Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  ‘She was friendly with Callum Parsons.’

  Judging by Frank’s silence, this seemed almost as much of a surprise about Harry as the revelation concerning her sexuality.

  ‘What d’you mean by friendly?’ he asked.

  ‘They met at a book signing. Harry knew that you and Callum had been business partners. He runs a centre for recovering addicts and she visited a couple of times.’

  ‘She was a druggie as well as being gay?’ Frank sounded as though he expected ‘practising Satanist’ to be next on my list of revelations.

  ‘No,’ I reassured him, ‘but she was interested in the work the centre did. According to Callum, she planned to quit Griffin and help out as a fundraiser.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She didn’t talk to you about that?’

  ‘Of course she didn’t. It’s complete bollocks. Harry had been on at me to make her MD for years. Why would she suddenly change her mind and throw her life away on a bunch of alkies?’

  ‘I’m just telling you what Callum said, Frank.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘Because he might be connected to her murder. Or hadn’t that crossed your mind?’

  ‘What’s his motive?’

  ‘Revenge. You know how much money he lost cashing his shares out early. In his fucked-up head, that’s all my fault.’

  There wasn’t much point informing Frank about how Callum had found enlightenment and tranquillity. Far better to move the conversation in a different direction. ‘Have you heard anything from the police?’ I asked.

  ‘All they’ll say is that they’re pursuing multiple lines of inquiry.’

  ‘Will you have a word with Farrelly?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Tell him not to come after me.’

  ‘He’s gonna take some convincing.’

  ‘Yeah, but he listens to you, Frank.’

  ‘Just don’t piss him off any more.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to piss him off in the first place.’

  ‘And I want you to find out more about that fucking weasel.’

  ‘What weasel?’

  ‘Callum Parsons.’

  ‘Look, Frank,’ I said, ‘I’m not really sure—’

  He broke the call before I could finish the sentence.

  It had gone one when I woke up in Stephie’s spare room. It took a few moments for my brain to work out where I was. The events of the previous twelve hours surfaced like a smack of deadly jellyfish. I groaned and my head sank back on to the pillow.

  On a chest of drawers was a photograph of Don standing next to A. P. McCoy. Both men were beaming. The jockey was wearing mud-spattered silks. Stephie’s husband had been over six foot tall. The disparity in height lent the picture a comic aspect. Don had maintained that riders were great company, as the fact that they could break their necks in any race made them squeeze the marrow from each and every day.

  What were the odds that, a few years after the photograph had been taken, the jockey would be enjoying a happy retirement and the bookie would be cold in his grave? Sometimes I wonder how human beings can blithely walk the earth when our existence is so precarious. All it takes is a random kink in our DNA or a chunk of burger going down the wrong way and it’s game over.

  A fresh towel lay on the bottom of the bed, along with a toothbrush still in its wrapper. I carried both into the bathroom, where I examined my face in the mirror. Grey stubble covered my jaw and my hair resembled fronds of diseased seaweed clinging to a misshapen rock. It was going to take quite a bit of work to make myself presentable. Were it not for the banging on the door, I would happily have spent an hour under the soothing jets of the shower.

  I switched off the unit and heard Stephie’s voice. ‘I’ve bought you some fresh underwear and socks,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave them outside.’

  ‘Thanks, Steph.’

  ‘And a pair of Jamie’s old jeans and a jumper.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Fancy some eggs and bacon?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Well, they’ll be ready in ten minutes, so shift your arse.’

  Stephie’s son was taller and broader than his father. Thankfully his Levis came with a belt that just about kept them around my waist. The sweater was a mustard V-neck that matched the bruising around my eye. Whatever my sartorial shortcomings were, at least I no longer resembled a three-week-old river corpse.

  The kitchen had been fitted out to give it a rustic feel. The units had oak doors and the floor was covered in terracotta tiles. Stephie was standing next to a steel range on which a pan sizzled. The smell of frying bacon reminded me that I hadn’t eaten in a while. On a pine table was a steaming cup of coffee. I sat and gulped half of it down.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Stephie asked.

  ‘Loads.’

  ‘Did you speak to Frank Parr?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s going to have a word with Farrelly.’

  ‘Will he listen to him?’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘You look half-human at least,’ she said after a quick appraisal. ‘God knows what the neighbours thought.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone saw me.’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  Stephie placed three rashers of bacon, a couple of eggs and a plump banger in front of me. I concentrated on doing the fry-up some serious damage before resuming the conversation. ‘You’ve closed the V, I take it?’

  She took a swig of tea and shook her head. ‘Antonio might not be selling the building after all.’

  Jack Rigatelli’s brother lived in Milan. Stephie had assumed that Antonio would put the building on the market. My spirits rose at the news he might not.

  ‘Then there’s no need for you to move to Manchester.’

  Stephie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at me levelly for a few seconds. ‘Do you ever listen to a word I say, Kenny?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, opting to lay a forkful of sausage back on the plate.

  ‘I’m not going to Manchester because the Vesuvius is closing down. I’m going because I need change in my life.’

