually pretty feisty with each other about how the business should be run. That morning, they’d had a real showdown.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Dad’s trying to buy the Post. It’s costing a fortune and Harry’s dead against it. She thinks it’s a vanity project. Things got pretty heated, apparently.’

  ‘Your sister was upset?’

  ‘Furious.’

  ‘Did this happen often?’

  ‘Fairly often, although I think this one was off the Richter scale. Harry and Dad both have a hell of a temper.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she said anything about taking time off?’

  ‘No, but I bet that’s what’s happened. Last time they had a bust-up, Harry spent a week in Paris.’

  ‘D’you know which hotel?’

  ‘I’ve checked. She’s not there.’

  ‘But you think Paris might be where she’s gone?’

  ‘It’s possible. I love my little sis, but if she’s got her faults then one of them is flying off the handle. The other’s a tendency to sulk.’

  ‘So, your dad’s worrying about nothing?’

  ‘I think Harry’s making a point and he’s feeling a bit guilty. That’s why he got in touch with you. You used to know each other years ago, apparently . . .’

  Roger’s turn to do some fishing.

  ‘I spoke to Rocco Holtby this morning,’ I said. ‘He seems to be of the same opinion as you.’

  ‘That Harry’s lying in the long grass?’ I nodded. ‘Well, Rocco and I probably don’t agree on much, but there’s a first for everything.’

  ‘He’s a colourful character.’

  Roger grunted. ‘You mean he’s a total arse.’

  ‘Did Harry have many boyfriends before him?’ I asked.

  Roger squinted at me as though I were a borderline candidate for a job on one of his telesales teams. ‘Somehow I think you already know the answer to that question.’

  ‘How long have you known Harry’s gay?’ I asked, hoping to God he did.

  ‘As long as I can remember. It’s not something she ever made a big declaration about. We both just knew that was how it was.’

  ‘How about other people?’

  ‘Harry wasn’t out, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Did she talk about specific girlfriends?’

  ‘God, no.’

  ‘And Rocco? Why did she choose him?’

  ‘My theory is that Harry married the biggest tosser she knew. Then Dad would see the error of his ways and stop banging on about marriage.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘It sounds crazy, but you don’t know my sister. If she wants to teach you a lesson, she teaches you a lesson.’

  ‘It’ll cost a few quid when they divorce.’

  ‘They were only married six months. And Rocco’s the kind of guy that if you wave twenty grand under his nose then he’ll grab it rather than wait a year for a settlement to come through.’

  I suspected that Roger was overestimating the amount of cash it would take to get Rocco to walk away. He gave a slightly less surreptitious glance at his watch.

  ‘Just one more question,’ I said. ‘Does Harry have any friends she might have confided in?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Anyone here?’

  ‘I’d be amazed if there was. Although I didn’t really know much about her personal life, so I could be wrong about that.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ I said, getting to my feet.

  ‘No problem. Trust me, it’s only a matter of time before Harry surfaces. Hopefully you’ll be
able to speed up the process, though.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘Where did you have lunch, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘Cube in the Fitzrovia Townhouse Hotel.’

  ‘Did Harry go there often?’ I asked.

  ‘It was her favourite restaurant.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll check it out.’

  ‘Really?’ Roger said. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Your sister may have been there recently. If she has, then we know she’s still in the country, at least.’ Roger frowned. ‘One of the waiters might recognise her,’ I added. ‘It’s worth a shot.’

  ‘Really? Have you ever been to Cube?’

  ‘Bit out of my price range.’

  ‘Well, it’s big and it gets bloody busy.’

  ‘No harm checking it out.’

  Roger’s lips tightened and I thought he was about to further dispute the wisdom of this. Then he exhaled heavily and held up his hands. ‘You’re the expert, Kenny. The most important thing is that we find Harry and my dad gets back to focusing on the Post.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Is he in the building today?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Roger said. ‘Would you like a word with him?’

