Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  I hesitated. Dervla’s index finger hovered above her phone. The implication was clear – if I didn’t answer her questions, it was interview over.

  ‘Her father,’ I said.

  ‘Frank Parr went to OC Trace and Find?’

  ‘Actually, he approached me directly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We knew each other years ago. He needed someone he could trust not to talk to the papers. Initially Frank thought Harry had just done a runner and wanted me to find out where she was. Now . . . obviously it’s a different matter.’

  ‘Who told you about Harry and me?’

  Divulging my client had been a hasty decision. I didn’t intend to compound it by revealing my source. If it meant the interview was over, then tough shit.

  ‘I really can’t tell you that,’ I said.

  Dervla covered her face and groaned. ‘She left a note, didn’t she?’

  ‘A note?’

  ‘Look, don’t get the wrong end of the stick. I’m incredibly sad about Harry, but I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. Something like this was always likely to happen.’

  ‘You think she committed suicide?’

  ‘She didn’t?’

  ‘I’m afraid Harry was murdered.’

  Dervla blinked several times as though I’d flung a handful of sand in her face. ‘Is that what the police think?’ she asked.

  ‘They haven’t commented.’

  ‘Then how d’you know she was murdered?’

  ‘Because I found her body.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I nodded. ‘My God, that’s horrible.’

  I wasn’t sure whether Dervla was referring to me discovering Harry’s corpse, or the fact that she’d been killed in the first place. Either way, she was still finding out more information from me than I was from her.

  ‘When did you last see Harry?’ I asked in a bid to reverse the flow.

  ‘About three months ago.’

  ‘You weren’t together any more?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t—’

  ‘Reveal your source? Yeah, so you said. Well, whoever it was doesn’t have a clue what they’re talking about. Harry and I hadn’t been an item for months. In fact I’m not entirely sure we ever really were . . .’

  ‘So there’s nothing you can help me with?’

  Dervla pursed her lips and stared fixedly at the floor for several seconds. She seemed to make her mind up about something and leant forward. I responded in kind. We were about as entre nous as a couple could get.

  And that was when bloody Sheridan stuck his oar in.

  ‘Dervla, darling, we really do need to get proceedings under way. Thomas has to be somewhere in half an hour . . .’

  Irritating though his interruption was, I could understand Sheridan’s apprehension. The ad guy could have bought and sold everyone in the room.

  Dervla scooped up her phone. ‘Let’s talk after the auction,’ she said to me.

  ‘We have to be in Hammersmith by three for Melvyn,’ Sheridan reminded her.

  ‘I do know my own fucking schedule,’ Dervla snapped like a stroppy teenager. She got to her feet and smoothed the creases from her dress. Whatever it was she’d been on the point of telling me would have to keep. ‘Treat yourself to a few more drinks, Kenny.’ Dervla smiled radiantly at her guests. ‘God knows they all will,’ she muttered.

  Sheridan rapped a gavel on a table and called the room to order. ‘Good afternoon, everyone, my name’s Sheridan Talbot-White and I’d like to welcome you to Assassins. As I’m sure you’re all aware, this afternoon is primarily about raising money for a very worthy cause. CALICO was founded in 1996 to finance creative workshops within deprived inner-city areas. Since then the fund has generated in excess of four million pounds and helped finance over two hundred projects . . .’

  He paused for applause and received it.

  ‘It was Dervla’s idea to combine the launch of her retrospective with an event on CALICO’s behalf.’ Sheridan nodded at the tome on the lectern. ‘This is the first signed impression of five hundred. It retails at five thousand pounds, although I’m sure we can do better than that. After all, you’ll be bidding for something that celebrates the genius of the most talented artist of her generation. Before we get to the auction, though, Dervla would like to say a few words.’

  He stepped back from the microphone, which was the cue for the audience to start clapping. Dervla got out of her chair. Sheridan sat down in his.

  ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I’d like to thank Sherry for lying so convincingly . . .’

  Big laugh.

