Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  I couldn’t see its owner and I didn’t need to. It was the same one I’d dropped a small fortune into in Rocco’s flat. The information he’d given me about Dervla being Harry’s girlfriend had been correct. But he’d lied through his teeth about not having seen her for weeks. The pair left the building and Michael paused the video.

  ‘Do you remember the guy in the hat?’ I asked him.

  ‘Rocky?’

  ‘Rocco.’

  ‘That’s it. Harry used to turn up with him now and again.’

  ‘How were they getting on together that night?’

  ‘She seemed excited to be leaving,’ he said. ‘Usually it’s the other way round.’

  ‘And him?’

  ‘Cheesed off they were going so early.’

  ‘Why were they?’

  ‘Dunno, but she could hardly wait to get out of the door. D’you reckon he’s the one who killed her?’

  Being cheesed off seemed a slim motive for murder. Also I couldn’t imagine Rocco as a killer. But some of history’s most notorious have been jaw-droppingly mundane, and he’d lied to me about when he’d last met Harry.

  ‘Because I can’t see it myself,’ Michael continued. ‘All he does is bang on about what a shit-hot card player he is. Always trying to persuade me to go to some poker club with him.’

  ‘The Snake Pit?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘What about that night?’

  Michael stared at the screen. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘Do you intend going to the police about this?’ Bella asked.

  ‘Depends on what Rocco has to say.’

  ‘I won’t allow them to trawl through the tapes. My guests deserve their privacy.’

  ‘Not much you can do if they get a court order.’

  ‘We wipe the footage every seven days, which means there won’t be anything for them to look at.’ By now Bella had another Sobranie on the go.

  ‘You can’t just destroy crucial evidence.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I like with my own property.’

  ‘But it could mean that . . .’

  ‘However, if I have your word as a gentleman that you won’t go to the police, then I might ask Michael to hang on to this particular clip.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m a gentleman?’

  ‘I have an instinct for these things.’

  As though to emphasise that the footage might be available sooner rather than later, Bella went into another coughing fit. Her frail body writhed in much the same way mine had ten minutes earlier. The cigarette dropped from her fingers. Michael picked it up and ground it out in the ashtray.

  ‘Can you let yourself out?’ he said.

  ‘You’ll hang on to the clip?’ I asked.

  He shrugged and said, ‘If that’s what I’m told to do.’

  Bella succeeded in bringing her coughing under control. She grabbed a tissue and wiped congealed flecks of spittle from her mouth. Michael poured her a glass of water. She took a few sips. ‘I’m glad you came to visit, Kenny.’

  ‘It’s certainly been an experience,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t that what life is about? The intensity of our experiences?’

  ‘You mean beautiful sunsets and the happy sound of children’s laughter?’

  Bella smiled and pulled the gown tighter. ‘Children never did it for me and once you’ve seen one damn sunset you’ve seen them all.’ She peered at me through the haze of cigarette smoke. ‘Tell me you wouldn’t like to put the mask on again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to put the mask on again.’

  ‘Really? Then how about we strap it on to Michael and see how long he lasts? Wouldn’t you enjoy revenge, Kenny? It would be delightful to watch.’

  Michael’s face remained impassive. I wondered how many intense experiences he had gone through in La Cage, and how many had been at Bella’s hand.

  Was he hoping for a yes, or hoping for a no?

  ‘Maybe another time,’ I said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Snake Pit was on Farringdon Road. Its plate-glass windows had been blacked out and the club emblem burnished on to them: a grinning cobra in sunglasses above a large pile of gambling chips and a pair of crossed cues.

  I paid off the cabbie and pushed through a pair of double doors into a small anteroom. On the walls were framed pictures of guys holding up trophies, or hunched over card and pool tables. A poster that was a week out of date called for entries to an upcoming High Roller competition. Behind a desk was a blonde in her thirties, reading a copy of The One Minute Manager.

