Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Cartwright?’

  Frank exhaled heavily. ‘Broken jaw and a ruptured spleen.’

  ‘Did she go to the police?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He got away with it?’

  ‘Farrelly said Cartwright would be expecting some sort of retaliation and that he’d see to it when the time was right.’

  ‘You let Farrelly take care of it?’

  ‘Half the Met knew I was in Cartwright’s pocket. If anything linked me to his killing they’d have hauled me in. Trust me, if there’s one thing I could do differently in my life, that would be it. And if you really want to know . . .’ Frank leant back in his chair. Seconds ticked away before he looked at me again. ‘That’s why Eddie Jenkins had his teeth yanked. Farrelly knew if I didn’t get it out of my system, I’d probably go nuts. That’s why he didn’t stop me laying into him.’

  ‘Yeah, that and the fact that he’s almost as big a fucking sadist as Cartwright was. What really happened that night, Frank?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Did the two of you go all the way? Because I’ve had Odeerie try a few times and he can’t find hide nor hair of an Eddie Jenkins around his age. And if Anna Jennings knows you killed him then it won’t matter how many favours you’ve done the Under-Secretary for Cuntish Affairs. They’ll send you and Farrelly down for life.’

  ‘He walked out of the club twenty minutes after you did. Eddie Jenkins probably wasn’t his real name. And even if it was, we didn’t murder the guy.’

  Frank was many things; a liar wasn’t one of them. There was every chance that Eddie had been going under an alias. The Galaxy’s waiting staff were paid cash in hand. Several probably had good reason to keep their identity secret.

  ‘What happened to April?’ I asked.

  ‘She discharged herself from hospital.’

  ‘And went where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense. If she was so crazy about you, why would she vanish like that?’

  The muscles in Frank’s jaw clenched and unclenched. He looked at the photograph like a man with vertigo compelled to stare over a precipice. If I’d wanted to do him a favour, I’d have taken the thing off the table.

  It stayed where it was.

  ‘When I visited April, she asked me what I thought the future was for us. She told me that I had to be completely honest, and I was.’

  ‘Meaning you dumped her?’

  ‘I couldn’t leave my wife.’

  ‘You managed it easily enough ten years later.’

  Frank’s shoulders tensed. For a moment I thought he was going to stick one on me. Then his body crumpled as though a fuse had blown in his emotional motherboard. ‘What’s done is done,’ he said. ‘You can’t make me feel any worse than I do already.’

  ‘Maybe not, but what if Anna Jennings has found April and got her story?’

  ‘Then I’ll deny it. There’s no proof we were seeing each other.’

  ‘You’re sure? No letters, nothing like that?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Did April know anything about your plans for Cartwright?’

  ‘I might have said something about killing the bastard, but that was just in the heat of the moment. She didn’t know anything specific.’

  ‘Even so, if it comes out what Cartwright did to her, and what you said afterwards, then it’s enough for the file to be reopened.’

  ‘I was two hundred miles away the night he was killed. There’s nothing that could connect me to him. And if this journo does have something, don’t you think Kirkleys would have printed it by now?’

  He had a point. Lord Kirkleys would leave himself open to one hell of a libel suit if he called Frank a cop-killer without rock-solid corroboration. And now that his rival had withdrawn from the Post bid, there was no need to do it anyway.

  ‘But you know what?’ Frank continued. ‘I almost wish he would.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t they reckon what you do in this life affects what happens to you in the next?’

  ‘You mean karma?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Frank. ‘Although maybe you don’t always have to wait. Maybe you get what you deserve before you go. What happened to Harry could be punishment for what happened to April.’

  ‘Apart from: wouldn’t that be punishing Harry?’

  ‘She’s dead. I’ve got live with it.’

  Was he right? Does the wrong we do to others come back to bite us in the arse, as the Dalai Lama probably wouldn’t have put it? I didn’t think so.

  ‘Life’s random, Frank. The only reason people invent things like karma is they can’t face the fact that everything we do is completely meaningless.’

  ‘Then why bother doing anything at all?’

  Before I could attempt an answer to Frank’s unanswerable question, the door opened and Farrelly walked into the Wise Owl. Our eyes locked and my stomach turned over. ‘I’m parked outside, Mr Parr,’ he said to his boss.

  ‘Okay,’ Frank said. ‘I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.’

  Farrelly walked to the door. He turned, pointed at me, and drew his finger slowly across his throat. Frank had his back to him but the waiter clocked it. Despite the fifty quid, he was probably regretting having opened up that day.

  I had a few regrets myself.

  ‘I’m quitting, Frank,’ I said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘For one thing I’m out of my depth, and for another I’m moving to Manchester.’

  Frank stood up. ‘Fair enough. I’ll make sure your invoice gets paid immediately.’ He offered me his hand. I didn’t accept it. He buttoned up his overcoat and smoothed its velvet collar. ‘You know, maybe all that karma business is cobblers. But I’ll tell you one thing that’s as true now as the first day I heard it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Character is destiny.’ Frank patted me on the cheek. ‘Good luck up north, Kenny,’ he said. ‘I’ve a feeling you’re gonna need it.’

