Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  ‘And that was where you . . .’

  Dervla nodded.

  ‘Killing Harry is enough to punish Frank.’ I said. ‘He’ll spend the rest of his life mourning her.’

  ‘Are you serious? He didn’t even pull out of the Post bid until a couple of days ago. Harry’s death hardly broke his fucking stride pattern.’

  I glanced at Frank. Had his been the reaction of a man who did his grieving in private, or was something twisted in his emotional DNA? All I could detect in his single open eye was a man calculating his options.

  Unfortunately the only option left was me.

  ‘This isn’t justice, Dervla,’ I said. ‘All you’ll be doing is murdering an innocent little girl and destroying her parents’ lives.’

  Dervla seemed to consider this for a few seconds. She stood up and approached Frank. She wasn’t going to put down the gun and call it a night. I knew that by then. It turned out Frank did too.

  ‘Sometimes innocent people have to suffer, Kenny,’ she said. ‘It’s the way business works. Isn’t that right, Frank?’

  Frank’s response was muffled by the choke. Dervla reached behind his neck and released the catch. After spitting the ball out, he took a couple of deep breaths and responded to the question. ‘D’you seriously think your mother was a saint? Shit happens to thousands of people every day. They get over it and carry on.’

  Dervla’s hand tightened on the gun.

  ‘Let’s see how good you are at carrying on after watching your granddaughter’s brains blown out, Frank. Tell you what, how about I bring her down here so you can get a better look? Maybe I’ll even wake little Hester up so you can remember the terrified look on her face just before she died. Remember it for the rest of your miserable fucking life.’

  Dervla spat the last sentence out just a few inches from Frank’s face.

  ‘Do what you want, you crazy bitch,’ he said. ‘There’s no way I can stop you. But one thing you should know is that April Thomson was a two-bob slag. Half the club had fucked her by the time she got to me. I don’t know what kind of cobblers she wrote in that diary, but she slept with Cartwright because she wanted to.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ Dervla said.

  ‘No, I’m not. Fair enough, the silly cow got more than she bargained for, but she only had herself to blame for that.’

  ‘Shut up, Frank.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s a reason she went on the game?’

  ‘It was the only way she could support the two of us.’

  Frank’s mocking laugh echoed around the studio’s rafters. Dervla levelled the gun at his temple. The laughter didn’t stop. He wanted her to pull the trigger.

  ‘She fucking enjoyed it,’ he continued. ‘We both know there’s only one thing better than doing what you love, Dervla, and that’s getting paid for it.’

  Having said what he hoped were his final words, Frank laid his head back in the barber’s chair and waited for oblivion. Dervla lowered the gun and smiled.

  ‘You dying to save Hester? Nice try, Frank, but that’s not how this show ends.’

  She turned and walked towards the dais. I gave it one last go. ‘April would never have wanted this, Dervla. Put the gun down and walk away from this.’

  But Dervla had entered the past. There was nothing I could do that could change what had happened to her and April all those years ago. And nothing I could do to stop what was going to happen next. She stood behind the sofa on which Hester was stretched out, and pointed the gun at the kid’s head.

  Frank struggled to free himself. His face was waxy and had a blue tinge to it.

  ‘Time to watch your daughter die,’ Dervla said to him.

  For a moment I thought she’d chosen the wrong word. But Dervla didn’t make mistakes. The sweetest smile spread across her face. For the first time in her adult life she had found release. The drugs, the booze and the therapy had been a waste of time.

  She slipped the gun into her own mouth and blew the back of her head off.

  The explosive sound of the gun discharging was in sharp contrast to the muffled thump of Dervla’s body hitting the floor. Blood and brain tissue had spattered across the smiling photograph of April taken before her daughter was born. Hester shifted position on the sofa but remained unconscious. Hopefully it would stay that way until someone got her out of there. Got us all out of there.

  Despite his airway now being free, Frank was struggling to breathe and there was a sheen of sweat across his face. His mouth was moving, although no sound emerged. More than anything I wanted to close my eyes and settle into a warm bath of nothingness. Instead I used the wall to lever myself to my feet.

  Each step was like a step on a tightrope. My hands remained tied, making it difficult to keep my balance. Frank was conscious when I got to him, but only just. Stroke or heart attack, he was travelling in one direction.

  The only thing left to do was witness him go.

  Lips that had been moving mechanically like those of a gaffed fish tried to fashion specific words. His voice was soft, but I managed to make them out. ‘What did . . . she . . . say?’

  ‘It’s not important, Frank.’

  ‘She said she was my . . . daughter?’ I nodded. ‘Then why . . . did . . .’

  Frank’s head slipped on the chair and that was that. The man who, forty years ago, in a Frith Street drinking club, had told me about his plans to conquer the world departed it with a staccato sigh. I cried for a bit and then I puked up.

  Two minutes later I heard footsteps on the stairs.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I was in hospital for three days. My brain had swollen but there wasn’t a bleed, thank God. The neurologist prescribed a hatful of pills that I took every four hours to stabilise my condition. They did nothing to ease the pain or the boredom.

