Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  Weeks turned into months that concertinaed into years. I took a series of casual jobs that generated enough cash to live on, as long as I didn’t want uninterrupted supplies of protein or electricity. In September ’82 a sign appeared outside the Galaxy saying that it was up for sale. By this time Frank’s soft-core porn juggernaut was gathering serious momentum and I suppose the club was a distraction.

  Two years ago it became a Tesco Metro.

  ELEVEN

  The morning after finding Harry Parr’s body, I awoke and stared at the ceiling until my loaded bladder could be denied no more. My secondary requirement was water. I filled a pint glass from the kitchen tap and dispatched it in one go. While I was contemplating a second, my phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Odeerie.’

  ‘Christ, you sound rough.’

  ‘Bit of a heavy night.’

  ‘Anything to do with Frank Parr’s daughter?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘It’s all over the news.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘That she’s been found dead. It puts me in a bloody awkward position with the credit card.’

  ‘You’ve got the info?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The cops are going to be checking things out. If they twig that someone’s logged into her account, they’ll want to know why.’

  ‘Isn’t your guy authorised?’

  ‘The system leaves a footprint.’

  ‘So tell him to exercise his imagination.’

  ‘Thanks, Kenny. That’s a big help.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ I said. ‘Where had she been using the card?’

  ‘Information on payment. In cash.’

  ‘I feel like shit.’

  ‘Not my problem.’

  ‘Can’t I drop the money off tomorrow?’

  Odeerie didn’t even dignify this suggestion with an answer.

  ‘When can I come round?’ I asked.

  ‘How about an hour or so?’

  ‘Sure you won’t have popped out to do a bit of shopping?’

  ‘That’s fucking hilarious, Kenny,’ Odeerie said. ‘I’m pissing myself with laughter here.’ The line went dead and I refilled my glass.

  So much for keeping the fat man sweet.

  I switched on the BBC News channel and didn’t have to wait long. The newsreader announced that a body had been found. The police had confirmed it was that of Harriet Parr, but made no further comment. We were told that Harry was the youngest child of media magnate Frank Parr and shown a clip of Fairview Lodge. Three police vans were in attendance, and a couple of bouquets had been laid against the gate.

  Despite the water, plus a cup of coffee, plus two rounds of toast, plus three Nurofen, making me feel marginally better, the idea of leaving the flat was about as attractive as mounting an attempt on the Eiger. The information about Harry’s card use was irrelevant now that she’d used her PIN for the final time.

  Left to my own devices, I would have returned to bed. But I’d promised to stump up Odeerie’s cash and at least he was only a quarter of a mile away. I took a shower, pulled on some clothes and set out to face the day.

  At eleven in the morning the need for Kamagra, poppers and/or Czech housewife audition DVDs is probably at its lowest. Nevertheless a bearded man in a Che Guevara T-shirt was raising the shutters outside Mega Mags & Vids at the eastern end of Brewer Street. The rattle this made almost caused me to miss the trill of my Samsung. Hoping it wasn’t DI Standish wanting to make another appointment, I pressed the Accept button.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Kenny, it’s Frank.’

  I stopped in my tracks.

  ‘You still there?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m here. Look, Frank, I’m so sorry about Harry. I tried to call you last night but . . .’

  ‘I got your message,’ he said. ‘The police said you were the one who found her, but they wouldn’t tell me much more.’

  ‘Where are you now?’ I asked.

  ‘On my way back into town. I identified the body half an hour ago. Kenny, I want to know everything that happened, including anything the police told you.’

  I took him through the events of the previous day, excluding the details as to the state of Harry’s body. The poor sod already knew about that.

  ‘That’s everything?’ he asked when I’d finished. ‘Nothing you’ve left out?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘That’s it.’

  A gap in the conversation during which all I could hear was the thrum of a car engine. Presumably Farrelly was at the wheel.

  ‘Did the police say how Harry died?’ I asked.

  ‘They said it looked like strangulation.’

  ‘Whoever did it, Frank, there’s a better-than-average chance they’ll nail him.’

  ‘I want you to carry on.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Are there any leads you haven’t followed up?’

  ‘A couple,’ I said, thinking of Dervla, and Callum Parsons. ‘But don’t you think it’s best to let the police take it from here on in?’

  ‘Nothing you do will get in their way.’

  ‘Maybe, but the thing is . . .’

  ‘I asked you to find Harry and you found her. Two more days, that’s all I’m asking.’

  I could have said no.

  I should have said no.

  I didn’t say no.

  ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want, Frank.’

  ‘It’s what I want,’ he said, and hung up.

  Odeerie was still in a pissy mood when I arrived at his flat. If his mole at the card company cracked, the boys in blue would be over him like dermatitis. They’d also take a serious interest in his hard drives, and almost certainly want him to attend the station. Not a happy prospect for the secrecy-obsessed agoraphobic.

  Counting out four grand’s worth of fifties into his pudgy paw went some way towards lightening his mood. He transferred the notes into his office safe and took out a piece of folded paper. ‘You didn’t get that from me, Kenny.’

  ‘Course not,’ I said.

