Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  I covered everything from my arrival up to the point the police turned up. On hearing the gunshot, Tabitha had pulled the pipe she’d been handcuffed to clean out of the wall. It had been her footsteps I’d heard on the stairs. She burst into the studio to find her daughter alive, her father-in-law dead, and the freak who had visited her husband the previous week lying in a pool of puke.

  The medics pronounced Frank dead at the scene. Tabitha and Hester went to hospital in an ambulance. I briefed the cops before drifting into unconsciousness. The next thing I knew, someone was repeating my name over a beeping heart monitor.

  ‘Why did she do it?’ Farrelly asked when I’d concluded.

  ‘Revenge.’

  ‘And that’s why she topped Harry an’ all?’

  ‘Dervla thought Harry was going to tell Frank who she really was. She couldn’t let that happen, so . . .’

  ‘Fucking crazy bitch.’ Farrelly’s verdict was less nuanced than that of the psychiatrists, but amounted to the same thing. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Apart from Roger was the person leaking documents about the Post. Oh, and I’m pretty sure he sent the guy to warn me off looking for Harry.’

  Farrelly’s head jerked up.

  ‘How d’you know that?’ he asked.

  I told him about seeing Mr Screwdriver when Roger was giving his statement on TV. Farrelly started the car.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘To see Roger Parr.’

  ‘You can’t just rock up unannounced, Farrelly.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Roger might be out, for one thing.’

  Farrelly put the engine into gear. ‘Not this afternoon, he ain’t.’

  ‘How d’you know?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m meant to be driving him to the office.’

  The only thing Farrelly said on the way to Holland Park was to call a cyclist who cut him up on the Bayswater Road a cuntmonger. I’d never heard the term before. Perhaps it was like being an ironmonger, only without the iron.

  We halted outside 30 Durlisher Road, where Farrelly pointed a black key at the junction box. The gates parted and he drove the BMW on to the drive and parked in front of the garage.

  We got out of the car and the front door to the house opened. Hester Parr emerged. I must have made a big impression on the kid, as she ran towards us squealing with delight. I opened my arms and she leapt into Farrelly’s.

  ‘Hello, darlin’,’ he said. ‘How’s my little princess doing?’

  ‘I baked cupcakes, Farrelly,’ Hester said, excitedly. ‘D’you want to come into the kitchen and try one?’

  Farrelly smiled. Under other circumstances I would have taken it as a sign to herald the end of days, but it didn’t seem to bother Hester.

  ‘That’s nice of you, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Is Shane around anywhere?’

  ‘He’s in the garden with Godders.’

  Farrelly deposited her back on to the drive. ‘Why don’t you go inside and draw me a nice picture?’ he suggested.

  ‘Will you read me a story?’ she asked.

  ‘Course I will, darlin’. But first me and Shane are gonna play a special game.’

  ‘What sort of game?’

  ‘A bit like hide and seek.’

  ‘Can I join in?’

  ‘Promise not to look in the garden and we’ll play later. D’you promise?’

  Hester nodded her head. She ran to the door, where her mother was waiting. Tabitha Parr was wearing a pair of wraparound sunglasses and looked several pounds lighter. If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it.

  ‘Farrelly’s going to play a game with Shane,’ her daughter informed her. ‘Then he’s going to eat cupcakes and play with me.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Tabitha said. ‘Why don’t you go inside and finish off the icing?’

  ‘Then can I draw him a picture?’

  ‘Of course you can, darling.’

  Hester hurried past her mother. Farrelly’s face returned to its usual impassive mask. The twinkle in his eyes disappeared as though it had never been there.

  ‘Your husband in?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s on a conference call,’ Tabitha said.

  ‘Tell him I want to see him in the garden.’

  ‘When?’ she asked.

  ‘Now,’ Farrelly replied.

  An immaculate lawn rose gently from the rear of the house for thirty yards where it met a two-foot-high wall. Beyond this a number of flowerbeds had been laid out around an ornamental fountain that appeared not to have been operational for years. Three dolphins rose from a central plinth. I supposed that, when the water was turned on, jets would emerge from their mossy beaks.