  ‘Welcome to the Snake Pit, sir,’ she said in an Eastern European accent. ‘Can I ask if you are a member?’

  ‘Is Rocco Holtby in tonight?’

  ‘Are you Rocco’s guest?’

  ‘I’m his brother.’ The girl frowned. ‘His older brother.’

  ‘All guests must be signed in,’ she said.

  ‘Look, the thing is I haven’t seen Rocco in five years and I was hoping to surprise him. How about you just let me go in and say . . .’

  ‘It is Rocco’s birthday?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything.’

  ‘You know what it’s like when you get past forty. At least you will in another twenty years.’ The girl smiled. ‘Once I’ve wished Rocco happy birthday, we’ll come back out and he can sign me in officially.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘He is in the club, then?’

  ‘Yes, but it is against procedure.’

  ‘It would mean so much to us both . . .’

  The sound of clacking pool balls competed with that of a jukebox playing an old Simple Minds track. Behind the bar, three people were serving drinks. A couple of guys perched on high stools looked as though they would crumble to dust in natural light. In marked contrast was a shaven-headed bloke in a cheap suit that struggled to make it across his chest. Judging by the way he was routinely scanning the place, I guessed Beefy was employed to keep the peace.

  The poker area was at the end of the room where music was less likely to prove a distraction. Each of the four baize tables was in use. Most players had the intense concentration of people trying to expel cumbersome turds. Poker didn’t look a lot of fun, but what did I know?

  Rocco’s Stetson had been perched on the corner of his chair. He was wearing a black shirt and mirrored glasses. Of the six people congregated around the table, only three held cards. It appeared the game was nearing its conclusion. As the receptionist would be expecting me back, I had no option other than to tap Rocco on the shoulder. His fellow players didn’t look happy about the intrusion. Nor did Rocco.

  ‘Fuck do you want?’ he asked after laying his cards face down on the table.

  ‘I’ve just been to La Cage.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Why did you lie to me about not having spoken to Harry Parr for weeks?’

  ‘Who says I lied?’

  ‘The CCTV footage I’ve just watched.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ the croupier asked.

  ‘No problem,’ I said, and then, to Rocco, ‘On the night I think she went missing the two of you left the club together.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘It makes you a suspect when it comes to her murder. That’s so what.’

  A guy in his twenties sporting a mullet and a baseball cap exchanged glances with a porky woman sporting a pair of blue-lensed glasses. However good they might be at cards, none of Rocco’s companions would win any style awards.

  ‘Can’t you see I’m working?’ he said to me. ‘Do I bother you when you’re blowing cocks?’

  The comment caused a few titters around the table. It also annoyed the shit out of me. I extended a hand and flipped Rocco’s cards over.

  ‘Mr Holtby folds.’

  General uproar ensued, not least of all from the other two players still in the game. Rocco got to his feet. ‘I had three fucking grand on that, y
ou wanker,’ he shouted. By now all eyes in the Snake Pit were upon us.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I said. ‘Still, I’m sure a player of your calibre could make that back in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Couple of years, you mean,’ muttered Mullet Boy. It didn’t improve Rocco’s mood any.

  ‘You are in deep shit, my friend,’ he said.

  ‘Is that right?’ I asked. ‘Because when Frank Parr hears about this . . .’

  A forearm the size of a baby porpoise fastened around my neck and started dragging me backwards. Rocco walked in front of me as I was hauled between the tables like a sack of coal, the backs of my heels bouncing on the carpet. His smile suggested this went some way towards making up for the money he’d allegedly lost.

  I was dragged through a fire exit into an alley that had half a dozen industrial-sized refuse bins in it. The bouncer straightened me up and pushed me away. I staggered across the alley into one of the bins. The impact had me seeing stars. Eventually I’d get up off my hands and knees, but it wouldn’t be any time soon.

  ‘Now, you,’ the bouncer said, standing over me, ‘are going to fuck off and never darken these doors again. Comprende?’