  After he left, I stared at the picture for a while and thought about April. I’d been too chickenshit to tell her that Frank was bad news. If I had, then Cartwright might not have raped her and Eddie Jenkins might have dodged his session in the chair. I wouldn’t have walked out of the Galaxy and who knows what that would have led to?

  You can’t change the past but you can atone for it. I slipped the picture into my wallet. The few days before leaving for Manchester would be spent tracing April Thomson. When I found out where she was, I’d apologise for failing her.

  April was probably a granny by now; what had happened four decades ago just a terrible dream that surfaced now and then. My getting in touch would be doing her no favours at all, but of course atonement isn’t about other people.

  And character really is destiny.

  THIRTY-ONE

  By the time I got back to the flat, it was getting on for ten thirty. There was a voicemail message from Stephie asking if I wanted to load any of my stuff into the removal van she was hiring. In addition to this, I would also have to inform Malcolm that I would be leaving the flat, not to mention making arrangements to travel to Manchester. It was nothing that couldn’t wait until the following day.

  I ordered a Chinese and went online. Social media didn’t throw up anyone that could conceivably have been the right April Thomson. Not unless she’d remained single, put on five stone and become a nail technician in Montreal.

  April had always spoken fondly about her hometown. According to Wikipedia, Saltrossan was a village on the west coast of Scotland. Its main sources of income were a small fishing fleet, the local distillery and the tourists who almost doubled the population of 8,000 during the summer months.

  My last contact with April had been a card with a Glasgow postmark. The city was close enough to Saltrossan for her to visit fairly regularly. And if she had flown the coup entirely, someone might be able to point me in the right direction. In small communi
ties, the pub is often the best source of information. Saltrossan’s largest was the Bannock Hotel. I jotted down its number shortly before my food arrived.

  The crispy duck had either been laced with sedatives or my brain had decided that enough was enough. Five minutes after the last mouthful, it began to go into shutdown. I had just enough time to brush my teeth and undress before falling into bed. If I had any dreams during the subsequent ten hours, I couldn’t recall them.

  Someone had dumped a cheap brolly into a dustbin. Its skin had given way under the onslaught and wire spokes poked at peculiar angles. Fortunately I was traversing Brewer Street with one of Malcolm’s company golf umbrellas. On the one hand I was dry; on the other I felt like Bubba Watson marching down the dogleg ninth.

  In Meard Street a small group on the Soho Legends walk were traipsing in the wake of their sodden guide. Three hundred years ago, the guide was telling them, the connecting road to Dean Street had been home to Lizzie Flint, a prostitute who had been a favourite with Samuel Johnson. More recently the artist Sebastian Horsley had finally turned up his toes at number seven after a lifetime spent bingeing on hookers and smack.

  It was unlikely that my employer would interest the walkers. Their guide probably hadn’t mustered them around the entrance to Albion Mansions and announced that the noted skip-tracer and agoraphobic Odeerie Charles lived there.

  The fat man answered his buzzer quickly, under the misapprehension that I was an Ocado deliveryman. Judging by the disappointment in his voice, he wasn’t waiting on a consignment of brown rice and seasonal vegetables. I lowered the umbrella, entered the building, and rode the lift to the second floor. As usual, Odeerie had left his door ajar. He was wearing a tracksuit and trainers and he wasn’t pleased to see me.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ was his opening sally.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘That would be delightful.’

  Five minutes later, Odeerie appeared in his office with two steaming mugs and a packet of Hobnobs. He laid the tray on a table and passed me a mug. The other accompanied him to one of the sofas, as did the biscuits. He dunked one into his coffee and lowered it into his mouth, as though it were a freshly shucked oyster.

  ‘There’s someone I need to find,’ I said.

  Odeerie swallowed the biscuit and grunted. ‘Wouldn’t have anything to do with Harriet Parr, would it?’ he asked.

  ‘Not directly. I’m looking for someone I used to work with at Frank’s club.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Her name’s April Thomson.’

  ‘Presumably you’ve looked on the web.’

  ‘Most of social media. Thing is, she’s probably got married since the seventies.’

  Odeerie filleted another biscuit from the packet using an ocherous thumbnail. He repeated the dunking/gulping procedure. It wasn’t a pretty sight at that time of the morning. Actually, it wasn’t a pretty sight full stop.

  ‘Know where she lived?’ he asked.

  ‘Scotland. It could have been a place on the west coast called Saltrossan, or she might have lived in Glasgow for a while.’

  ‘Why d’you want to find her?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘You know how it works, Kenny. The more background I have, the more chance there is of tracking her down.’

  ‘What I tell you doesn’t leave this room.’

  Odeerie’s limpid brown eyes turned on me reproachfully. He laid the packet of Hobnobs aside, got up from the sofa and waddled to his desk. Rooting through its drawer, he found a notebook with a biro lodged in its spiral binding. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Tell me about it.’

  Whatever his other faults, Odeerie was an expert listener. He only interrupted to ask a couple of clarification questions, and barely lost eye contact while taking notes.