  ‘Anyone who knows me will testify that I’m a total pain in the arse and a long way off being a genius . . .’

  Cries of disagreement.

  ‘However, he’s undoubtedly the best agent in the business, and I’d like to thank him for his continued support. Also, I’d like to thank you lot for turning up to today, but, let’s be honest, most of you would run a mile in flip-flops for a free can of shandy and a Curly Wurly . . .’

  Universal hilarity.

  ‘To those of you who might think that thirty-seven is a little early for a career retrospective,’ she continued, ‘I had the same qualms myself. But as Sherry pointed out, you’re never too young to involve yourself in a cynical moneymaking exercise.’

  Lots more laughter, although Sheridan’s smile seemed a little strained to me.

  ‘Today, though, is all about bringing culture into the lives of some underprivileged kids. So I’d like to ask those of you with deep pockets not to keep your hands in them, and to bid some positively ludicrous amounts of money. Over to you, Sherry.’

  ‘Thank you, Dervla,’ he said, getting back to his feet. ‘Yours truly is the auctioneer this afternoon, so without further ado I’ll get proceedings under way. Shall we open on a paltry ten thousand?’

  A ginger-haired guy in his fifties raised his hand.

  ‘Ten thousand, I’m bid,’ Sheridan said. ‘Do I hear eleven?’

  This time the ad man responded.

  ‘Twelve?’

  Ginger nodded.

  ‘Thirteen?’

  Back to Ad Man.

  ‘Fourteen?’

  Whoever the ginger guy was, he must have had a few quid in his sock drawer. Over the next ten minutes we proceeded incrementally up to thirty grand. Thomas could probably have kept going indefinitely, although, as Sheridan had told us, he had to nip off to another engagement. Perhaps for this reason his next bid was a hike of five thousand. Despite Sheridan’s best efforts to convince him otherwise, that was a bridge too far for Ginge, and the gavel was brought down to enthusiastic applause.

  ‘Sold to Mr Thomas Sclerotta,’ Sheridan said with a delighted tone in his voice. He turned and looked for his client. Then he looked a bit more. After which he carried on looking. All of which turned out to be to no avail.

  Dervla Bishop had vanished.

  THIRTEEN

  A couple of waiters checked the toilets and drew a blank. While our attention had been focused on the Tommy and Ginge show, Dervla had made her exit. I’d gained the impression that she wasn’t exactly thrilled to be attending the auction but it seemed a tad rude to simply piss off halfway through. Sheridan announced that his client hadn’t been feeling too well. A woman with her own face screen-printed across her T-shirt smirked and said that more likely she couldn’t wait for a fix.

  If Dervla Bishop was still using, I didn’t think it was smack. Most addicts look like shit warmed over and nod out when you’re talking to them. Dervla might not have taken more than ten minutes to get ready that morning, but she hadn’t shown any signs of withdrawal. Not unless irritation and boredom counted as symptoms.

  She had also seemed bright enough when making her speech. And while Dervla clearly had a general distaste for the crowd in Assassins, all she had to do was have her picture taken with Thomas Sclerotta, after which she and Sheridan could have buggered off to the fleshpots of Hamm
ersmith. A small price to pay for some skint kids to get their mitts on thirty-five grand’s worth of art supplies.

  Crucially she had left without revealing what had been on the tip of her tongue when Sheridan interrupted our conversation. I didn’t have her number and she didn’t have mine. It meant that I had to approach Sheridan if I wanted to arrange a follow-up meeting. I hadn’t expected him simply to tut-tut and give me her details. Just as well, because that isn’t what he did at all. ‘What the hell were the pair of you talking about?’ he barked.

  ‘I’m afraid it was a private conversation,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’m holding you responsible for this debacle. And if I find out that you really are a reporter, then I’ll have no hesitation in approaching the PCC.’

  ‘I’m not from the press.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I can’t reveal that.’

  ‘Well, there’s one thing I can reveal.’ Sheridan drew himself up to his full height. ‘If you haven’t left this club in two minutes, I’ll have you thrown out.’