  Bent over the fountain was a man wearing jeans and a lumberjack shirt. He was scraping its bowl with a chisel that rasped each time it was drawn across the stone. A golden retriever watched him work. As Farrelly and I approached, Godfrey got to his feet with a low growl.

  Mr Screwdriver rested the chisel and turned. In Brewer Street he had been wearing a Puffa jacket that disguised his physique. No disguising it in the work shirt. He was six-four and had the steroidal bulk of a prop forward.

  ‘Did you bring him here?’ he asked Farrelly.

  ‘That’s right, Shane. Kenny told me what happened when you and him last met up. Reckoned you’d want the chance to apologise.’

  ‘He didn’t come to any harm.’

  ‘Are you gonna say sorry or what?’

  They say dogs can sense danger. Godfrey was no exception. During the exchange between Farrelly and Shane, he had slunk backwards on his belly. I fervently hoped his mistress was honouring her promise not to look out of the window.

  ‘Weren’t my idea,’ Shane said.

  ‘I don’t give a tuppenny fuck,’ Farrelly replied. ‘You’re the cunt who did it and you’re the cunt who needs to say sorry.’

  Shane looked at Farrelly as though weighing up the likely cost of non-compliance. The guy was nearly twice his age and several inches shorter.

  Nevertheless.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Happy now?’

  Despite the less-than-heartfelt apology, I’d have been delighted to let Shane return to cleaning the fountain. Farrelly seemed less inclined to do so.

  ‘Not really,’ he said, slipping his jacket off. ‘Mr Parr’s daughter was missing and you tried to stop her being found.’

  Shane shook his head and sighed. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’

  ‘He’s right, Farrelly,’ I said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Farrelly folded his jacket and handed it to me. The sleeves of his T-shirt clung to his biceps. The veins in his forearms were tangled and knotted. There was more fat on Shane’s chisel than there was on Farrelly’s stomach. ‘Wanna go first?’ he asked, as though offering a fellow guest first dibs at a wedding buffet.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Shane said, barely able to suppress a smile.

  Farrelly kicked him in the groin. The gardener groaned and doubled up. Farrelly cupped his head and kneed him in the face. There was a sharp sound like a stick breaking. Farrelly repeated the move and Shane sank to the ground.

  Essentially there are only three rules in a fight: be first, be brutal and don’t quit until your opponent is utterly fucked. What prevented Farrelly following through was a female cry from the direction of the house. Tabitha Parr was running towards us.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ she shouted. ‘Leave my brother alone!’

  I’d been wondering why the Parrs had hired a gardener who was a drug user and borderline psychotic. Now I knew. Farrelly may have been making the same connection. He turned back to face his vanquished opponent at just the moment his vanquished opponent drove into him like a bulldozer.

  Shane wasn’t the most charming guy in town but he was a tough bastard, I’ll grant him that. Not many come back from a kick in the nuts and a freshly broken nose. He hauled Farrelly to the ground and bega
n to squeeze.

  Farrelly attempted to break the bear hug by beating his fists on Shane’s shoulders. It didn’t come close to working. Next he attempted to get his thumbs into his eyes but Shane had tucked his chin into his chest to prevent this from happening. Farrelly’s strength was ebbing and he only had a few seconds of consciousness left.

  He used them to sink his teeth into Shane’s ear.

  Tabitha didn’t like the sound of tearing cartilage; nor did Godfrey. The former screamed and the latter barked furiously as he ran around in circles. The person who enjoyed it least was the man whose left ear was dangling from Farrelly’s teeth. Shane howled and tried to stem the spouting blood with gloved hands.

  Farrelly spat the hunk of flesh on to the grass. He made it to his feet but staggered like a drunk unable to coordinate his actions. Eventually his nervous system reasserted itself and he picked up the chisel from the base of the fountain.

  Tabitha Parr was tending to her wounded brother. Farrelly threw her aside as though she were a sack of dry leaves. He dropped to his knees and raised the chisel above Shane’s head. If I didn’t want to witness the guy being slaughtered, I would have to act and act fast.

