Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  Opposite me was a polished-oak staircase. To its right was a hallway that led to the rear of the house, and a door that led who knew where. I picked up the envelopes. One was a TV licence reminder; the other had VIRGIN MEDIA stamped on it. I placed the mail on the side table and patted Dobbin’s head. He undulated slightly, as though grateful for the attention.

  The living room was so large that it had to have been two individual rooms knocked through. In its centre were two mustard-coloured sofas, served by a slate coffee table. On the table lay a glass ashtray into which Rocco had probably knocked the ash from his spliff while watching the smart TV to the left of an inglenook fireplace.

  I could well believe that neither Harry nor her husband had spent long in the house before their marriage went west. The place didn’t give off the impression that a pair of lovebirds had lavished care and attention on it. The best thing you could say about the beige curtains was that they didn’t clash with the brown carpet.

  A door at the opposite end of the living room led to the dining room, which in turn was connected to a well-equipped kitchen. A putrid sweet smell turned out to be from a bag of rotting satsumas covered in mould. I thought about chucking it into the steel waste bin, but what was the point? Instead I closed the cupboard, traced my steps back to the hallway and began to climb the stairs.

  Four doors led off the landing. The first was a small bathroom containing a shower stall and a lavatory. Several white towels had been folded neatly on a pine blanket chest. I looked at my face in a mirror and asked what the hell I was doing prowling around empty houses at my age. One answer was that I was the blameless victim of a predetermined chain of cause and effect. Another was that I was a sad fucker who’d allowed his chances to slip between his fingers.

  Like most of the great philosophical questions, it was one best answered with a drink in one hand and a couple inside you. The Pheasant was beckoning. I checked out the guest bedroom by sticking my head around the door and giving it a quick shufti. Nothing out of the ordinary that I could see; nor was there in the master bedroom.

  Only a sense of professional duty, combined with mild curiosity as to whether the decorator had opted for damask and gold again, led me to open the fourth door on the landing. The curtains were drawn and the interior in darkness. I flicked the light switch and discovered that there was a considerable difference in this room and that it had nothing to do with the décor.

  Lying diagonally across the bed was the body of Harry Parr.

  NINE

  The only dead bodies I’d seen prior to entering Fairview Lodge were those of my parents. In Dad’s case, I was there when he drew his last breath. My mum I saw two hours after she suffered the stroke that killed her. The one thing that struck me was that death really does what it says on the tin. We come and we go, that’s the end of the story.

  Harry Parr had definitely gone. Death had cranked the skin tighter around the skull. The effect was to draw back her lips into something between a smile and a snarl. She was wearing a dove-grey dress and a single black stiletto. The other shoe lay next to the bed. Judging by the smell, Harry’s bowels had evacuated.

  The window catch refused to open. I was on the point of putting an elbow through the glass when finally it released. Leaning over the sill, I spent a minute gulping fresh air into my lungs like a man who had surfaced after a long dive. I should have left the room immediately and called the police. Had there been a note or an empty bottle of paracetamol, that’s what I’d have done. No sign of either.

  Using a ballpoint pen, I removed strands of blonde hair from Harry’s face. Her eyes bulged as though about to slop out of their sockets. I struggled against my gag reflex and was rewarded with the sight of an improvised garrotte. The thin leather belt had been removed from the dress and was still wrapped around the stippled flesh of Harry’s throat. I dropped the pen into a wastepaper bin and hurried to the bathroom.

  I puked three times, rinsed my mouth and splashed water on to my face. The emergency-services operator instructed me to stay where I was until help arrived. Downstairs I found a well-stocked drinks cabinet. What it didn’t contain were any glasses, and I couldn’t face the kitchen and the smell of rotting fruit. I unscrewed the cap off a bottle of Johnnie Walker and drank straight from the neck.

  I’d almost reached the label by the time I heard the first siren.