  On the plus side, a private room meant I could watch TV, which was a welcome distraction. It also meant the police could interview me in relative seclusion. DI Standish was my first visitor. Fortunately he was limited to half an hour and couldn’t indulge his inclination to ask the same question several dozen times.

  By the time I’d taken him through the events, from speaking to Frank on the phone to the point that the first officer had arrived in Dervla’s studio, a nurse had issued him with a five-minute warning.

  ‘So the last thing Dervla said was that Frank was going to watch his daughter die?’ he asked. ‘They were her exact words?’

  ‘And then she pulled the trigger. I told this to one of your guys on the scene. Didn’t he pass it on to you?’

  Standish nodded. ‘We ran a DNA test.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Negative. Frank Parr wasn’t Dervla’s father.’

  ‘So it was a musician, then . . .’

  Standish looked puzzled. I related the story Peachy had given me about the guy who had knocked his daughter up in Glasgow. He didn’t seem convinced.

  ‘From what you’ve told me, April Thomson wasn’t the kind of girl to go straight from one guy’s bed to another.’

  ‘It would have been out of character.’

  ‘Then her biological father was probably someone in London.’

  ‘If you’re asking me, then I’ve no idea.’

  ‘We’ve read April’s diaries, Kenny. We know she was raped by DI Cartwright.’

  It took a couple of seconds for the implication to sink in.

  ‘Can you establish a match?’ I asked.

  ‘Not without an exhumation order for Cartwright and a judge won’t grant one just to satisfy everyone’s curiosity.’

  ‘Which means we’ll never know for sure.’

  ‘I know what I think,’ Standish said, and so did I.

  ‘Was she acting alone?’ I asked.

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Then how did she get Hester to the studio?’

  ‘Hester and her mother used the playground at a local park. Dervla befriended Tabitha and they had coffee a few times. She offered to paint Hester’s
portrait as a surprise birthday present for her father. That’s why Tabitha kept quiet about going to the studio.’

  ‘And why Roger had no idea where they were?’ Standish nodded. ‘Fair enough, but I still don’t understand how Dervla strapped Frank into the chair.’

  ‘Simple. She said that she’d shoot Hester if Tabitha didn’t handcuff Frank. Then she took Tabitha to the downstairs studio and did the same to her. Job done.

  ‘Dervla was pretty good at planning, all thing considered,’ I said. Standish closed his notebook and stuck his biro into his jacket pocket.

  ‘The big risk was relying on Frank to come alone,’ he said. ‘We think she told him that, if there was any sign of the police, he’d never see his granddaughter alive again. Why do you think she did it? Usually there are signs but with her . . . nothing.’

  I’d brooded over the same question when the pain kept sleep at bay.

  ‘I guess anyone who kills two people and then tops herself has a few issues,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think Dervla was crazy, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘What, then?’ Standish asked.

  ‘She loved her mother. And love can make you do some terrible things.’

  ‘You really think she could remember that far back?’

  ‘Who knows? And it doesn’t really matter. The truth is what you think it is.’

  The nurse stuck his head around the door again. ‘You’ve been in here forty-five minutes, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Mr Gabriel really does need to rest.’

  ‘Just wrapping up.’ Standish got to his feet. ‘Last question,’ he said. ‘D’you think Dervla planned to kill herself, or was it a last-minute decision?’

  ‘She planned it. The stuff with Hester and the pictures of April was to make Frank suffer for a few hours. That’s why she didn’t do it straight away.’

  Standish placed his notebook into his briefcase and checked his watch. ‘We’ll want to talk to you again in a few days,’ he said.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Weren’t you planning to move up north?’

  ‘Happy to stay in town for a while if you need me.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Visit one of the stations up there and we’ll do something over a secure video link. Just make sure we’ve got your new address.’

  And with that he headed for the door.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I said. Standish turned. ‘The thing on your cheek – I was wondering why you don’t have it removed.’

  His fingers moved reflexively to the wart. ‘Yeah, the wife’s always on at me to get it done.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  ‘The truth is that I’ve got used to seeing it every day. It’d be like a part of me was missing. That seem weird to you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Makes perfect sense.’

  The papers had a field day. A medic or a cop had taken a photograph of Dervla’s installation and sold it to them for God knows how much. Neither the light nor the resolution was great, but that just lent an even more spooky aspect to the picture.

  Pop psychologists hypothesised that the way that Dervla had justified her actions was in the name of art. She had once said that creative process transcended morality and they used the quote to prove their point. The contrary opinion was that she was a very troubled woman, evidenced by her history of substance abuse.

  Personally I didn’t see them as mutually exclusive theories.

  And people were keen to get my take on things. Or, more accurately, they were fucking desperate for an eyewitness account. Security at the hospital was tight, which meant that reporters weren’t able to get in to see me. However, a huge bouquet of lilies arrived from the paper that had printed the picture. The card offered an amount for my story so large that I wouldn’t have had to work for a year.

  Bearing in mind that I was unlikely to get my invoice paid from Frank’s estate, it was a tempting offer. Also, I wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to clarify my role in events. In the absence of hard facts, I was described variously as ‘a shady figure on the margins of conventional society’ and ‘a low-rent private investigator’.