  Thank God it wasn’t necessary.

  ‘Mummeeeee!’ Hester shouted. She discarded a tray of lemon cupcakes, ran towards her winded mother and threw her arms around her.

  ‘That’s enough, Farrelly,’ I said.

  The chisel remained poised.

  ‘Please don’t,’ Shane begged.

  Farrelly took a couple of deep breaths, dropped the tool and got to his feet. Judging by the wince of pain, at least one of his ribs had popped.

  ‘We’re going,’ he said to me.

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ I replied.

  The last member of the Parr family to emerge from the house was Roger. He was wearing a double-breasted charcoal suit over a white shirt and Windsor-knotted tie. We met him as he was striding up the lower lawn, open-mouthed. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m quitting,’ Farrelly said. Roger stared at him. Shane’s blood was smeared over his driver’s mouth and chin. His T-shirt was torn and covered in dirt. Most people tender their resignation via a formal letter. Farrelly had chosen a different method. ‘I’ll drop the motor off in the office car park tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You can pay me up to the end of the month and then we’re quits.’

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ Roger said.

  ‘No, you ain’t,’ Farrelly told him. ‘You been paid yet?’ he asked me as an afterthought.

  ‘I haven’t submitted an invoice.’

  Farrelly tapped Roger on the chest. His finger left a smudge on his former employer’s immaculate shirt. ‘When he does, you’d best see to it pronto,’ he told him. ‘Otherwise he’s gonna tell everyone what a worthless piece of shit you are.’

  ‘Mr Gabriel will be paid in full,’ Roger said.

  I thought Farrelly might add something either verbally or physically. Roger’s blanched face suggested the same thought had crossed his mind. Instead he began walking towards the gate that led to the front of the house. I took one final look at the tableau at the bottom of the garden and wished I hadn’t. Tabitha had recovered and was ministering to her brother with her daughter in close attendance.

  Something in the grass had attracted Godfrey’s attention. He licked it in an exploratory fashion before sinking his teeth into it. He chewed a couple of times and then, with a slight inclination of his head, swallowed. Of course, it could have been one of the cupcakes Hester had thrown away, but I had a feeling it wasn’t.

  Judging by Shane’s howl of anguish, so did he.

  FORTY

  During the drive back to Brewer Street, I asked Farrelly if a hospital visit might not be a good idea. He told me to shut the fuck up, which I did until we were outside the flat. He turned the ignition off and took an envelope from his inside pocket.

  ‘That’s the fine to get my motor out of the pound.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You left it in Camden after you nicked it. Money better be in my account by the end of the week.’

  ‘It will be,’ I promised. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened at the Parrs’. What will you do for work now?’

  ‘Gotta little gym in Bethnal Green. Might open up another.’

  ‘Seriously? You’ve got your own business?’

  ‘You think I’m too fucking stupid to run a gym?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Just surprised you had the time.’

  ‘Don’t take much to set something up, if you put your mind to it.’

  A brief silence, during which I pondered the fact that Farrelly was on the brink of owning a fitness chain, whereas I was on the brink of having my electricity cut off.

  ‘What you gonna do?’ he asked.

  ‘Move to Manchester.’

  ‘Straight up?’ I nodded. ‘Fucking northerners are a pain in the arse but it’s got to be better than getting pissed off your nut all day.’

  ‘That’s exactly what my life coach said.’

  Farrelly scowled. ‘You know, I seriously considered doing you after what happened in the lock-up.’

  ‘I couldn’t just stand by and watch you kill Rocco.’

  ‘Fucking muppet.’

  ‘I know, but he’s kept quiet since Frank died.’

  ‘I meant you, not him. The only reason Rocco’s kept his gob shut is because I paid him a visit.’ Virtually everyone had made a few quid out of their memories of Frank Parr. I’d been wondering why Rocco hadn’t seized his chance. ‘And you fronted up when that twat Shane threw a scare into you,’ Farrelly continued. ‘Which means you know how to do the right thing.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘You’re making me blush.’