  ‘So, to get this straight, then,’ DI Standish said, looking down at his notes for the umpteenth time. ‘After entering the property, you made a survey of the downstairs rooms before going upstairs, where you found the body?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Which you recognised as being that of Ms Harriet Parr?’ I nodded. ‘How did you recognise Harriet if you’d never met her?’

  ‘I’d seen a couple of photographs.’

  ‘Given to you by her father?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Standish sucked his teeth. ‘How long have you been an investigator, Kenny?’

  ‘I’m more of a skip-tracer.’

  ‘Licensed?’ I nodded. ‘So that means you didn’t compromise the crime scene?’

  ‘Not after I realised that’s what it was.’

  ‘I’m guessing you haven’t seen that many, what with you being a skip-tracer.’

  Although Standish may as well have said ‘useless twat’, my SIA course had emphasised the importance of respect for and cooperation with the police. Along with the majority of his fellow officers, Standish didn’t see it the same way.

  ‘If I find you’ve jeopardised this investigation then I’ll make your life bloody uncomfortable,’ he continued. ‘And that includes withholding information.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said.

  ‘Just so long as we’re on the same page.’

  ‘We are.’

  Standish treated me to a hard stare. I returned it with a frank and cooperative expression. He shook his head and refocused on my statement.

  ‘How do you know Mr Parr?’

  ‘I used to work for him years ago,’ I said. ‘Has someone called Frank to tell him what’s happened?’

  ‘Everything has been taken care of,’ Standish said. ‘And Mr Parr retained you to search for his daughter, who had gone missing – is that right?’

  ‘Correct,’ I said. It was the third time Standish had clarified the point.

  ‘But he hadn’t informed the police of her disappearance?’

  ‘No. Or at least that’s what he told me.’

  ‘Remind me why that was again,’ Standish asked.

  ‘Because he didn’t think anything serious had happened to her. She’d left without warning at least once before.’

  ‘According to Mr Parr.’

  ‘And her brother.’

  Standish would probably find out about the row in due course, but I wasn’t about to do his job for him. Nor did I want to continue a discussion now running close on an hour.

  ‘You’d only been looking for Ms Parr since yesterday?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And during this time you interviewed her ex-husband, Mr Rocco Holtby?’

  ‘They aren’t divorced yet.’

  Standish carefully amended his notes. He was in his early forties with short greying hair. Judging by the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, I suspected he was no stranger to a weights machine. On his cheek was a wart that looked like a fossilised teardrop. I wondered if it was too close to his eye to remove with safety, or whether a DI’s salary didn’t stretch to cosmetic surgery.

  ‘Did Mr Holtby suggest you visit the house?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘I asked him for a key.’

  ‘Why did you suspect that Ms Parr might be here?’

  I shrugged and said, ‘It was a matter of covering all the bases.’

  ‘You mentioned you were coming here to Frank Parr?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right. He thought today rather than tomorrow.’

  ‘Why was that, d’you
think?’

  ‘I imagine because he was concerned as to her safety.’

  ‘And yet he hadn’t gone to the police.’

  ‘So we’ve established. This is a witness statement, isn’t it?’

  Standish wrinkled his nose and sniffed. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Only, if I’m going to be interviewed under caution, then let me know and I can call a solicitor.’

  ‘Why would we want to interview you under caution?’ Standish said. It was probably one of the devilishly cunning questions they’d taught him at Hendon.

  ‘I’ve no idea. But it’s been a bloody long time and I’ve told you everything I know. People will be wondering where I am.’

  Standish looked down at the document for what I sincerely hoped was the final time. ‘Okay, I think that’s about it. If you’re happy with everything, then sign and date at the bottom.’

  I skim-read the statement before making my mark. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How long had she been dead?’

  ‘We can’t determine that until forensics are completed. And even if I did know, I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Looked like a few days,’ I said, hoping to lure him into a breach of professional etiquette. Standish tucked the pen into his shirt pocket.

  ‘You back to London?’ he asked.

  ‘If the trains are still running.’

  ‘Last one’s at eleven fifty. I’ll have someone drop you off at the station.’ The DI stood up. ‘There’s a chance we’ll need to talk again. Not going anywhere, are we?’

