Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  I attempted to remove Farrelly’s forearm from my windpipe. A toddler prying a wheel clamp apart would have met with more success. Eventually he released his grip. ‘How did you get in?’ I asked when able to.

  ‘Don’t matter. What does matter is why you ain’t given me an update.’

  ‘Things have been hectic, Farrelly. I’m sorry I didn’t call you.’

  ‘Fuck sorry. Sorry’s no use to me. Sorry’s no use to anyone. Sorry is what useless arseholes say when they don’t follow up.’ Farrelly’s eyes narrowed. ‘You still working for Mr Parr?’ he asked.

  ‘For another few days.’

  ‘Tryna work out who killed his daughter?’

  ‘That’s the general idea.’

  Farrelly shook his head in the manner people usually do when they don’t know what the world’s coming to. ‘Tell me everything up until you found her,’ he said.

  I recounted the chain of events starting with my interview with Rocco right up to the point that I had made my grisly discovery in Fairview Lodge. Throughout, Farrelly’s stone cold-blue eyes stared unblinkingly into mine.

  ‘That it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Well, there was one other thing.’

  I recounted my visit from Mr Screwdriver. Farrelly asked a few questions about what he had looked and sounded like. He seemed unsurprised to hear that he’d been cranked up; more so that I hadn’t taken heed of the warning.

  ‘I wasn’t looking for Harry any more,’ I told him.

  ‘You weren’t shitting it about him coming back?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything about looking for her killer.’

  ‘Might be him.’

  ‘It makes no sense. Someone was bound to discover her body eventually.’

  ‘Not if they were planning on taking it away.’

  ‘Why leave it there at all, then?’

  Farrelly breathed heavily through his nose, as though an extra influx of oxygen might provide an answer to the question. ‘Get a better lock,’ he said eventually. ‘Six-year-old could do that one.’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ I said. ‘So, if that’s everything, I’ve got a few things to attend to, and I’m sure you’re a busy man.’

  Clearly that wasn’t it. Farrelly remained where he was. ‘Old Bill’s let Rocco go,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not surprised. He gave me the key to the house.’

  ‘Who’ve you got in the frame, then?’

  ‘No one specifically, but I think it might have been some kind of sex game that went wrong. There’s a club Harry went to the last night she was alive. I’m checking it out tomorrow.’

  ‘What kinda club?’

  ‘S and M. It’s in Mayfair.’

  ‘Toffs getting their arses spanked?’

  ‘I’d imagine there’d be a bit of that.’

  Farrelly grimaced. In the Galaxy days he had terrorised the male staff but never so much as looked sideways at the girls. There had even been rumours he was gay. Now didn’t seem the time to pursue them.

  ‘You talking to anyone else?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of people who were friends of Harry’s and might be able to tell me who she’d been hanging out with.’

  ‘Reckon her brother was telling the truth?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

  Farrelly’s lapsed eye contact made me wonder if he knew something about Roger that I didn’t. ‘Whoever killed Mr Parr’s daughter, I want him first,’ he said.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Just find the bastard.’

  ‘I can’t hand someone over so you can—’

  ‘Do what you’re told,’ Farrelly snapped.

  There was no point in discussing due process with him. Nor was there any need. If I located Harry’s murderer, I’d tip the police off anonymously.

  And then Farrelly added a rider.

  ‘Because if the law gets there first, you’ll wish they hadn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think of it as an incentive.’

  ‘But they’ll throw all kinds of resources at it. What chance have I got?’

  Farrelly shrugged and turned to the door. ‘Just so you know,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I did you a favour while I was waiting.’

  ‘Not the washing up?’

  ‘Nah, I polished off your Scotch.’

  ‘That was kind of you, Farrelly.’

  ‘You’re tellin’ me,’ he said. ‘It tasted like piss.’

  FOURTEEN

  Had Frank’s cheque been on the doormat the morning after Farrelly’s visit, I’d have cashed it in and taken a long trip to a remote destination. All that awaited me was a letter announcing that parking restrictions in Brewer Street were being temporarily suspended. My phone began ringing shortly after I’d binned the letter.

  ‘Kenny? It’s Dervla Bishop. I got your number from the company website. Hope you don’t mind me calling, but I wanted to apologise for yesterday. I had to be somewhere in a hurry.’

  ‘Must have been important.’

  ‘It was,’ Dervla said. ‘D’you still want to talk about Harry Parr?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘Okay, well, come round to the studio. I’ll be here until lunchtime.’

  ‘Eleven o’clock?’ I suggested.

  ‘I’ll text you the address,’ Dervla said.

  I used the spare hour to boot up my Toshiba and do some research. Plan B had been founded by Callum Parsons and existed to help those with limited resources battle addictions both physical and psychological. It was based in King’s Cross and free at the point of use. Unfortunately the place had lost its state funding last year, and was running a crowdsourcing appeal to help it stay open.

  All of this I picked up from the centre’s website. It also carried a biography of Callum detailing how he had almost lost his life to substance abuse. If you wanted to download an electronic copy of his book, Never Too Soon, Never Too Late, then you could do so for £4.99 in the certain knowledge that all profits would go to the centre.