  Farrelly gave me a poisonous glance. ‘Point I’m making,’ he said, ‘is that you don’t have to be a cock all your life.’

  It might not be a motto you could print across a T-shirt, but it was as close as Farrelly got to an aphorism. I wondered if other words of wisdom would follow.

  ‘Now, get out of the motor,’ he said. ‘And pay my bastard bill.’

  The flat had a slightly alien feel. Probably because Malcolm had sent over a cleaner and made sure the fridge and cupboards were well stocked. The place hadn’t been so tidy since . . . well, the day I moved in, probably. I made a cup of tea and began to munch my way through a pack of Jaffa Cakes. I had been warned that I might become exhausted without warning. Sure enough, an extraordinary lethargy descended. It was all I could do to get into the bedroom and stretch out on the bed.

  Three hours later, my buzzing phone woke me up. Stephie’s name was flashing across the screen. I thought about letting it go to voicemail and changed my mind.

  ‘Hi, Stephie.’

  ‘He speaks at last!’

  ‘Sorry about that. You know what it’s like in hospital with all that equipment around. No one’s mad about you using your phone.’

  Stephie chose not to comment on my weak excuse for not returning her calls. ‘I’m guessing you’re out now,’ she said instead.

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Knackered. I need to get some rest.’

  ‘It’s that quiet you can hear yourself think here.’ Stephie paused for me to respond. ‘You going to Frank’s funeral?’ she asked when I didn’t.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Nothing to stop you catching a train to Manchester, then.’

  An emergency vehicle drove past. I waited a couple of seconds for the sound of its siren to fade. ‘Thing is, Stephie, I’ve got to go to Outpatients a couple more times. Soon as I get the all-clear, I’m buying a ticket.’

  ‘They do have hospitals in Manchester, Kenny.’ Sharpness had crept into Stephie’s voice. ‘It’s not a third-world city,’ she added.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘But I think it’s best that I stick with the guy in charge of my case, don’t you?’

  Now i
t was Stephie’s turn to take her time answering.

  ‘You’re not coming,’ she said after five seconds of dead air. ‘And what’s more, I don’t think you ever were.’

  ‘Look, all I need is a few days to . . .’

  ‘Goodbye, Kenny,’ Stephie said. ‘Take care of yourself.’

  And then she cut the call.

  I left the flat and walked wherever the mood took me for a couple of hours. Gradually I drifted eastwards past St Paul’s and then to the Millennium Bridge. A German couple in their twenties attached a padlock to one of the railings. The council’s policy was to shear the lovers’ locks free every couple of days. Perhaps the couple didn’t know or perhaps they didn’t care. The girl asked me to take a picture and I obliged.

  Would the pair be looking back fondly on the photograph in forty years with grandchildren scampering around the house? Or would it be deleted next week following a contretemps in a Düsseldorf disco? Just then they were happy to be on a London bridge while some geezer attempted to get them and the Shard in the same frame. The girl checked the camera screen and gave me a thumbs up. She and her boyfriend headed for Tate Modern while I retraced my steps towards the cathedral.

  I delayed my return home with a visit to the Lamb and Flag. It had been one of Jack Rigatelli’s favourite pubs. Despite his own rackety lifestyle, Jack had given excellent advice to his friends. I found myself peering into the shadowy corners of the lounge bar, half expecting to see him bent over a copy of the Racing Times.

  There’s no logic to grief because there’s no logic to living. The only thing you can do is get on with it. I ordered a second pint of lager and did precisely that. By four o’clock the pub had become jammed with tourists and shoppers. Misery may love company but it draws the line at queuing for the Gents.

  For a while I wandered the streets of Soho, as I had on the day I’d first visited forty years ago. Doorways whispered to me and ghosts looked down from high windows. Some faces I recognised; others belonged to a different era. In Greek Street the Vesuvius bore a sign to the effect that it was closed until further notice.

  I attempted to buy a bottle of single malt in Vintage House using the Griffin company card. It was declined and I ended up forking out £9.99 for a bottle of Monarch in Budget Booze around the corner. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, as Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr put it. Same shit, different day, should you prefer the Odeerie Charles worldview.