  ‘Well, there is my trip to Courchevel.’

  Standish frowned. ‘That could be a problem,’ he said. ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘I was joking. There’s no snow this time of year.’

  ‘Not many would be laughing after what you’ve seen today.’

  ‘Isn’t it the best medicine?’ I asked.

  ‘Depends what’s wrong with you,’ Standish replied.

  In the Matcham station waiting room a couple of teenagers were sharing a bottle of vodka and sporadically chanting a football anthem. A middle-aged man in a Barbour jacket, attempting to read a copy of Wolf Hall, glanced at them disapprovingly. The boys’ refrain changed to: Who’s the wanker in the mac? After the seventh chorus, the man gave up and left to read on the platform. The boys cheered and the taller of the pair held the bottle out to me. I smiled and shook my head. The kid shrugged to suggest it was my loss.

  When the train arrived, I selected an empty carriage and called Frank. According to Standish he had been informed about Harry’s death. Nevertheless, I felt the decent thing to do was to make contact with him. When his voicemail kicked in, I muttered something about how sorry I was for his loss, and speaking when he got the chance. That wouldn’t be pleasant; nor would admitting that I’d got it very wrong about Harry sulking in some five-star hotel. The police would want Frank to identify the body. Poor bastard. Rocco was technically the next of kin but they’d probably want to interview him as a person of interest.

  I’d put the chances of Rocco having murdered his wife at around zero, otherwise why would he have given me the key to the place so readily? It could have been an elaborate ruse, but when it came to bluffing Rocco was clearly as much use as a six-year-old. Not that it would stop the boys in blue giving him the third degree, if my experience was anything to go by.

  The last Tube got me to Piccadilly Circus at 12.30. I walked up Sherwood Street into Brewer Street. The main thing on my mind was whether there would be enough Monarch left in the bottle to get me to sleep. The answer was almost certainly not. A man in a black Puffa jacket and baseball cap crossed the road as I neared the flat. He slowed down, smiled and held his hand up. ‘’Scuse me, mate, you got the right time?’

  I drew back my sleeve to consult my watch. Two muscular arms circled my waist and bundled me into the recessed doorway of the Parminto Deli. A short screwdriver was applied to my cheek, presumably to discourage me from shouting for help. A twist of the wrist and my eye would be out of its socket.

  ‘You’re Kenny, right?’ the guy asked. ‘Yeah, it’s you,’ he said when I didn’t deny it. ‘Where’ve you been all night, you old bastard?’

  Only a faint nimbus of blue surrounded his pupils. He was ripped to the tits on something. A jaw that was rimed with stubble looked as rough as sandpaper. He could have been thirty or he could have been forty.

  ‘Anyway, it don’t matter,’ he decided. ‘The main thing is that you’ve got to stop looking for Harry Parr, or I’m gonna be back. And, trust me, you don’t want that.’

  No argument there. The tip of the screwdriver was probing the lower orbit of my eye like a surgeon’s scalpel testing for the precise angle of entry.

  ‘Understand?’ he asked.

  I nodded carefully.

  The guy removed the screwdriver from my cheek and raked the tip over the palm of his left hand. A line of blood surged to the surface. He watched as it oozed across his palm. Without warning he applied his hand to my face. Slippery fingers traversed my features like a blind man assessing a stranger’s looks.

  My eyes were screwed shut and it would have taken a crowbar to part my lips. Nothing I could do about my nostrils, though. A warm metallic smell invaded my sinuses and did its best to trip my gag reflex. The only way out was through a guy twenty years younger, four stone heavier and high enough to shank me for fun. If his hand had stayed on my face a second longer, I’d have taken the risk.

  He removed it, inscribed a damp cross on my forehead as though signing a painting, and then whispered in my ear. ‘Say “Thank you for giving me this warning.”’

  ‘Fuck you, arsehole,’ I replied, and immediately felt the screwdriver’s tip again. This time it was pressed against my belly.