  The most illuminating profile had appeared in the Guardian eighteen months ago. Callum had been divorced twice and had no children. The interviewer remarked that he had an almost messianic zeal when it came to describing Plan B’s mission. She put it to him that he had refocused his addictive personality on to something that did more good than wallpapering drug dealers’ bank accounts with cash.

  Apparently Callum had pondered a while before nodding in agreement.

  I had no indication that Harry Parr had known him other than the inscription in her copy of Never Too Soon . . . Perhaps Callum was overly effusive when signing for fans, but I didn’t get that impression. According to the journalist, frying his brain with narcotics hadn’t done much to soften his ‘considerable intellect and combative nature’. All of which meant that it was going to be challenging when it came to visiting him later that afternoon. Most people I speak to weren’t maths prodigies at the age of twelve, with a measured IQ of a hundred and sixty.

  I turned off the laptop and set out for Shoreditch.

  On the Tube I picked up a copy of the Metro. Harry Parr’s death was officially a murder inquiry. The police made no further comment beyond saying that Rocco Holtby had been questioned and released without charge. Whether his daughter’s murder would cause Frank to pull out of the Post bid was the source of much conjecture. Considered opinion seemed to be that it probably wouldn’t. I agreed. When Frank set his mind on something, not much got in his way. Of course, he’d never been tested in such an appalling fashion, but I had a feeling that, in the next couple of weeks, he would be the new proprietor of the Post. How happy that would make him was another story.

  Thirty years ago, Shoreditch was just another run-down chunk of East London. Now it was home to the UK tech industry and myriad galleries in the wake of the Brit Art explosion. I walked past Moorfields Eye Hospital and into the streets behind the Spinnaker pub. They were lined w
ith three-storey buildings that had once been warehouses and factories. Some even had the remains of winching gear attached to their walls and the names of former proprietors stencilled on the brickwork.

  Dervla’s studio was in Quebec Street. I ascended a short flight of steps from the street and pressed the button with a fisheye lens next to it.

  ‘Come to the second floor,’ Dervla said over the intercom. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  The lift was the old-fashioned type with pull-across lattice doors. Dervla appeared gradually from the feet up. She was wearing Converse trainers, faded black jeans and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.

  ‘How are you, Kenny?’ she asked as the machinery juddered to a halt.

  ‘Pretty good,’ I said. ‘All things considered.’

  I unhooked the door and dragged it back. Dervla smelled of turps and sweat. ‘Sorry if I seem a bit wired,’ she said after we’d shaken hands. ‘I’ve been working all night. Must have drunk a gallon of coffee.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ I asked.

  ‘Slowly. Installations are bastards to get right.’

  ‘Don’t you have assistants?’

  ‘Only to help with the heavy lifting. I like to do as much as I can personally.’

  I wondered whether the change in mood really was due to caffeine, or if something stronger was responsible. Certainly Dervla seemed more vibrant than she had twenty-four hours ago, not to mention friendlier. Hopefully it was purely down to half a jar of Nescafé and the magic of the creative process.

  I followed her through the pair of swing doors and was immediately disappointed. Instead of housing the artist’s next incendiary creation, the huge whitewashed room was empty, apart from a paint-spattered wooden table and half a dozen plastic chairs.

  ‘I alternate between floors,’ Dervla said. ‘I’m working on the third right now.’

  ‘D’you own the whole building?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure do. One of the perks of having Sheridan as an agent is that you tend to make a few quid. If the arse drops out of the art business, I can always rent this place out. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be good.’

  Dervla picked up a kettle and filled it at an ancient stone basin before returning it to base. She opened a small fridge, pulled out a carton of milk, and sniffed at it dubiously. ‘Hope you like it black, Kenny.’

  ‘Black’s fine.’

  ‘No sugar either.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  Dervla put a teaspoon of instant into a mug. She spilled a few granules on to the table and quickly swept them on to the floor. Perhaps a bit of small talk would put her at her ease. ‘I went to see your painting the year it won the McClellan,’ I said. ‘It was very impressive.’

  ‘It’s the only thing I’ve done that everyone seems to like.’

  ‘Is that bad?’

  ‘Sherry wouldn’t like it if I became too populist.’

  ‘I don’t think John Lewis will be selling prints of it any time soon,’ I said, recalling the desolate picture of mother and child. ‘It was pretty gritty.’

  ‘Funny thing is, it took less than a day to paint,’ Dervla said. ‘I just woke up one morning and there it was in my head. All I had to do was get it down.’

  ‘Not always so easy, then?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Despite what you might read in the Daily Mail.’

  The kettle clicked out. Dervla filled the mug with hot water and brought it over. Steam rose into the chilly atmosphere of the room. She took a seat on the opposite side of the table. ‘Sorry about yesterday.’

  ‘Didn’t bother me, although Sheridan was a touch agitato.’

  Dervla nodded. ‘Sherry might come over as though he’s a hard-arse, but underneath all that blather he’s a decent guy. For a while . . . well, let’s just say things weren’t looking too clever, and he’s the one who talked me down.’

  ‘You’re completely past all that?’

