Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  Sarah Delaney had been my solicitor for the last three hours. A beefy woman in her late thirties, she had objected to Standish’s general line of inquiry several times, and advised me not to answer two questions specifically. Assuming things didn’t go my way, I might be retaining her on a more permanent basis.

  Standish ran his hand over his chin and reviewed his notes.

  ‘Seriously, Kenny,’ he said, ‘are you really sticking to this story?’ Jacobs shook his head as though he couldn’t quite believe it either.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ I told them.

  ‘It’s bollocks,’ Standish insisted. ‘For one thing, you couldn’t remember if the key was above the door or under a plant pot.’

  ‘It was above the door.’

  ‘And then there’s all this arsewipe about going there because someone tipped you off that Anna Jennings had a big story about Frank Parr.’

  ‘But you won’t tell us who your source is?’ Sergeant Jacobs said.

  Standish’s lips tightened. I got the impression that he wasn’t keen on his junior colleague, although he’d probably be reporting to Lord Fauntleroy in a few years, so it probably made sense to tolerate him.

  ‘Here’s what I reckon happened,’ Standish continued. ‘You met Anna, probably to talk about something she had on Frank Parr. You’d been authorised to offer her some cash not to print the story and she told you to stick it where the sun don’t shine. Things became heated and you had an argument, during the course of which she attacked you physically and you thumped her with a brick . . .’

  ‘Or some other type of blunt instrument,’ Jacobs said.

  Standish ignored him. ‘Journalists can be arseholes, Kenny. Everyone knows that. It probably wasn’t surprising you lost your rag . . .’

  The Detective Inspector waited for a reaction. He didn’t get one. During the half-hour we’d spent in the cell prior to my interview, Sarah Delaney had advised me that strategic silence was often more effective than impassioned denial.

  ‘The reason you broke into her flat was to remove anything that could connect you to her,’ Standish continued. ‘Which you may, or may not, have found.’

  ‘My client used a key, Detective Inspector,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Gained unlawful entry, then,’ Standish said after a protracted sigh. ‘After which, by your own admission, you searched the premises. Next day she’s pulled out of the river at Wapping with a fractured skull.’

  ‘Pure coincidence,’ I said.

  ‘Is it?’ Standish asked. ‘And is it also coincidence that last week you found the body of another young woman?’

  I chose the silence option again. The only noise in the interview room was the low hum of the tape machine. Despite sleeping on the train, I was exhausted. Due to this, there had been a couple of inconsistencies in my story that Standish had seized upon as evidence I was lying through my teeth.

  ‘Why did you go to Scotland?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve told you twice already.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘To see the father of an old friend.’

  ‘Alistair Thomson,’ Standish said after consulting his notes. ‘His daughter was called April. That right?’ I nodded. ‘She’s dead as well.’

  ‘So he told me. Thirty years ago of an accidental drug overdose. Look, if you don’t believe me, Detective Inspector, why don’t you ask Peachy . . . I mean Mr Thomson?’

  This time it was Standish’s turn not to answer. Sarah Delaney had advised that I could be held for up to twenty-four hours before the police had to bring a charge. Potentially that meant spending the night in a cell and carrying on tomorrow morning.

  Fucking wonderful.

  ‘We’re all tired, Kenny,’ Standish said, as though reading my mind. ‘So why don’t you tell us the truth now and we can pick the bones out of it when we’ve all had a decent night’s kip?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that we’ll get it out of you eventually,’ Jacobs said. It was like being interrogated by a minor royal.

  ‘How about some tea, Hugo?’ Standish suggested.

  ‘I’ll ask for something be sent in, sir,’ came the reply.

  ‘Why don’t you make it yourself?’ Standish turned to Sarah and me. ‘He brews up a smashing cuppa. Either of you fancy one?’ We shook our heads in unison. ‘Just me, then, Hugo. Milk and two sugars.’