  ‘I mean you really didn’t get it from me.’

  ‘I heard you!’

  The sheet detailed five transactions. The first three were for Waitrose, an iTunes download and theatre tickets. The following day Harry had spent a hundred and forty quid at Cube, presumably for her lunch with Roger, and then seven hundred and fifty at Bombaste. The latter had been timed at 4.14 p.m.

  ‘You’re sure these are the last five?’ I asked.

  ‘They were as of yesterday morning. And she’s not likely to have spent anything since then. I take it you’re available for work now?’

  ‘Not just yet. Frank wants me to stay on it a bit longer.’

  ‘Stay on what? His daughter’s dead.’

  ‘I know. I’m the one who found her.’

  Odeerie did a double take. ‘You’re kidding me?’ I shook my head and put the paper into my jacket pocket. ‘Was she . . . ?’

  I nodded. ‘Unless she strangled herself.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I thought you wanted as little to do with this as possible?’

  ‘Don’t be an arsehole all your life, Kenny.’

  For the second time in half an hour, I described how I’d discovered Harry’s body followed by my tête-à-tête with DI Standish. It took me fifteen minutes, during which time Odeerie polished off three Krispy Kreme donuts. Food was his way of coping with anxiety. Actually, food was his way of coping with everything.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ he said when I’d finished.

  ‘Tragic,’ I agreed. ‘She was only thirty-four.’

  ‘I meant the police interviewing you. Tell me you didn’t mention my name.’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Odeerie bit into his fourth donut. ‘If they connect me with you then the shit could really hit the fan.’

  ‘You d
idn’t murder her, did you?’

  ‘I’m glad you find this funny, Kenny,’ Odeerie said through a mouthful of dough. ‘Because if my guy coughs, we’re both fucked.’

  ‘Only if you say I paid you.’

  ‘I might just do that.’ He crammed the rest of the donut into his mouth, chewed it resentfully and swallowed. ‘And now Frank Parr expects you to track down the killer?’

  ‘He’s asked me to follow up on a few leads.’

  Odeerie rolled his huge brown eyes. ‘My advice is say thanks but no thanks. The police don’t take kindly to amateurs pissing them around.’

  ‘They aren’t the only ones on my case.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  I filled Odeerie in on my encounter with Mr Screwdriver. If there had been any doubt I had his complete attention, there wasn’t now.

  ‘And you’re carrying on?’ he said. ‘What if he’s the guy who killed her?’

  ‘He didn’t know she was dead.’

  ‘Even so, he still sounds like a nutter.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Kenny, this isn’t just sussing out if a bloke’s having an affair with his secretary. Someone’s been killed and you could be next.’

  Odeerie seemed amazed that I wasn’t quaking in my Hush Puppies. Maybe I ought to have been. The truth was that whatever torpor I had fallen into had disappeared – at least temporarily. Atriliac may give your brain a kick up the arse; so does finding a decomposing body and having a stranger hold a screwdriver to your eye.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ I said.

  ‘Well, if you aren’t available by next Monday, that’s it, as far as we’re concerned. You either work for me or you work for Frank Parr.’

  ‘Duly noted.’

  Odeerie wiped his lips clean and dropped the tissue into a waste bin. I couldn’t be certain he was going to finish off the last two donuts in the pack, but then I couldn’t be certain that the sun would rise the following day either.

  ‘I’d better crack on,’ I said, looking at my watch.

  ‘Where you going?’ Odeerie asked.

  ‘Charity auction at Assassins.’

  ‘Don’t take the piss.’

  I shrugged and said, ‘Or maybe I’ll have a full English and a few pints. Then I’ll probably go back to the flat and sleep it off.’

  Sometimes it’s just easier to lie.

  TWELVE

  I’d hoped that Harry’s card purchases would be more revealing. At least I knew she had been to Bombaste recently. It might be worth dropping in to see if anyone could recall her last visit and whether she had been accompanied. It would have to wait, though. Dervla Bishop’s auction was starting at 1.00 p.m.

  Sheridan had said that if I got there half an hour before it began then I could have fifteen minutes to interview his client. It remained to be seen whether she would still be in the mood to talk about Harry now that her death had been announced.

  The launch was being held at Assassins, a private members’ club on the corner of Old Compton Street and Greek Street. That meant I had just enough time to get back to the flat and make myself presentable.

  While shaving, my mind focused on Eddie Jenkins. I’d tried several times to trace him since the night in the Galaxy, always without success. Even Odeerie had drawn a blank. There were a lot of Edward Jenkinses knocking about the world, and I didn’t have any information about mine other than that he was about five foot nine and would be in his sixties by now. Always assuming there was a ‘now’ for Eddie.

  Private members’ clubs had sprouted up in the parish like knotweed. Places like the Arts and Gerry’s had been around for decades, but they were pretty much the same as the Vesuvius, i.e. low-rent bars that stayed open late and levied a nominal fee to stay on the right side of the law. The new places charged a grand a year and were infested by media execs and D-list celebrities.

  Assassins had a better rep than most. It encouraged applications from those in the creative arts, as opposed to anyone with a pulse and a bank account. On arrival, I pressed the brass button set into a wall panel. A couple of seconds later a woman’s voice came through the grille.