  ‘You tell him, Carl,’ Rocco said. ‘Bastard just lost me three K.’

  ‘That true?’ he asked. I was too winded to answer. ‘Then I think Rocks is due some compensation.’

  He reached into my inside pocket and took out my wallet. After having bunged Michael at La Cage, it wasn’t bulging at the seams. ‘Forty fucking quid,’ he said. ‘Cheap cunt.’

  ‘Cheers, Carl,’ Rocco said, and took the notes off him.

  ‘Now, the best thing you can do is keep your nose out of other people’s business,’ the bouncer said. ‘Because next time you might not get off so lightly.’

  He chucked my wallet at me before he and Rocco re-entered the building. The security bars clicked closed and I was left alone with my thoughts. I’d been strangled, humiliated and robbed, all within the space of an hour. The worst thing, though, was that I felt a sense of complete helplessness. Rocco had fucked me over and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Well, almost nothing.

  My old man used to say that it was unwise to act in anger; far better to sleep on things and make a considered decision in the morning. It’s one of the few of his homilies that I’ve tended to follow in life. But when their blood is up, people tend not to reach for parental axioms. I was no exception.

  From my wallet I took a card and tapped the number it carried into my phone. My call was answered on the second ring.

  ‘Farrelly, it’s Kenny Gabriel. You said to call if I needed help.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think Rocco might know something about Harry. Trouble is, I can’t get to him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I told Farrelly about the CCTV footage at La Cage and events at the Pit. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked.

  ‘In an alley at the back of the club.’

  ‘Be out front in twenty minutes.’

  While waiting, I chain-smoked four Marlboros and reflected on what a dumb move I’d made. Almost forty years ago, Farrelly had been mayhem incarnate. No way was he going to best an eighteen-stone bouncer at sixty. Even if he did, what was he going to do afterwards? Stride into the Pit and walk out with Rocco over his shoulder?

  I was fingering a lump on my head, where it had connected with the steel bin, when a silver saloon pulled up. I’d half expected Farrelly to be driving a hearse. His ride turned out to be an eight-year-old Toyota.

  ‘You look like shit,’ was the first thing he said.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I replied. ‘Look, I’m really sorry but I shouldn’t have called you. I don’t see what you can do. All due respect but the doorman’s a man mountain.’

  ‘On his own, is he?’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s like two bouncers rolled into one.’

  Farrelly sniffed a couple of times and said, ‘In the car.’

  I was surprised that he’d seen sense so easily. Even more so that he might be giving me a lift home. I got into the passenger seat and closed the door. Farrelly reached for his phone. He tapped the screen a few times and then held it to his ear.

  ‘That the Snake Pit? . . . Yeah, well, I’m standing outside your club, love, and there’s smoke coming out of the roof. I’d hit the alarm, if I were you. Probably nothing but you don’t want a disaster on your hands.’

  Fifteen seconds later, bells started ringing. A minute after that, people began to emerge from the front door and congregate on the opposite side of the street.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. Farrelly ignored the question.

  ‘When you see Rocco, point him out.’

  ‘That’s him in the Stetson,’ I said.

  ‘You sure? There’s a couple of other blokes in hats.’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Right, get in the back and stay out of sight.’

  ‘Why? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Stop asking fucking questions and do what I fucking well tell you,’ Farrelly said, sounding more like his old self by the minute.

  I got out on the blind side of the car and re-entered it via the rear door. From there I watched as Farrelly approached Rocco. After thirty seconds’ conversation, they began walking across the road. I slid down in the seat. The front doors opened and closed. The central locking slammed on.

  ‘Worried I might do a runner?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘Nope,’ said Farrelly, starting the engine.

  ‘Aren’t you guys all meant to have meters now? I thought the Met had started coming down on unlicensed cabs.’

  ‘They gave me a special permit,’ Farrelly said as we picked up speed.

  ‘What sort of permit?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘This sort.’

