Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  ‘When’s the last time you had a decent meal?’

  ‘1997.’

  ‘Seriously, Kenny.’

  ‘I don’t know. A couple of days ago, maybe.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. No wonder you feel like shit.’

  She reached into one of her bags and produced a salami and a loaf of bread. My stomach regained an interest in life.

  ‘No mustard?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, sunshine,’ she replied.

  While Stephie was in the kitchen, I checked out her copy of the Standard. The front page carried a photo of Frank leaving his house in Eaton Square. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. AGONY OF A FATHER was the headline. Most of the article on page four detailed Frank’s rise to fame from pornographer to media mogul. Hard facts about the search for his daughter’s killer were few and far between.

  There was a picture of Harry further down the page. Her smiling face provided a marked contrast to her father’s haggard features. If psychopaths were incapable of feelings, then Frank was in the clear. Stephie returned, carrying a tray.

  ‘This was meant for a dinner party, so I hope you’re grateful.’

  She laid the tray on the table, took one of the mugs and settled on the opposite sofa. I took a sip of tea and bit into freshly baked bread and cured meat.

  ‘Taste all right?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Make sure you drink the tea.’

  I nodded and took a couple of sips. ‘Stephie, I don’t know what came over me back there.’

  ‘You found a dead body. It’s bound to have an effect.’

  ‘I was fine at the time.’

  ‘It’s delayed shock, probably.’

  It was a testament to the quality of Lina’s salami, and the fact that I was absolutely starving, that even the mention of dead bodies didn’t affect my appetite. A minute later all that remained was a scatter of crumbs.

  ‘Want another?’ Stephie asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Who’s the dinner party for?’

  ‘To say goodbye to my neighbours.’ There was an awkward hiatus in the conversation. ‘Now that you’ve found Frank’s daughter, that’s you off the job, presumably,’ Stephie said.

  ‘He wants me to follow up.’

  ‘Follow up on what? The girl’s dead.’

  ‘There are a few loose ends.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A couple of people who need checking out.’

  ‘Shouldn’t the police be doing that?’

  ‘Frank’s not a big fan.’

  Stephie folded her arms and frowned. ‘When you say a couple of people, you’re talking about murder suspects, right?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Harry had some associates who might be able to point us in the right direction.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they tell the police if they knew anything?’

  ‘They might not be aware they do.’

  ‘And let’s say someone does give you a heads up? What then?’

  ‘I report back to Frank.’

  ‘Who’s not a big fan of the police?’ I shook my head. ‘And who used to know a few people who don’t exactly play by the rules?’

  ‘He’s a legitimate businessman now.’

  ‘Dream on, Kenny. Tell Frank Parr you know who killed his daughter and he’s not going to say thanks very much and pass the information on.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Stephie?’

  ‘You know exactly what I’m suggesting.’

  She may have had a point but it wouldn’t be Frank I’d be telling. Either I reported my suspicions to Farrelly, who would act on them with extreme prejudice, or the police got there first, which meant that Satan’s chauffeur would be coming after me. Not a happy outcome in either instance.

  ‘And what happens if you don’t tell the cops?’ Stephie continued. ‘If they find out that you’ve withheld information, you’ll be in deep shit.’

  ‘Thanks, Steph, you’re making me feel a lot better.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that you’re out of your depth. Why not tell Frank that you’ve done as much as you can and cash your chips in?’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  Stephie’s phone trilled. She pulled it out of her bag, examined the screen, and opted not to answer. I had a feeling about what was coming next.

  ‘About Manchester . . .’ she began.

  ‘I’ve been mad busy, Stephie.’

  ‘That why you haven’t been in the V recently?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Not because you couldn’t face telling me that you don’t want to go.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘But you really don’t want to go?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to give it much thought.’

  Stephie examined my features in much the same way DI Standish had when questioning me. Although she looked a lot better, it still made me feel guilty.

  ‘I don’t get why this is such a hard decision, Kenny. Moving’s always inconvenient but you won’t be filling half a dozen Pickford vans.’ Stephie looked round the room to emphasise her point. At best you could describe the flat as refreshingly uncluttered; at worst it had the ambience of a safe house. ‘And if things don’t work out,’ she continued, ‘then I’m sure your brother will keep the place available for a few months. All it’s used for is out-of-town clients, isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘When’s the last time one stayed here?’

  ‘February.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Two nights.’

  ‘Not exactly burning your bridges, then.’

  ‘What about work?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Odeerie won’t hold my job open.’

  ‘Then you’ll sign on until you find another. Your brother’s not charging you rent, which means there’s minimal financial risk . . .’ Stephie shook her head as though something had just occurred to her. ‘Jesus, would you listen to me,’ she said. ‘Here I am selling you the idea when by rights it should be the other way round.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why isn’t it, Kenny?’

  There was no ready answer. I’d been telling the truth about not thinking about Stephie’s offer but she was right: what was there to think about? No reason I shouldn’t say yes there and then. ‘Give me another couple of days,’ I said.

  Stephie responded with an exasperated sigh.