  The time I came closest to calling the number on the card was after watching Roger Parr read a prepared interview conducted on the gravel driveway outside his house. The heir to Frank’s empire had been devastated by his father’s tragic death, especially as it followed so closely after that of his beloved sister. That said, he bore Dervla Bishop no ill will, hoped her family were bearing up and thanked God that his wife and daughter had survived.

  Roger announced his intention to become CEO of Griffin Media. He appreciated the huge responsibility of following in his father’s footsteps and hoped to take the company to even greater success. Towards the end of the statement, he looked directly into the camera, wiped a non-existent tear from his eye, and thanked everyone who had contacted him to wish the family all the best for the future.

  I nearly barfed my meds but that wasn’t the worst of it. While Roger was fielding questions from a posse of reporters, I noticed a figure in the background trundling a wheelbarrow. Although he only glanced at the camera in passing, I had no difficulty recognising Mr Screwdriver from the incident outside the Parminto Deli.

  That Roger had paid his gardener to scare me shitless made perfect sense. He’d seemed pretty keen in his office that I didn’t visit Cube and now I knew why. It was where Harry had confronted him about sending the emails to Anna Jennings. There was a chance that one of the waiters had overheard the specifics. If I’d relayed these to his father it would have been a disaster for Roger. At least that was the way he’d seen it and God knows he was desperate to avoid the disgrace.

  Pay someone to do your dirty work and you leave yourself open to blackmail. Although I was certain that Roger had co-opted his gardener in such a way, it would have been impossible for anything to be proved. If I’d reported the incident at the time, I could have ID’d Mr Screwdriver and things might have become quite interesting. As I hadn’t, there was nothing I could do about it.

  The one consolation was that Roger was bound to fuck everything up, what with him not being able to find his arse with both hands and a map. Over the next couple of years it would be extremely gratifying to watch Griffin lurch from one crisis to the next, until such time as it had to be sold. I made a mental note to submit my invoice to him personally. It would arrive with a note saying how interested I’d been to watch his interview. Roger wasn’t so dumb as to miss the message. Pay in full or the papers might mysteriously find out who had leaked the memos.

  But the real reason I didn’t flog my story to the highest bidder was that it would have been selling a chunk of the past. And if I’d learned one thing during the last two weeks, it was that every reaction has an opposite and equal reaction. I recalled Jack Rigatelli’s line about there being no point in looking backwards in life.

  Sometimes it was easier said than done.

  My brother spent an hour with me one afternoon. As Malcolm was prominent in advertising, there had been attempts to doorstep him. Fortunately, he was able to respond with comments that sounded significant but had no real substance. There were reasons he was one of the most successful copywriters in the business.

  He asked if I wanted to stay with him and the family until everything had died down. It was a kind offer, which I refused. I intended to hole up in the flat for a week or so and then make my way up north to join Stephie. We embraced awkwardly and agreed to meet for lunch at some indeterminate point in the future.

  Stephie had gone to Manchester before news of what had happened in Dervla’s studio hit the airwaves. She called several times and left voicemail messages. There was no point in responding, as I had nothing interesting to say. Instead I texted her and said that, when I got out, we’d have a good natter and make a plan.

  The neurologist was pleased with my progress and the pain gradually subsided. The day that I was released, it wasn’t much worse than the hangover I’d woken up with in
the Bannock. I said goodbye to a couple of the nurses and headed to reception. There I was informed that my taxi awaited me in the car park.

  On the other side of the revolving doors the cold engulfed me. We were in November by now and winter had properly set in. A black BMW flashed its lights and the driver leant over and opened the passenger door. I climbed into the empty seat and turned to give him my destination.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Farrelly said. ‘I know where you’re going.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  I’d assumed that now Frank was dead, Farrelly would pine away like a geriatric pit bull whose owner had kicked the bucket. That hadn’t happened. The suit had been replaced with a brown leather jacket over a black T-shirt and jeans. Otherwise he still looked like a five-foot-nine stretch of you-really-don’t-want-to-fuck-with-me.

  ‘Er, I think I’m in the wrong car, Farrelly,’ I said.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, it’s really generous of you to give me a lift home but I think it’s best I walk. The doctor advised me to get as much exercise as possible.’

  I tried the car door but the central locking was on. Farrelly stared out of the windscreen and said nothing. He did threatening silence in the same way Shakespeare did sonnets. He had a genius for the form.

  ‘I’m sorry about Frank,’ I said.

  Nothing.

  ‘They did everything they could to save him.’

  Nothing.

  ‘At least he knew his granddaughter was safe.’

  Nothing.

  A line of Marcus Aurelius has stuck with me since O level Latin: It is not death a man should fear; but he should fear never beginning to live. Just then I was bricking it on both fronts.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Farrelly said.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘In the studio.’

  ‘Erm, it’s been in the news quite a lot.’

  The vein in Farrelly’s temple engorged. ‘I want to hear it from you. And don’t miss anything out.’