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I’m here for the Dervla Bishop event.’

  ‘Come to the first floor.’

  On the stairs hung a mirror with corroded silvering and a series of prints featuring Montgolfier balloons. They led to a landing where a pair of formidable blondes perched behind a desk. The taller girl couldn’t find my name on the first sheet of the guest list, and seemed amazed to find it on the second.

  ‘The launch is in the library,’ she said. ‘Next floor up.’

  The room’s perimeter was lined with distressed sofas, corralled to form a central space in which Dervla’s guests could mingle. A dozen or so had already arrived. They were chatting in twos and threes while tucking into vol-au-vents and champagne. I took a glass and an assortment of nibbles from an aproned waiter, and set to examining a paving-slab-sized book displayed on an oak lectern.

  The first pages were collectively titled Capra Descending. They featured a series of black-and-white photographs of a severed goat’s head. Flesh progressively rotted until there were just tatters on the skull. It didn’t do much for my appetite.

  Next up were the infamous pubic weaves with the pensioners who had contributed the necessary standing beside the finished article. It made you think a bit to see the motto Carpe Diem picked out in a black Gothic script. Not least of all because ninety-three-year-old Tommy Fossey was gurning toothlessly at the camera.

  But Dervla’s work wasn’t all about confrontation and outrage. There were some exquisitely executed charcoal sketches, and the painting of the woman and child that had won the McClellan. I was perusing the latter when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘My name’s Sheridan Talbot-White. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’

  The patrician voice belonged to a grey-haired man in his mid-fifties wearing a black linen jacket over a white shirt tucked into a pair of skinny jeans.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel,’ I said. ‘We spoke on the phone.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with less enthusiasm. ‘So we did.’

  ‘Is Dervla here?’ I asked.

  ‘Upstairs making a phone call. Remind me, what was it you wanted to speak to her about?’

  ‘It’s a private matter.’

  ‘I am Dervla’s agent.’

  I nodded and said, ‘D’you know how long she’ll be?’

  ‘No more than a few minutes, although Dervla is on a tight schedule today, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take up too much of her time.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I said.

  Guests arrived at a steady rate. Some were dressed exotically; others looked as though they had come directly from a homeless shelter, albeit one sponsored by Alexander McQueen. When a portly ex-advertising grandee with a hard-on for modern art waddled in, Sheridan was on him like a harbour shark.

  By then, I’d been bumped off my position at the lectern. The only place busier was the table bearing the booze and food. I felt uncomfortable for two reasons: firstly, I appeared to be the only person not on nodding terms with everyone else in the room. Secondly, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to quizzing Dervla Bishop about the murder of her girlfriend. Chances were that she’d tell me to sling my hook and I’d be even more persona non grata than I was already.

  I had just succeeded in blagging another glass of champagne, against stiff opposition, when Dervla made her entrance. She was wearing a black vintage dress over faded jeans. The shiny material emphasised the paleness of her skin and the delicate bones of her shoulders. Her nose was slightly hooked and her dark-brown eyes a little too close together. She might have washed her cropped hair in the last forty-eight hours, but I wouldn’t have bet on it. Despite all of this, Dervla Bishop was still the sexiest woman in the place.

  After collecting an orange juice from the waiter, she joined her agent and the billionaire collec
tor. They chatted for a few minutes, with Sheridan’s braying laughter sounding out like a foghorn at regular intervals. If there were a private members’ club for prize pricks, Sheridan would have been president for life.

  The other guests gave the trio sideways glances, presumably wondering when they would get to talk to the queen bee. The same question was on my mind, when Sheridan pointed in my direction. Dervla detached herself and approached.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel?’ she asked in a Home Counties accent. ‘Sherry said you wanted to talk to me about Harry Parr?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Look, I know this must be a difficult time . . .’

  ‘Follow me.’

  I trailed Dervla across the room like a superannuated footman. She nodded at a couple of grinning acolytes, but didn’t break her stride until we’d reached a pair of low-slung armchairs. Dervla settled into hers; I collapsed into mine. She produced a phone, pressed a couple of buttons, and placed it between us.

  ‘Say the date, who you are, and that you undertake not to share any information I may give you with a third party.’

  ‘You’re recording this?’

  ‘I’m aware of what you do and the company you work for. This is just for the record. Although I’d still like to see a card, please . . .’

  I left my details on the phone and then fished a dog-eared card out of my wallet. Dervla scrutinised it for a few moments. I noticed a line of tattooed italic script running up her arm. The first word looked like Destiny. I couldn’t make out the rest.

  Apparently satisfied, she handed the card back.

  ‘You can hang on to it, if you like,’ I said.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Dervla replied.

  ‘If you were worried about seeing me, then why did you agree to a meeting?’

  ‘I wasn’t worried,’ she said. ‘I was curious. Which is what you were banking on. Hence all the cloak-and-dagger stuff with Sherry.’

  ‘To a point,’ I admitted. ‘I’d like to discuss Harry Parr.’

  ‘So I understand. Who is your client?’