  Sheridan’s full height was around five foot six. The waiters, on the other hand, were considerably larger. And while they would hardly give me a kicking in an alleyway, I didn’t relish the humiliation of being frogmarched down the stairs.

  ‘Perhaps you could give Dervla my card,’ I said, holding one out. ‘Best if she calls the mobile number and not the landline.’ To my surprise, Sheridan took it from me.

  Then he tore it in two and let the pieces drop to the floor.

  Bateman Street was a short distance from Assassins. I was so preoccupied by Dervla’s disappearance that a rickshaw almost obliterated me outside the Three Greyhounds. After a crisp exchange with its driver, I spent the rest of the walk wondering why the artist had bailed on her own launch. By the time I reached the shop where Harry Parr had last used her credit card, I was no closer to a credible answer.

  It was no accident that Bombaste looked like a bespoke tailor’s shop. Its owner, Freddie Tomms, had been apprenticed to his father’s Savile Row establishment, Ruddock & Tomms, for seven years. In the general scheme of things he would have taken over the reins at R&T when his dad retired. However, Freddie had other plans.

  His idea had been to introduce the quality workmanship he had learned in the Row to the world of BDSM. Prior to the opening of his Bateman Street shop, kinky corsets were usually run up in polyester by someone with a fortnight’s experience. Freddie’s were lovingly made out of the highest-quality satin and priced accordingly.

  Funded by his dad, he fitted out a former hardware shop with mahogany shelving, silk wallpaper, and a nineteenth-century chandelier. Glass cabinets held items made from sterling silver, plaited horsehair, hand-carved jade and WWF-certified wood. If you wanted a butt plug made from Meissen porcelain, then Freddie was your man.

  All of this I knew from an article in the ES magazine. Bombaste was the sex shop du jour for celebrities of every stripe. Photographs featured grinning supermodels, actors and the current England cricket captain holding up brown paper carriers with the distinctive B logo blazoned across their front.

  Featured in the window display was a brown leather tawse on a Perspex plinth. It probably cost what most people earn in a month. I stared at the burnished whip for a minute, trying to get some inspiration as to how to play things. Not being a member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary meant that I couldn’t just wander in and demand to be told stuff. Subterfuge might be necessary. If not downright lying.

  A bell jingled and an assistant came out from behind a vintage cash till. In her mid-thirties, she was a plumpish woman wearing a black dress and scarlet lipstick. Her smile seemed genuine and caused my confidence to rise a degree or two. ‘May I help you?’ she asked in a West Country accent.

  ‘I wonder if you can,’ I said. ‘Were you working in the shop on Tuesday the fourteenth?’

  The woman’s smile disappeared. ‘Is there some kind of problem?’ she asked.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said reassuringly. ‘A friend of my wife’s bought an outfit. She loved it and I want a surprise for her fiftieth.’

  Although the word ‘outfit’ made it sound like we were standing in Debenhams, it was the best I could do, having no idea what Harry had used her card to pay for.

  ‘We get a lot of people in,’ the assistant said, ‘and it might not have been me who served her. What does your wife’s friend look like?’ My description rang no bells. ‘And you’ve absolutely no idea what she bought?’

  ‘I know it was about eight hundred pounds, if that helps.’

  ‘I’ll check the daybook. Everything over five hundred we write down.’

  The assistant went back behind the till to consult a ledger. I perused a selection of love eggs. According to a handwritten card, concubines in the Secret Palace had used them to strengthen their pelvic floors. Of course, they’d all died and crumbled into dust long ago. One day you’re busy giving your snatch a workout, the next you’re shaking hands with the Reaper. Such is the human condition.

  ‘Actually, I do remember her.’ The assistant was back at my side. ‘She was going to La Cage that night and wanted something with a bit of wow. She bought the Marlene in the end. It looked terrific on her. Want to take a look?’

  ‘Why not?’ I said.

  At the far end of the shop were racks of garments. The assistant pulled a grey silk dress off the rail that had a kind of rope motif around the bust and hips.