  ‘If you haven’t decided by next Tuesday,’ she said, gathering her bags together, ‘you can forget the whole thing.’

  ‘I just need to be absolutely sure.’

  ‘No one’s ever absolutely sure about anything in life.’ Stephie stood up from the sofa. ‘I’ve left the bread and the salami in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Drink lots of water and make sure you get a decent night’s sleep.’

  ‘Thanks, Steph.’

  ‘That is what you’re going to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’d be a fool not to,’ I said.

  EIGHTEEN

  After Stephie left, I made myself another sandwich and brewed up a pot of strong coffee, into which went a couple of shots of Monarch. For a while I thought about Manchester, but couldn’t come to a conclusion. Then I spent a while wondering why I couldn’t come to a conclusion about Manchester. More whisky didn’t give me any greater clarity but did make me feel better.

  At ten o’clock I climbed into my dinner suit. Looking in the mirror, it was all I could do not to pull an imaginary Walther out of a non-existent shoulder holster and put a couple of rounds into the sofa. The Monarch had weaved its magic and I felt decidedly optimistic about charming the doorman at La Cage.

  How hard could it be to get into a sex club?

  Several of Causal Street’s three-storey town houses had been converted into antique shops, and two minor African countries had embassies there. One blue plaque commemorated the residency of a lady novelist in the early 1930s, another a sculptor twenty years later. Now its private residents were mostly o
ligarchs or sheiks.

  A Persian carpet gallery and a merchant bank flanked number thirty-four. Its brickwork had been painted dark grey, as opposed to the pristine white its neighbours had opted for. This and the ebony front door gave the place a forbidding aspect that served to neutralise the Monarch’s feel-good factor.

  I double-checked that I wasn’t about to blag my way into the Eritrean High Commission and pressed the bell. A guy in his forties answered promptly.

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘Is this La Cage?’

  ‘You’re mistaken, I’m afraid, sir.’

  The doorman’s charcoal suit could have graced the wardrobe of a CEO and his side-parted hair had been neatly clipped. That said, he was six inches taller than me, and you could have stacked a dinner service on his shoulders.

  ‘My friend recommended I come along,’ I said.

  ‘And your friend’s name would be?’

  ‘Freddie Tomms.’ Hopefully the owner of Bombaste was both a member at La Cage and not on the premises that night.

  ‘I take it you aren’t a member, then, sir.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to apply.’

  From inside the building came the distant sound of a woman cackling as though she’d just heard the punchline of a killer joke. ‘We aren’t accepting new members currently,’ the doorman said. ‘Thank you for enquiring, though.’

  ‘Perhaps I could join for just one evening?’ I said before he could close the door.

  The fan of fifties I was holding seemed to have no effect and I began to feel like a wallflower at a Regency ball. Maybe it was the little rustle I gave them that caused Mr Polite to overcome his bashfulness and pluck them from my grasp.

  ‘Contravene club rules and your membership will be cancelled with immediate effect,’ he said, tucking the notes into his inside pocket. ‘Got that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said.

  Soft lighting caused the hallway’s maroon wallpaper to glow like the membrane of a living organ. A series of antique prints featured an impassive Japanese couple in kimonos going at it in a variety of positions. Above a walnut side table, the samurai held a stick over the geisha’s bare bottom. He looked every bit as inscrutable as he did in the other pictures, but there was the hint of a smile on his partner’s face.

  While the doorman hung my coat up, I scanned the room. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a Praxis 950 attached to the folds of a ceiling rose. Tiny but powerful, it was Odeerie’s favoured surveillance camera. With a bit of luck it was switched on. With a bit more luck someone kept the recordings longer than a week. If so, hopefully I could persuade them to let me see the tapes.

  The doorman locked the closet and crossed the room. He slid open a drawer in the side table and took out a polished wooden disc.

  ‘The club is laid out on the ground and first floor. On the left is the drawing room, where drinks are available from the waiters. Show them this when you’re served and you’ll be presented with your bill at the end of the evening.’ The disc had 33 carved into both sides. I slipped it into my jacket pocket. ‘Every hour, until three o’clock, there’s a performance in the Opal Room. Each has a different theme and lasts approximately fifteen minutes. Guests are welcome to attend as many performances as they wish. Should they want to use a dark room then a host will escort them to the first floor. All are fully equipped. If one isn’t available then you’ll be placed on a list and called when it’s ready.’

  ‘What’s on the second floor?’ I asked.

  ‘Guests are forbidden on the second floor.’

  ‘I just wondered what’s up there.’

  ‘Does it matter if you’re never going to see it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I said, and smiled.

  ‘Follow me,’ the doorman said.

  Whoever owned La Cage must have had shares in a candle factory. The interior of the drawing room was lit by dozens of them. On every wall bar one was a huge gilt mirror that reflected the flickering flames and the thirty or so occupants. They ranged in age from mid-twenties up to a gent in a wheelchair who had to be nudging ninety.

  A couple of men in suits looked as though they’d just finished a hard day flogging derivatives, but not everyone was dressed so formally. Two of the younger guests had jeans on and the geezer in the chair wore a candlewick dressing gown over a pair of pyjamas. He could have been about to enter an operating theatre to have his gallbladder removed. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be the floorshow.