  For my part, I was entirely honest. Although I might think twice about leaving Odeerie alone in a room with a roasted chicken, I’d trust him with any amount of privileged information, even the kind that could result in multiple prosecutions.

  I concluded with my discussion with Frank in the Wise Owl, including why and how his affair with April had ended. For a minute or so, Odeerie tapped the pen against his teeth and reviewed his notes.

  ‘Hell of a story,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What I don’t get is why you want to find April. You don’t think she’s got something to do with Harry Parr’s murder?’

  ‘I want to apologise for the way I treated her.’

  ‘Weren’t you the only person who didn’t try to fuck her over?’

  ‘Mine was more a sin of omission.’ Odeerie’s brow furrowed. ‘I knew that she was having an affair with Frank and I should have said something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That she’d end up getting hurt.’

  Odeerie shook his head and exhaled heavily. ‘You really think that would have made any difference? People are what they are, and they want what they want. We’re a fucked-up species, Kenny; you know that.’

  ‘Makes no difference. I kept quiet because I was on a cushy number and I didn’t want Frank to fire me.’

  ‘So what? It was yonks ago, and what can you do now that’s gonna put things right?’ A bit more head-shaking from Odeerie. ‘Take it from me,’ he said. ‘You’re better off letting sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘I want a clear slate before I go to Manchester.’

  ‘How long are you up there for?’

  ‘I’m not coming back.’

  ‘What?’

  I explained to Odeerie that it was a one-way ticket. He couldn’t have looked much more surprised if I’d outlined my plan to undergo gender reassignment.

  ‘Seriously?’ he said. ‘You’re going to Manchester?’

  ‘What’s so strange about that?’

  ‘It’s up north.’

  ‘I know where it is.’

  ‘What’ll you do for money?’

  ‘Get a job.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘They do have agencies up there.’

  ‘Skip-tracing?’ I nodded. ‘You’ll stand out like a sore thumb with your accent. Although that won’t be what makes the difference in the long run.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  Odeerie’s phone beeped a couple of times. He looked at the screen for a couple of seconds before tapping out a reply. ‘Look,’ he said, after returning it to his pocket. ‘Forget I said anything. Good luck, and if it doesn’t work out, give me a call.’

  ‘Tell me why you don’t think I can hack it.’

  ‘Because you’ll never be able to leave Soho. Not for any length of time, anyway. If you were moving to Croydon, I’d say the same thing.’

  ‘How d’you arrive at that conclusion?’

  ‘Same way gay men know other men are gay.’

  ‘You’re telling me I’m gay now?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  An even more extraordinary thought occurred. ‘That you’re gay?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Kenny.’

  ‘What, then?’

  Odeerie looked around the office. ‘You think I love it in here?’ he asked. ‘Staring at the same walls year after year. I just have to accept who I am and get on with life.’

  ‘And you think I’m in the same boat?’

  Odeerie leant forward and spread his hands. ‘More or less everyone is, Kenny. Some people are stuck in shit relationships, or dead-end jobs. Others have chippy teenagers and huge mortgages hanging round their necks. It’s not necessarily a bad thing.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  Odeerie warmed to his theme. ‘Look at the people we get paid to find. Can’t accept you aren’t rich? Borrow a shitload of cash you can’t pay back. Bored with your wife? Run off with your PA. And if the whole fucking deal is just too much to take, why not pretend you’re dead and set up somewhere else?’

  �
��That’s ridiculous. People change their lives for the better every day and things work out just fine. Otherwise we’d all be living in caves and painting our arses blue.’

  ‘I’m talking about running away from who you are and where you belong, Kenny. There’s a difference. Go to Manchester and you’ll be unhappy. It might not happen straight away, but it will eventually.’

  ‘I’m unhappy here.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’

  ‘As long as I give up on life?’

  ‘Or look for the positives in what you have.’

  Odeerie’s belly rested on his thighs and his chin could have been inflated with a stirrup pump. He hadn’t been on the other side of his front door in the best part of a decade. All in all, not the easiest man to take advice from.

  ‘The only reason you don’t want me to go to Manchester is because misery loves company,’ I said, getting up from my chair. ‘But this is my chance to be happy and I’m taking it.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with it, Kenny.’

  ‘Yes, it has. If you want to sit in here stuffing yourself full of crap food until your heart explodes, then good luck to you. I’ll be sure to come back for your funeral.’

  Odeerie opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to respond. I left the office and slammed the front door on my way out of the flat. A minute later I was on the pavement and heading towards Brewer Street.

  The good news was that it had stopped raining; the bad news was that I had severed ties with the one man who might be able to find April Thomson.

  The phone had rung at least a dozen times. I was preparing to leave a voice message or hang up when a woman answered. ‘Bannock Hotel,’ she said in an accent that sounded as though it came from the better end of the Fulham Road.

  ‘Could I talk to the manager?’ I asked.

  ‘You are.’

  ‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel. I wonder if you could help me . . .’

  ‘If you’re selling something, let me stop you there. I make it a policy never to buy on the phone.’

  ‘Actually, I’m trying to trace a friend of mine who used to live in Saltrossan. Her name’s April Thomson.’