  ‘What d’you think?’ she said, holding it up.

  The dress was an exact copy of the one that Harry Parr’s corpse had been wearing, right down to the thin leather draw belt that had been used to strangle her.

  ‘Very classy,’ I managed to say.

  ‘Yeah,’ the assistant agreed. ‘This is one of the nicest things we do. Mind you, you’ve got to make an effort when you’re going to La Cage.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think I’ve heard of the place,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not on the scene, then?’

  ‘The wife and I are thinking about it.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to start with LC. Unless you’ve got an introduction, you won’t get through the front door.’

  Not another bloody private members’ club.

  ‘Assuming we did, what kind of thing would I have to wear?’

  ‘Probably your best bet’s a tux,’ the assistant said, after casting an appraising eye over me. ‘Although you could wear a vest and chaps if you wanted to go for it.’

  ‘Tux sounds better,’ I said. ‘Where’s the club based, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘Causal Street in Mayfair,’ she said. ‘D’you want to take the dress?’

  ‘Actually, I think it might be best if I brought Margot in to try it on.’

  ‘We have a full exchange policy . . .’

  ‘If we came in person then we could pick up a few other things as well. By the way, when my wife’s friend came in, was she with anyone? We’d heard rumours she was back with her husband.’

  Now that her chance of making a sale was disappearing, so was the assistant’s obliging attitude. ‘I think she was on her own,’ she said, looking over my shoulder. ‘D’you mind if I leave you for a while and serve someone else?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Bar Bernie on Wardour Street was a culinary time capsule. Opened in the early fifties, it had served chips with everything to Teds, mods, punks, New Romantics and emos, not to mention three generations of Berwick Street stallholders and production-company runners. Its seats were upholstered in thick green vinyl, and the framed poster by the door showed a bleached-out shot of Rimini. It was a world-class caff that would doubtless become a sushi bar when Bernie Jr hung up his apron.

  As usual the booths were occupied and I had to settle for one of the Formica-topped tables in the middle of the room. I’d just bitten into a ham roll when my phone began to ring. I hadn’t called or texted Stephie since she forwar
ded the link to the Manchester flat. My finger hovered above the Accept button until the call went to voicemail. It wasn’t the warmest message I’d ever received.

  ‘Kenny, I sent you the apartment details yesterday. If you don’t want to go then okay, but at least let me know, for fuck’s sake.’

  What with recent events, Stephie’s offer hadn’t been uppermost in my mind. That didn’t mean I hadn’t thought about it at all. What was holding me back was a mystery – fear of change, or something more fundamental? Until I had an answer, there wasn’t much point in calling her. On the other hand, if I didn’t call her pretty soon it wouldn’t really matter. Next week she would be gone and that would be that.

  One way or the other, I resolved to let Stephie know that evening. Then I searched on my phone for information about La Cage. There was no official site, and precious little information of any sort. A sex directory said that it was members-only and virtually impossible to join. Eventually I found an article about decadent London in which it was mentioned as the legendary club for the kinky elite.

  Whatever demographic I was in, it wasn’t the kinky elite. But if I hired myself a dinner suit from Lipman’s and had a haircut and shave, then I might just pass for suburban depraved. All three activities went on the following day’s to-do list.

  Harry had been murdered wearing the Bombaste dress. She’d told the assistant that she had been intending to wear it to La Cage, which didn’t mean she had actually worn it there. Intending to do something and doing it are two different things, as I knew from my own life experiences.

  I arrived back at the flat to find the Parminto Deli packed with shoppers keen on buying slabs of hazelnut tofu and vegan cheddar. I turned the key in the lock of the door and wondered if I wasn’t being too dismissive. There had to be a reason the place was making a small fortune. Maybe I should check it out.

  It was the last thing that went through my mind before a hand covered my mouth and a forearm folded round my throat.

  ‘Gimme one reason I shouldn’t break your fucking neck,’ a familiar voice hissed in my ear. ‘I tell you to keep me up to speed and you don’t make a single call.’