  I sat up and saw that Farrelly had his left hand on the wheel. In his right was a small, nickel-plated gun pointed at Rocco’s midriff.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ he asked.

  ‘Am I laughing?’ Farrelly replied.

  ‘If you want money, take this.’ Rocco unclipped his Rolex and held it out. ‘It’s kosher. You’d get two grand, no problem.’

  ‘I don’t want your poxy watch.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To know why you were with Harry Parr the night before she died,’ I said.

  Rocco’s head whipped round. ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Me.’

  ‘Look, man, things got a bit out of hand back there,’ Rocco said, fear marbling his voice. ‘Let me give you your money back and a few quid extra . . .’

  ‘Why did you lie about Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘She didn’t like anyone knowing she went to La Cage. And when I talked to you, I didn’t know she was . . . I didn’t know what had happened to her.’

  ‘Bullshit. You killed her.’

  ‘Me! Are you serious?’

  ‘Just answer the fucking question,’ was Farrelly’s contribution. He’d returned the gun to the driver’s door compartment. Rocco could have leant across him and made a grab for it, but I didn’t think he was the type. Clearly Farrelly didn’t either.

  ‘Someone called her and she said she had to leave,’ Rocco said. ‘I was pissed off because it was her idea to go to La Cage in the first place.’

  ‘She didn’t say who the caller was?’

  ‘No. If you don’t believe me, call the cops. I gave them all this when they pulled me in.’

  ‘Yeah, they’ll tell us all about it,’ Farrelly said. ‘Probably fax over a copy of your statement as well.’

  ‘Did Harry meet anyone out of the ordinary?’ I asked Rocco.

  ‘Of course she did. The place is a fucking freak show. That’s the whole point in going there.’

  ‘I mean anyone who took a particular interest in her.’

  ‘Look, Harry calls me for the first time in weeks and says she wants to meet up and have a laugh. I tell her that I’m not really up for La Cage, but she says that sh
e’ll sub me a few hundred and score us both some toot.’

  ‘Did Harry take drugs often?’

  ‘Only when she needed to relax.’

  ‘How did she seem that night?’

  ‘I don’t know. A bit wound up, maybe, but she was usually like that. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Did you use the dark rooms?’

  ‘H said she didn’t fancy it. We watched a show, did a few lines and had a drink. Then she took the call and said she had to go.’

  ‘No mention of who it was?’ Rocco shook his head. ‘Did you ask?’

  ‘Course I did. She just said that she had to be somewhere.’

  ‘What happened after you left the club?’

  ‘H got into a cab and said she’d be in touch. I went to the Pit and played a few hands. The cops have checked all this out. Why d’you think they didn’t charge me?’

  Judging by the pitch of Rocco’s voice, he was terrified. I didn’t think he was the type of person to hold information back when his personal safety was in question. My head was aching and I felt nauseous. What I needed most right then was three Paracetamol, a tumbler of Monarch and twelve hours’ sleep.

  ‘Let’s drop him off,’ I said to Farrelly. ‘He’s on the level.’

  ‘I totally am,’ said a relieved Rocco.

  ‘Only one way to find out for sure,’ Farrelly said.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  He shifted gear and put his foot down.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The rest of the journey was completed in silence, primarily because Farrelly threatened to shoot anyone who said anything. The gun was disturbing and surprising. Disturbing because, well, it was a gun; surprising as I’d never pegged Farrelly as the kind of person to carry one. Perhaps in his old age he felt the need for an equaliser.

  We continued heading east down Commercial Street and then into Whitechapel Road. Five minutes later we arrived in Stepney, where Farrelly navigated through deserted streets until we reached a small industrial estate. He parked outside unit 28.

  ‘Don’t even think about tryna run,’ he said to Rocco.

  Rocco nodded and Farrelly got out of the car. He undid a padlock that secured a control box and pressed a button. The steel security shutter rolled upwards. Farrelly beckoned us in. Rocco was so scared his legs could barely support him. There was more chance of him flying than running.