  ‘A word would be good,’ I replied.

  EIGHT

  I took the lift to the seventh floor and marched straight into Frank’s office. Two guys were with him. One was in his late sixties with slicked-back grey hair and perma-tanned features. His colleague was younger, paler and as bald as a cue ball.

  ‘Hello, Kenny,’ Frank said. ‘Any chance you could give us a few minutes?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘This can’t wait.’

  Frank asked his visitors if they’d mind taking a break. On his way out, Cue Ball gave me a sideways glance, no doubt wondering who I was that I could demand the great Frank Parr’s time at such short notice.

  ‘What is it?’ Frank asked after the door had closed.

  I dispensed with the preliminaries and got right down to it. ‘Just before she went missing, you and Harry had a massive set-to.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Never mind who told me. It’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘We had a difference of opinion, but that’s—’

  ‘And the last time the pair of you went at it, she buggered off to Paris for a week.’

  ‘She isn’t there now.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘I found her passport.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell me that?’

  ‘Harry didn’t go on holiday, Kenny. She’d been in a peculiar mood for a couple of weeks. It was as though she was worried about something.’

  ‘Yeah, you fucking the company over by buying the Post.’

  ‘You got that from Roger?’

  ‘He mentioned Harry had her concerns.’

  ‘Papers lose money but they buy influence. Harry’s great at making a balance sheet add up, although she doesn’t always understand the long game.’

  ‘Is that what you told her?’

  Frank went to the drinks cabinet and flung its doors open. He grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose by the neck, as though intending to strangle it. ‘Want one?’

  ‘What about your ulcer?’

  ‘Fuck my ulcer.’ He poured a hefty shot into a tumbler and held the bottle up.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Scotch?’ I shook my head. ‘Please yourself.’ Frank took a hit on his drink. I could tell it had been a while. ‘Look, I tried to dress things up a bit because I thought you might not take the job if I didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘Why did you want me to take it at all? And I want the truth, Frank.’

  He turned from the cabinet and looked at me directly.

  ‘You’re smart and you’ve got integrity, Kenny. What’s more, you know how to keep your mouth shut. Trust me, that’s almost unique in this day and age.’ Frank knocked back the rest of his vodka. For a second I thought he was going to pour another. Instead he placed the glass carefully on to a shelf and closed the cabinet. ‘Maybe this Post business is making me too twitchy. If Harry is holed up somewhere, that’s great. Find out which one it is and we can kiss and make up.’

  ‘And if she isn’t?’

  ‘Then I still think you’re the best man for the job.’

  ‘There’s nothing else you aren’t telling me?’

  ‘I swear to God.’

  It used to be that if Frank gave you his word then you could take it to the bank. Admittedly, that was a long time ago, but my experience is that people don’t change. And, of course, he was offering me a boatload of cash.

  ‘I’ll stick with it until the end of the week,’ I said.

  ‘Cheers, Kenny. I appreciate it. Did you turn anything up in her flat?’

  ‘Apart from a credit card bill, nothing. I’ve got a contact sourcing the last five transactions. It might give us an idea where she is.’

  ‘Is that legal?’ Frank asked. I gave him a look. ‘No, of course it isn’t,’ he said.

  ‘And it’s not cheap, either. The guy wants four grand. That’s not the kind of money I can pull out of an ATM. Not even with your card.’

  ‘I’ll get five raised in cash before you leave.’

  ‘That’d be useful because I had to bung Rocco a couple of hundred too.’

  Frank winced. It could have been the booze giving his ulcer a preliminary kicking, but I didn’t think so. Rocco’s name alone was enough to give him the yips.

  ‘What did that moron tell you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much,’ I said, choosing to be a touch economical with the truth myself. ‘Apparently he and Harry used to live out in the ’burbs. Has the place been sold?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. D’you think she might be there?’

  ‘Rocco gave me the key. I’ll take a look tomorrow.’