  Reluctantly the sergeant scraped back his chair and made for the exit. Standish informed the tape machine that Sergeant Jacobs was leaving the room. What it couldn’t record was the eye-roll that came after the door had closed.

  ‘Here’s the thing, Kenny,’ he said confidentially. ‘This would be a whole lot better if you just said who gave you the info that Anna Jennings had a scoop on Frank Parr. Then I’d be more inclined to believe you.’

  Sarah gave me a look. I’d told her that Roger had been my source and she had asked why I wasn’t prepared to tell Standish. I’d replied that I didn’t feel like getting my contact into trouble. Now I was reconsidering. Principles tend to slide when you’re sitting in an interview room on suspicion of murder.

  ‘I don’t think he has anything to do with what happened to Anna,’ I said.

  ‘Then tell me who he is,’ Standish said. ‘We’ll have a word with him and, if he confirms your story, we’ll see where that leaves us.’

  ‘It’s Roger Parr,’ I said. ‘Frank Parr’s son.’

  ‘How did he know Anna Jennings?’

  What the hell. Roger was a weasel and it wasn’t as though I owed him anything. And if I was spilling my guts, then I might as well get it all out.

  ‘He’d passed on a privileged email about his father’s company to Anna,’ I said. ‘She told him that she had something even bigger on Frank she was working on.’

  ‘Did Frank know Roger had leaked this information?’ Standish asked.

  ‘No, but I told him that if he didn’t confess then I’d tell Frank myself.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I had my reasons,’ I said, and added, ‘All of which were entirely above board.’

  ‘So, if we ask Roger, he’ll confirm everything?’

  ‘Unless he’s lying.’

  ‘And he would have told Frank by this time?’

  ‘That was our deal,’ I said. ‘Roger had twenty-four hours to do the decent thing. Why don’t you ask Frank if you’re that interested?’

  ‘Might be tricky,’ Standish said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s been missing since yesterday evening.’

  Most Detective Inspectors don’t like answering questions during a suspect interview. Standish cut me some slack, presumably because he thought it might be worth his while in the long run.

  ‘How d’you know Frank’s missing?’ was the first thing I asked.

  ‘We went round to his house to interview him about something else.’

  ‘Can I ask what it was?’

  Standish pressed his hands together and touched his chin with his fingertips, as though mulling over my request. It took a while for him to decide.

  ‘Frank’s daughter-in-law and her kid went AWOL yesterday afternoon. They set off for the local park as usual, and that’s the last anyone saw of ’em.’

  ‘Christ, you’re not suggesting Frank had anything to do with that?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘I’m not sure that Roger had the most stable marriage. Tabitha could have checked into a hotel for a few days to teach him a lesson.’

  Standish shrugged. ‘It’s possible. But if Roger pissed Frank off by leaking all that stuff to Anna Jennings, who knows what he might have done?’

  ‘Does Farrelly have any idea where they might be?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Know him, do you?’

  ‘We’ve met a couple of times.’

  ‘He seems to have an unusually close relationship with his boss.’

  ‘They go back a long way.’

  The Detective Inspector looked as
though he was going to pursue this further, but seemed to change his mind.

  ‘You got any theories, Kenny?’ he asked, settling back into his chair.

  ‘About Frank?’ He nodded. ‘Well, if it were anyone else, then I’d be worried that he might have . . .’

  ‘Topped himself?’

  I shrugged. ‘Grief can be hard to live with.’

  ‘So can guilt,’ Standish said. ‘We interviewed Frank in connection with Harry Parr’s death.’ He paused before adding, ‘As a suspect.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You think that’s unlikely.’

  ‘Of course it’s unlikely. She was his daughter, for Christ’s sake.’

  Sarah Delaney made her presence known. ‘The focus of this interview seems to be drifting, Detective Inspector,’ she said. ‘If you aren’t charging my client, then I’d like to suggest he be released immediately. In fact I’m still not entirely sure on what grounds he was arrested in the first place.’