  ‘Now, now,’ its owner said. ‘I really don’t want to have to punish you, Kenny, but I’ve been waiting five hours and if you’re rude . . .’

  The pressure on the tool increased to the point where it was threatening to break the skin.

  ‘Thank you for giving me this warning,’ I muttered.

  He grinned and replied, ‘It’s been my pleasure.’

  Whatever the guy was on hadn’t affected his speech or motor reflexes. The screwdriver went into one jacket pocket and a handkerchief came out of the other. He wrapped it around his palm to stem the bleeding.

  ‘The other thing you don’t do is call the police,’ he said. ‘That would be stupid. They don’t know who I am but I know who you are.’ He tucked the ends of the handkerchief into the main wrap, flexed his hand and winced slightly. ‘Well, that’s about it then, Ken,’ he said, as though concluding a routine business meeting. ‘Maybe we meet in the next life. If there is a next life, that is . . .’

  And with that he stepped out of the doorway and walked away.

  In the bathroom I washed Mr Screwdriver’s blood from my face. Then I spent ten minutes brushing my teeth and gargled half a bottle of Listerine. It took the taste away but didn’t erase its memory. Nothing short of a lobotomy would do that. A tumbler of Monarch followed by another tumbler of Monarch helped reduce the tremble in my hands. I thought about calling the police and decided against it.

  Mr Screwdriver almost certainly hadn’t been lying about being unknown to them. He couldn’t have left more DNA behind if he’d tried. The thing with the blood had been for kicks and not for profit. Perform that trick on a regular basis and his palm would have resembled the crust on an apple pie.

  And of course there was no need for me to carry on looking for Harry Parr. I’d already found her. The fact that she would have been discovered eventually meant that my new BFF – or whoever had hired him – thought she was still alive, which meant they almost certainly weren’t responsible for her death.

  But why didn’t they want me to look for her?

  It was two in the morning, and I wouldn’t be getting much sleep. I channel-hopped the TV, hoping to land on something that would divert m
y mind from the day’s events. All New DIY Disasters did the trick for a while, but after twenty minutes of flooded kitchens and collapsed ceilings my attention wandered.

  Specifically to the first time I met Frank Parr.

  TEN

  Soho, 1977

  My brother took me to lunch at Wheeler’s to celebrate my place at Durham University. By then Malcolm had joined an ad agency and was doing well. Following a grilled turbot and a bottle of Chianti to toast our glittering careers, he returned to work and left me to my own devices. Actually, he left me to get the Tube back to Willesden Green, but I’d read far too many intriguingly lurid stories about Soho in the News of the World for that to happen. The reality was more prosaic.

  Small cafes and shops heavily outnumbered dirty bookstores with names like Lovecraft and Ram. No one tried to sell me pep pills in Bridle Lane, and I wasn’t invited to an orgy in Rupert Court. Most of the pubs I’d passed were forbidding-looking affairs. The exception was a place on Dean Street called the York Minster. Judging by the animated chatter and laughter coming from its open windows, it was the sort of relaxed establishment where someone a fortnight shy of his eighteenth birthday might be served a drink.

  Gaston Berlemont stared at me sceptically over his Gallic moustache before sliding a glass of house red across the bar. He was notoriously prejudiced against draft beer. Had I asked for a pint, I’d probably have been chucked out. After ten minutes a man who introduced himself as the poet Raoul Santiago gave me a cigarette. I’d had a couple of smokes before, but inhaling an untipped Gauloise with a man called Raoul was as different from a furtive Senior Service as night is from day.

  When I offered to buy Raoul a drink, he suggested a bottle would be more economical. Twelve hours later I woke up in a studio flat in Carlisle Street beside a woman older than my mother and uglier than my father. My head felt as though someone had hammered a spike of plutonium into it and my wallet was as empty as a politician’s promise. I wondered if we’d done the deed – it would have been my first time if we had – but lacked the guts to wake my companion up. Instead I crept down a flight of rickety stairs and began the long hike back to North-West London.