  ‘Why not this afternoon? It’s less than half an hour from King’s Cross.’

  The idea of spending the rest of the day on a fool’s errand wasn’t attractive. But I didn’t have anything else to do, and Frank was paying for my time.

  ‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘At least we’ll be able to take it off the list.’

  Frank walked to his desk and instructed someone to raise five K pronto.

  ‘Got any kids, Kenny?’ he said, putting the phone down. I shook my head. ‘Married?’

  ‘As good as for a couple of years, but it didn’t take.’

  ‘That’s the problem with life.’ Frank seemed to be talking as much to himself as to me. ‘It never turns out the way you think it’s going to.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Or even worse, it does.’

  I was reading a back copy of Forbes magazine, waiting for my cash to be delivered, when my phone rang. The screen read Number unknown. My usual policy is to let anonymous calls slide through to voicemail. But I’d been kicking my heels for twenty minutes in the executive suite and needed something to relieve the boredom.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel.’

  ‘Mr Gabriel, it’s Sheridan Talbot-White. We spoke earlier.’

  ‘Hello, Sheridan,’ I said. ‘Thanks for calling me back.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, although I suspected it wasn’t. ‘I’ve had a word with Dervla and she’s prepared to spare you a few minutes.’

  ‘When will she be available?’

  ‘There’s a launch party at Assassins tomorrow. Dervla’s auctioning a copy of her retrospective for charity. It starts at one. Arrive half an hour early, and the pair of you can talk then.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said, and cut the call.

  A short guy in a cheap suit had appeared before me. He was holding an A5 envelope with a significant bulge in it.

  ‘Mr Gabriel?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘This is for you.’ I thanked the guy and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. ‘Don’t you want to check it?’ he asked.

  ‘I trust you.’

  I scrawled my name to acknowle
dge receipt of the money. What with people handing over wads of cash and inviting me to parties at private members’ clubs, it looked as though things might finally be looking up.

  The Welwyn train departed King’s Cross at 4.35 p.m. and pulled into Matcham on the London–Hertfordshire border twenty minutes later. The station had been put up in the golden age of steam. A red-brick building had a crenellated wooden canopy supported by wrought-iron pillars. Remove the dot-matrix Departures sign and it could have served as the set for an Edwardian period drama.

  Frank had said that Fairview Lodge was only a fifteen-minute walk. Google Maps confirmed this. Its directions led me down a high street in which shops that had probably once been butchers and greengrocers had been turned into Early Learning Centres and late-opening delis.

  The turn-off into Church Lane came just after a gastropub called the Pheasant. Most of the houses I walked past came with gravel drives and, by the looks of them, at least eight bedrooms. None had been built after the Second World War, and quite a few predated the train station. Fairview Lodge was the last on the left. A two-storey Victorian house, it was smaller than the others, but surrounded by more land. I unlatched the gate and walked down a flagstone path that bisected a half-acre lawn so overgrown it was in danger of becoming a field.

  When I was twenty feet away, a halogen floodlight tripped on. Arched windows and elaborate chimneys gave Fairview Lodge a Gothic aspect, accentuated by an air of general neglect. An overflow pipe dripped steadily on to the patio and the roots of a shrub had burst its terracotta pot. Twenty minutes to inspect the place and then I intended to be kicking back in the Pheasant with a craft beer in one hand and a halloumi wrap in the other.

  The original door had been replaced by one made out of a sheet of plate glass. Through it I could see a wooden-floored corridor, a side table and an antique rocking horse. Its painted eyes regarded me balefully through a fringe of matted hair. Half a dozen envelopes had been stacked on the table; a couple were lying under the letterbox. They may not have attended to the leaky pipe, but someone had visited Fairview Lodge in the last few days.

  The key turned easily in the lock, although it was an effort to slide the heavy door open. A burglar alarm mounted on a wall to my left started a staccato beep. I tapped four zeros into the keyboard and the beeping terminated in a shrill crescendo.