  ‘Tell me why you’ve got Frank in the frame,’ I asked after waving her intrusion away. Delaney crossed her arms and made a face.

  ‘By all accounts, he and Harry had a feisty relationship,’ Standish said.

  ‘Did Callum Parsons tell you that?’

  ‘Amongst others.’

  ‘Most men have barneys with their daughters from time to time. They don’t go round strangling them in empty houses.’

  ‘Frank Parr isn’t most men.’

  ‘He’s more successful. So what?’

  ‘How would you say Frank took the news of Harry’s death, Kenny?’ Standish asked. ‘Did he seem upset to you?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ I was forced to admit. ‘Frank’s old-school – doesn’t let his feelings show easily.’

  ‘Or he doesn’t possess the usual range of emotional responses.’

  ‘My God, you really have been talking to Callum Parsons.’

  ‘The man is a trained therapist.’

  ‘Yeah, and Frank took him for a couple of million when he bought him out of the company, which makes him a trained therapist with a bloody big axe to grind.’

  The door opened and Hugo Jacobs entered with a steaming mug. ‘Two sugars, sir,’ he said. ‘Nice and strong.’

  ‘Where are the biscuits?’ Standish asked.

  ‘Didn’t know you wanted any, sir.’

  ‘Tea without biscuits!’ Standish made it sound a worse crime than the one I’d allegedly committed. ‘See if you can sort out some Garibaldi, Sergeant.’

  Jacobs looked as though he was about to protest, but then closed his mouth and backtracked to the door. I might have felt sorry for the bloke if he hadn’t been such a cock. And if I wasn’t feeling so sorry for myself, of course.

  ‘Why would Frank hire me if he knew Harry was already dead?’ I asked. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Concerned father employs an investigator to look into daughter’s mysterious disappearance. Be more peculiar if a man with his cash didn’t do that.’

  ‘It’s pretty thin stuff to hang a murder charge on.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that he chooses someone he can manipulate into discovering the body relatively quickly.’

  I was about to say it was Rocco who had told me about the house when I recalled it was at Frank’s suggestion that I’d visited him. And he’d been mustard-keen for me to go down there straight after I’d interviewed his ex-son-in-law.

  ‘Does make you think a bit, doesn’t it?’ Standish said. ‘And that’s before you factor Anna Jennings’ murder into the equation.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you think Frank did that?’

  ‘She had a huge story on him, by all accounts.’

  ‘How would Anna Jennings know Frank murdered Harry? Always assuming he did murder her, which I’m still not convinced about.’

  ‘Probably she didn’t,’ Standish said. ‘But there might have been something else Frank didn’t want coming out, and he decided to do something about it.’

  Had Frank murdered Anna Jennings simply to stop her writing about what had taken place between him and April? And how the hell had she found out about that? It could have been something unrelated, but then Anna had visited Peachy Thomson, so things did point in that direction. Not to mention that I’d found the photograph in her flat – the same picture that was currently nestling in my wallet.

  The skin on the back of my neck began to prickle. Standish took a sip of tea and stared at me for a few seconds. The only way I could maintain eye contact was by reminding myself that I was entirely innocent. Well, fairly innocent.

  ‘You know, they say that after you’ve killed the first person the second’s a hell of a lot easier,’ Standish said. ‘And if the first person you’ve killed is your daughter, then I’m guessing number two really must be a piece of piss.’

  ‘Apart from you’ve no evidence that’s what happened,’ I said.

  ‘You mean Harry Parr might not have been Frank’s first victim?’ Standish stuck out his bottom lip as though considering the point. ‘Now, there’s an interesting thought,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Kenny?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, trying to push the image of a bloody Eddie Jenkins strapped to a chair out of my mind. ‘Frank Parr employed me to look for his daughter. I succeeded in finding her. That’s the end of the story.’

