by Greg Keen
Back at the flat I shredded a few bills that had arrived in my absence. For some reason I couldn’t bring myself to destroy the photographs of Harry Parr. Instead I tucked them in my desk drawer. It took the best part of an hour to prepare an invoice for Roger Parr, not least because I loaded it with every conceivable expense. Then I went online and checked out the trains to Manchester.
Three every hour from Euston.
It was early evening when I uncapped the bottle. Dusk was gathering and metal shutters were being drawn down to mark the end of the working day or raised to greet the beginning of the working night. The lamp post outside the flat flickered on and illuminated the room in sulphurous yellow light.
When the bottle was two-thirds empty, I stumbled into the bathroom and returned with the antidepressants Dr Leach had prescribed. I popped the blister marked MONDAY, pressed the tiny yellow disc on my tongue, and swallowed.
And then I raised a glass to the Soho dead.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank:
The late John Petherbridge, who was Soho Dead’s first reader and who provided generous and knowledgeable feedback.
The Thomas & Mercer team, particularly Jane Snelgrove and Russel D. McLean, for their incisive editorial input. It has been a pleasure to work with you.
Veronique Baxter at David Higham Associates for being a great agent.
And Kiare Ladner for her invaluable suggestions.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Kiare Ladner
Born in Liverpool, Greg Keen got his first job in London’s Soho over twenty years ago and has worked there ever since; his fascination with the area made it a natural setting for his books. Soho Dead is the first in the Soho series of urban-noir crime novels, and won the CWA Debut Dagger in 2015. Greg lives in London.