  ‘Yeah, I get that, Steph. But remember what Dr Johnson said . . .’

  ‘Take one of these a day and get some counselling?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t she prescribe the antidepressants?’

  ‘No, that was Dr Leach. I’m talking about the Dr Johnson. Boswell wrote his biography . . .’ No recognition from Stephie. ‘He said that anyone tired of London was tired of life.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before and it’s total bollocks. Check out Oxford Street on a Monday morning, if you don’t believe me. Everyone looks as though they’re trudging towards a firing squad.’

  ‘And up north they’re clog-dancing over the cobbles?’

  ‘At least there’s a sense of community there.’

  ‘Yeah, and you can get yourself a portion of mushy peas and an Eccles cake and still have change out of a tenner to buy yourself a whippet.’

  ‘Well, you’re obviously not coming, so that’s sorted out at least.’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘Sounded like it to me.’

  A shrill beeping filled the air. Stephie jumped up and ran to the stove, where the frying pan was smouldering. She switched the gas off and dumped the pan into the sink. Steam billowed as she ran cold water over it.

  The alarm was located halfway up one of the walls. I stood on a kitchen chair and prodded the Reset button with my forefinger. Nothing. I prodded it again. The beeping seemed to get louder, as though I were pressing a volume button.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with it?’ I asked.

  Stephie was opening a window. ‘Just leave it, Kenny,’ she said, hooking it on the latch. ‘The alarm stops when the smoke clears.’

  ‘You should still be able to switch the fucking thing
off, though.’

  I gave the red button its hardest prod yet. The unit detached and fell to the floor. The beeping changed key for a few seconds and then stopped entirely.

  ‘Well done,’ Stephie said.

  ‘I’ll stick it back up,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t bother. It can be a job for whoever moves in next.’

  Stephie picked the alarm up and dumped it into the swing bin while I got down from the chair. A strong breeze was coming through the window.

  ‘Why me, Stephie?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did you ask me to move with you?’

  ‘Are you fishing for compliments?’

  ‘Nope. I’m curious, that’s all. The nearest thing we’ve had to a normal date was when we went to Pizza Express. So I’ll ask again: why me?’

  ‘You might not like the answer . . .’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  Stephie put her hands on her hips and exhaled heavily. ‘Okay, then . . . You’re kind and you’re usually good fun to be around.’

  ‘Happy so far.’

  ‘You’re generous and you’re intelligent.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Obviously it works well in bed . . .’

  ‘I’m sensing there’s a but on the way.’

  Stephie bit her bottom lip. ‘I think you’re the loneliest person I’ve ever met,’ she said. ‘Sometimes in the club, when you’re surrounded by people, it’s like you’re standing in the middle of a desert.’

  ‘Probably because I’m bored shitless.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Whoever you’re with, you’re always on your own. Unless it was Jack, of course, and now he’s gone . . .’

  ‘You think I need to work on my social skills?’

  ‘No, Kenny, you need to work on your liking-other-people skills. The funny thing is, I thought I was totally safe when we first slept together because there was no chance we’d become emotionally involved.’

  ‘It wasn’t my rugged good looks and sexual charisma, then?’ Not a flicker of a smile on Stephie’s lips. ‘Are we emotionally involved?’ I asked.

  ‘I think we could be, Kenny. But if you don’t, then fair enough.’

  I thought about Don’s Lexus sliding under a truck on the M1 on his way back from Chester Races. Then an image of Bella Sherren waiting for the cancer cells to complete their inexorable multiplication came to mind. The charity would inherit the house and the world move on as though the old woman had never been in it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Stephie,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Kenny. You can’t feel what you can’t feel.’

  ‘I meant sorry for being such a dickhead. I must need my bumps feeling to even have to think twice about this.’

  Stephie’s forehead creased as though I’d presented her with a testing crossword clue. ‘Is that a yes, then?’ she asked.

  ‘When do we leave?’ I replied.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Oddly enough there wasn’t much conversation after the Manchester move was sealed. Things seemed a little awkward, if anything. Stephie said it was fantastic, and that she’d email me details of the flat she’d rented; I muttered something about remembering to notify the utilities and the phone company. She asked if I wanted another coffee; I replied that I’d better be off. Fifteen minutes after agreeing to the biggest change in my life in forty years, I was standing on the pavement checking my mobile. That said, even Atriliac would have had a hard time giving anyone the sense of lightness I felt knowing that, in a week’s time, I’d be two hundred miles away from Soho with a new life, a new job and a new partner.

  And that was before I read Frank’s text.

  Farrelly had been pacified. I forwarded the location of his car and said I’d be in touch when I’d investigated Callum Parsons more thoroughly. I intended to do some noodling on the web and maybe make a phone call or two – Frank was the client, after all – but in my book there were more relevant people to research.

  I opened the flat’s front door with a high degree of caution. Rottweilers occasionally disregard their masters’ commands. The two hours of sleep I’d grabbed at Stephie’s had begun to wear off and I was strongly tempted to soak in a hot bath before hitting the sack. Instead I made a black coffee into which I added a shot of Monarch. Then I settled down to consider my next move.