  ‘NA totally works for some people. Thank God I’m one of them. I sponsor someone now. She called just after the auction began.’

  ‘And that’s why you ducked out?’

  ‘Someone was there for me when I needed them; so it’s only fair I reciprocate. How’s your coffee? Say the word if you want some milk.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  Heavy cloud cover had reduced the light in the room. Raindrops began battering the windows. I pulled my jacket tighter around my shoulders and moved the conversation forward. ‘Did you meet Harry through NA?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t into drink or drugs apart from a vodka now and again, and the occasional line at a party.’

  ‘You didn’t have a problem with that?’

  ‘Addicts are born, not made. Harry didn’t have that particular issue.’

  ‘But she had others?’

  Dervla shifted position in her chair and folded her arms. ‘Whatever I tell you is in confidence?’

  ‘Absolutely. Get your phone out again if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’ll be of any use to you,’ Dervla said.

  ‘We’ll never know until you tell me,’ I replied.

  My experience listening to people give accounts is that they either skip around from place to place, or begin at the beginning. Dervla opened with a question.

  ‘D’you know Cookie Jar?’

  ‘The lesbian club in Denmark Street?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s where I met Harry for the first time.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About a year ago on karaoke night. She was sitting in the corner with her nose in the air. I’ve always been a sucker for a challenge.’

  ‘Had you seen her in there before?’

  ‘It was her first time. Usually she met girls through a site, but this time she’d just gone in to the club on impulse. At least, that’s what she said.’

  ‘You approached her?’

  ‘Yeah. It was heavy going to start with, but a few shots thawed her out. By the end of the night we were up on stage together.’

  ‘The relationship got going quickly, then?’

  ‘Not really. I tried to get her to come back to my place, but she wasn’t having it. I gave her my number and three weeks later she picked the phone up.’

  ‘Did she know who you were?’

  ‘God, no. The nearest Harry got to culture was reading John Grisham on holiday.’

  ‘What did she say when you told her?’

  ‘It nearly blew the whole thing. If people had known we were together, it would have ended up in the press. Particularly when they found out she was Frank Parr’s daughter. That’s why she insisted on keeping everything secret.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  Dervla shrugged. ‘I think people should come out when they’re ready. And for Harry that would have been when her father died.’

  ‘Frank was the reason she hid her sexuality?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Her brother thinks she married Rocco just to shut her old man up about settling down.’

  Dervla wrinkled her nose.

  ‘You’re not convinced?’ I asked.

  By now the clouds were so heavy it felt as though evening had arrived six hours early. Dervla pushed a button on a steel wall panel. Multiple spotlights dispelled the gloom.

  ‘There was a side to Harry that was quite flaky,’ she said. ‘In fact there were several aspects to her personality that weren’t immediately obvious.’

  ‘You think there was more to it between her and Rocco?’

  ‘Don’t they say everything exists in relationship to its opposite?’

  ‘Yin and yang?’

  ‘Something like that. Rocco asked Harry to marry him when they were stoned. It probably sounded like a giggle at the time, but it was always going to end badly.’

  ‘Because she was gay?’

  ‘That didn’t help, although mostly it was down to Rocco. He was like arsenic for Harry. Therapeutic in small
doses; fatal if she took too much.’

  ‘Did the two of you ever meet?’

  ‘No.’

  Personally I’d have thought that even the slightest exposure to Rocco would be enough to finish someone off. Maybe I just hadn’t seen his charming side yet.

  ‘How did it work out with you and Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, to begin with. She would stay with me one night during the week and we’d spend most weekends together.’ Dervla exhaled heavily. ‘And then it all began to change. Harry wanted more commitment. I said okay, but we’d have to go public. No way was that going to happen. In the end I called time on the relationship. That was when things started to get ugly.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Harry wouldn’t accept it was over. She started leaving voicemail messages at all hours about getting back together. When I didn’t respond they became abusive and physically threatening.’

  ‘How bad did it get?’ I asked.

  ‘Pretty bad. And it would have got a lot worse if I hadn’t threatened to play the messages to her dad.’

  ‘That worked?’

  ‘Like a charm. She gave me one last earful about what a bitch I was and how I’d never hear from her again.’

  ‘This was about three months ago?’ Dervla nodded. ‘You said there was something else you’d remembered . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. She said that she’d met someone new.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘His name. It was a guy but she wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Was Harry bisexual?’

  ‘One hundred per cent queer. That’s what made it so strange.’

  ‘I wonder why she didn’t tell Frank she had a boyfriend?’

  ‘Are you sure she didn’t?’

  ‘I think he would have mentioned it, don’t you?’

  Dervla deposited her cup on the cement floor and considered the question. ‘No idea,’ she said. ‘Maybe Harry just wanted to make me jealous.’

  ‘Or she was scared of Frank’s reaction. Did Harry ever mention someone called Callum Parsons?’

  ‘Not to me, she didn’t. Who is he?’

  I told Dervla about Callum’s book and the inscription it carried. Was that the kind of thing you wrote when you were having an affair? She thought not. ‘The guy probably put something like that every time he signed. All that self-help crap is such a racket. We are what we are. Nobody changes.’