  Standish took a couple of sips of tea and carefully placed the mug on the corner of the metal table. He leant forward until there was only a foot or so between our faces. ‘Maybe that’s true, Kenny,’ he said. ‘And maybe what’s also true is that Frank asked you to do some mopping up after he killed Anna Jennings. See if she had any incriminating evidence, that sort of thing. All of which would make you an accessory after the fact. Now, obviously that’s not as bad as killing her yourself, or knowing it was going to happen, but it’s still going to mean a couple of years inside. Admit that’s why you went round there and it could go a lot easier for you in court.’

  By now Standish’s face was so close to mine that I could smell the PG Tips on his breath. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but then I probably didn’t look a whole lot better.

  ‘The only reason I went to see Anna Jennings was because I thought she might have information that could shed light on who killed Harry Parr.’

  Standish shook his head sorrowfully, as though he couldn’t believe I was wilfully passing up my chance to make a clean breast of things. ‘Did Frank Parr employ you to look for Harry’s killer?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly, but he did ask me to stay on the job for a few more days.’

  ‘Then you finding her dead wasn’t the end of the story at all, was it?’

  If Sarah Delaney had been in a conniption about me brushing her off, she was over it by now. Or maybe it was professional pride that led her to intervene.

  ‘Detective Inspector, Mr Gabriel has told you everything he knows about why he went to visit Anna Jennings and his involvement with Frank Parr. I can’t see what purpose the rest of this interview is serving, and I strongly suggest he’s released immediately.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Standish said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s free to go.’

  The Detective Inspector formally announced the end of the interview before switching the tape machine off.

  Sergeant Jacobs came back into the room. ‘They didn’t have Garibaldi in the canteen,’ he said. ‘But I have managed to get hold of some Hobnobs and a packet of Bourbons.’

  ‘Biscuits!’ Standish said. ‘With my arteries?’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘Escort Mr Gabriel to the custody officer, Sergeant Jacobs, and make sure he completes all the relevant paperwork.’

  ‘You’re letting him go?’ Jacobs sounded even more surprised to hear the news of my imminent release than Sarah Delaney had. Standish gathered his notes together.

  ‘For now, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘For now.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  It took half an hour for
me to have my possessions returned and be granted unconditional police bail. In Sarah Delaney’s opinion, Standish already had a prime suspect for Anna Jennings’ death. While completing the paperwork, I tried to come to terms with the fact that Frank Parr had killed his daughter.

  Too many people had questioned Frank’s motives for hiring a man with virtually no experience to find Harry. Had it really been, as Callum had suggested, a ruse to divert attention? I’d convinced myself that Frank had been impressed with my professional acumen. At best it was naïve, at worst downright delusional.

  And then there had been the business of him torturing Eddie Jenkins. I only had Frank’s word that the barman had been released. For all I knew, he and Farrelly had resumed where they left off. Farrelly had murdered a copper, which meant he wouldn’t have any scruples about a barman. And there had to be a reason why Frank had employed him continuously for going on forty years.

  Almost as bad as being taken for a ride was the fact that I’d bought my own ticket. Were he caught, Frank would be jailed. The other possibility was that he had committed suicide, meaning that my chances of being paid were even more remote.

  And what had happened to Tabitha and Hester?

  After saying goodbye to Sarah Delaney outside West End Central, I walked in the direction of Brewer Street. I intended to fall into bed and get twelve hours straight. Had I not checked my phone, that’s what might have happened.

  The first message was from Stephie, asking me to give her a call when I got the chance. Second up was my brother, who had just returned from a conference in Canada. He wanted to know what was happening about the flat and whether we could meet for lunch. Both could wait until morning; message three couldn’t.

  ‘Kenny, it’s Frank. I need to see you. Give me a ring as soon as you get this. Don’t call the police until we’ve had a chance to talk.’

  The call was timed at 6.28 p.m. When I hit the Redial option it brought up Dervla Bishop’s name. The sensible thing would have been to let Standish know that his prime suspect had just called me and follow his instructions to the letter. Dervla’s phone rang half a dozen times before it was answered.