  Either Dervla Bishop had been fibbing to me about the status of her relationship with Harry Parr, or Harry had been bullshitting Rocco. The question was: why would either of them lie? As only one remained in the land of the living, it simplified matters when it came to searching for an answer. I knocked back my coffee and called Dervla.

  ‘Hello,’ she said after the phone had rung a dozen times.

  ‘Dervla, it’s Kenny.’

  ‘Who?’ It wasn’t a good start.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel. We spoke about Harry Parr yesterday.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Dervla’s clipped tone indicated that she didn’t welcome a second conversation. Under different circumstances I’d have asked if it was a good time to talk. As things were, I got to the point. ‘I was with Rocco Holtby this morning.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘He said that you and Harry were still seeing each other a couple of weeks before she died.’

  ‘How would he know that?’

  ‘She told him. Or do you think he’s lying?’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ The rap music in the background was silenced. ‘Probably not,’ Dervla said. ‘There’s every chance Harry told him we were still together.’

  ‘Even though you weren’t?’

  A heartfelt sigh from Dervla. ‘Harry was a fantasist. That’s why she was into S and M. It gave her the opportunity to do lots of role-playing. If she didn’t get what she wanted out of a situation then she’d make up her own version of reality and convince herself it was true.’

  ‘Which is why she told Rocco she was seeing you?’

  ‘If you’re not prepared to take my word for it, do some research into stalkers. Most of them are convinced they’re in a relationship with their victim.’

  ‘Harry was a stalker?’ Dervla had said that Harry had been a nuisance. This seemed quite an upgrade.

  ‘How else do you describe someone who calls you every ten minutes and spends hours waiting outside your studio?’

  ‘You didn’t mention that when we spoke.’

  ‘I’m mentioning it now.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report her to the police?’

  ‘Because I decided to give her one last chance.’

  ‘Which she took?’

  ‘Over three months ago.’ Dervla’s tone had been chilling rapidly throughout our exchanges. By now icicles were hanging off it. ‘I’ve told you everything I know about Harry Parr,’ she said. ‘Bother me again and I’ll report you to the police. Understood?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us have work to do.’

  I’ve received my fair share of bollockings in Odeerie’s employ. People trying to dodge their creditors aren’t too thrilled when you start asking questions as to whether they used to live at such-and-such address or remember signing a particular finance agreement. Rarely had I been dressed down with such clinical precision.

  It’s been my experience that when people lie under pressure they become shouty or matey. Dervla had sounded exasperated, but measured. Judging by her tone, I believed her. Of course, she and Rocco could both have been telling the truth if Harry Parr was someone who cross-hatched fantasy and reality. But did that really chime with what I’d been told by friends and family?

  Frank had made her the MD of his company, and Rocco had described a woman who was ruthless when it came to making decisions. Callum Parsons’ version of Harry had leant more towards a compassionate individual prepared to sacrifice her career for the benefit of others. The only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that she had been a gal with a temper who could go into one when the mood t
ook her.

  Buddhists believe there can be no such thing as a fixed personality when the universe is in a state of constant flux. The theory made sense when applied to Harry Parr. Depending on the prevailing conditions, she seemed to be able to go in any one of a number of directions.

  Of course, one of these had led to her death and one thing was indubitably true: if I sat on my arse smoking fags, drinking laced coffee and contemplating the nature of impermanence, then I wasn’t going to be any closer to finding out who had ushered Harry Parr into the next dimension.

  I looked up Anna Jennings, the journalist who had told Roger she had a big story about Frank. LinkedIn revealed that she wrote primarily about business matters, had studied law at Reading University and was available for copywriting. The photograph was of a brunette in her early thirties with a large nose and a big smile.

  All I had was Anna’s email address. To acquire a more direct means of contact, I would have to be a bit creative. I went to the Gazette’s website and discovered that the feature editor’s name was Roy Parker. Then I called the switchboard and asked to be put through to Accounts Payable. A bored-sounding woman answered the phone.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Jackie Murrell.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Jackie. Roy Parker here. How are you?’

  ‘Er, yeah – good, thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry to bother you but I’ve lost the details for a freelancer. Anna Jennings gave us the story about Frank Parr and the Post. Don’t know if you remember it?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Good to know the staff are reading the paper,’ I said, and chuckled ingratiatingly. ‘Anyway, she’s working on something else for us and I need to chase her up for a deadline. Thing is, I’ve only got her email address and I need a number. Any chance you could be a sweetheart and pull one of her old invoices up?’

  ‘One minute,’ Jackie said. It was nearer two minutes before she was on the line again. ‘There’s a mobile and a landline. Which d’you want?’

  ‘Might as well take ’em both.’ Jackie obliged and read out the numbers. ‘And is she still based at Lansdowne Road?’

  ‘Not according to her letter heading,’ Jackie said. ‘It says 34C Bydale Road.’