  Men outnumbered women two to one, and everyone reeked of wealth. I felt entirely out of my element, like a fly that had crash-landed into a glass of vintage port. The wall that lacked a mirror served as the screen for an amateur porn movie.

  The grainy footage wobbled occasionally and looked as though it had been filmed on a Super 8 camera. A woman with a helmet hairdo was sitting on a chaise longue. The top of her blue satin dress had been pulled down to reveal her breasts and she was wearing a diamond choker that was either excellent paste or completely uninsurable. In her mouth was an amber cigarette holder and she had an erect penis in each hand.

  On her face was the look of studied concentration that the fairly pissed get when attempting something mechanical. Often it’s trying to insert a key into a lock; in this instance it was attempting to masturbate a brace of gigantic cocks to completion.

  As I didn’t know anyone else in the room, the film gave me something to focus on. There was also something about the woman’s aristocratic features that was familiar. I’d just worked out why when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Enjoying the movie?’ said the guy standing beside me.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’ I asked.

  ‘Could be a lookalike, but she did start to go off the rails in the sixties. There were even rumours involving the Stones.’

  The guy had silver hair, perma-tanned features, and was wearing a suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars. We continued to watch the movie until a second spurt of semen brought proceedings to a close.

  ‘It’s definitely her,’ I said. ‘Where the hell did the film come from?’

  ‘I think Bella’s had it in her collection for a while. She was probably reluctant to show it, for obvious reasons, but I suppose she’s beyond caring now.’

  ‘My name’s Clive,’ I said.

  ‘Neither is mine,’ the guy said. ‘You can call me Charlie.’

  ‘Who’s Bella?’ I asked after we shook.

  ‘The owner of La Cage.’

  ‘Is she in here?’

  ‘No,’ Charlie said, and changed the subject. ‘Nice to see you dressed up for the occasion.’

  ‘I was at an awards do on Park Lane.’

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘How about a drink to celebrate?’ He nodded at a muscular guy in a black waistcoat who stopped in his tracks. ‘Vodka tonic for me, Oliver, and a . . .’

  ‘Whisky and ginger ale,’ I said. ‘No ice.’ The waiter nodded and left. ‘Don’t you have to show him your wooden thingy?’ I asked Charlie.

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘One of these,’ I said, taking mine from my pocket.

  ‘Oh, right. I see what you mean. Actually, I’m a regular.’

  ‘Then you might be able to help me,’ I said. ‘The person who introduced me to the club hasn’t been around for a while. I wonder if you remember seeing her at all.’

  I showed Charlie a shot of Harry Parr on my phone. ‘Can’t say I recognise her,’ he said. ‘And a word to the wise, old boy. Waving your mobile around’s rather frowned upon. You’ll have to leave it with a host if you go to one of the dark rooms. People tend to be a little camera-shy.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘As a matter of interest, who uses the rooms?’

  ‘Anyone and everyone.’

  ‘I hear things can get a little wild.’

  ‘Not so much in La Cage. You might be thinking of some of the other
clubs.’

  ‘What if you’re on your own?’

  ‘Anonymity’s often the point. But if it makes you feel better, I can make a few introductions.’

  Before I could thank him, a gong sounded behind us.

  ‘The first performance of the night will begin in five minutes,’ announced a waiter. ‘Guests attending, please make your way to the Opal Room.’

  Despite Charlie’s heads-up on La Cage’s mobile protocol, I’d intended to show Harry’s picture to as many people as I could before getting thrown out. It was a plan that would have to be put on ice for a while, as there was an immediate surge towards the door spearheaded by the guy in the wheelchair.

  ‘Are you going in?’ I asked Charlie.

  ‘You bet,’ he said, ‘although I need to catch up with someone for a couple of minutes. Any chance you can save me a seat?’

  ‘No problem,’ I told him.

  The chairs in the Opal Room were arranged in a semicircle as though we were the audience for a business presentation. In front of us was a large frame supporting two sturdy crosspieces. At the end of each strut was a leather cuff. The interior designer had gone for a Moroccan effect, using diaphanous wall hangings and oriental rugs. Meagre light came from a chandelier operating on a glow-worm voltage. Adding to the atmosphere was the sweetness of incense, and the sound of a mournful oboe.

  Conversational buzz died down, prompted by an increase in the volume of the music. A door opened and three women entered. Two brunettes were wearing thigh-length boots over stockings held up by suspenders. Between them was a naked blonde. They made their way to the front, with Blondie putting up the occasional token struggle. Whenever she did, one of her escorts would slap her face and call her a worthless slut. By the time they had her buckled on to the cross it felt as though gravity in the room had multiplied several times over.

  After more verbal abuse one of the escorts produced a paddle and brought it down on to her victim’s behind with a satisfying splat. A shriek earned her another two strokes. Then the second escort got in on the act. Her crop didn’t sound anything like as dramatic, but the girl’s yells had a more urgent quality when the leather tip bit into the parabolic flesh of her beautiful bottom.