Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Mid-thirties.’

  ‘Does he live in London?’

  ‘Yeah. And he’s married with a young daughter, if that helps.’

  ‘When d’you need it by?’

  ‘The next ten minutes would be useful.’

  ‘Five hundred.’

  ‘All you have to do is turn your fucking laptop on!’

  ‘And I need to know where to look, Kenny, which you don’t. I’m guessing you’re still on Frank’s payroll . . .’

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘Why don’t you just ask him, then?’

  ‘I don’t have the time.’

  ‘You know I meant what I said about you’re either working for me or you’re working for him. If I can’t rely on you to—’

  ‘Five hundred’s fine,’ I said. ‘As long as you can get hold of it pronto.’

  ‘I’ll call you back,’ Odeerie said, and broke the line.

  By rights I should have been out on my feet, but my system was high on adrenaline. Chances were that someone had released Farrelly by now, in which case he’d be on his way to the flat. That meant getting some kip wasn’t an option. Not unless I didn’t intend to wake up again.

  The only way to stop Farrelly was by asking Frank to intercede. But I wanted to talk to his son first. It’s been my experience that confronting someone where they live is twice as unsettling as anywhere else. Sometimes they give you information; sometimes they throw punches. We’d have to see which way it took Roger.

  Odeerie came through with his address shortly after a warden began writing me a ticket. A fixed-penalty notice was the least of my worries. Roger lived in Holland Park. I could probably get there by seven. If he’d set off for work, I’d be shit out of luck. Although I suspected Roger wasn’t an early bird.

  I beat my ETA by three minutes. Thirty Durlisher Road was arranged over three storeys. It was painted white and set back twenty yards from the road, behind a pair of six-foot metal gates. Parked outside a triple-bay garage were a Range Rover and a Black BMW, both of which gleamed in the early-morning sun.

  I parked further up the street, doubled back and pressed the intercom buzzer. A woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I said. ‘I’m here to see Roger Parr. Is this the right address?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I admitted.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Kenny Gabriel.’

  ‘Hold on a moment.’

  Twenty seconds later the lock clicked. I opened the gate and crunched across the gravel drive. A woman in her thirties stood by the front door. She was wearing a light-grey tracksuit and had auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. Despite the lack of make-up, she looked almost as sensational as she had in the picture on Roger’s desk.

  ‘I’m Tabitha,’ she said holding out a hand. ‘Roger’s wife.’

  ‘Kenny,’ I said, shaking it.

  ‘Please excuse my appearance,’ she said. ‘Just off for a run.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I replied – pretty rich, bearing in mind I was wearing a muddy evening suit and the beginnings of a black eye.

  She ushered me in, where I was greeted by a golden retriever who leapt up and planted a paw on each of my thighs.

  ‘Down, Godfrey!’ said Tabitha, sternly. Godfrey took no notice. I gave his head a companionable pat before he was grabbed by the collar and deposited whining behind a nearby door. ‘He gets excitable around strangers,’ said his mistress. ‘Roger’s having a shower. Perhaps you’d like to wait in his study . . .’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and she led me up the stairs. On the landing was a six-year-old girl in pyjamas.

  ‘Who’s that man, Mummy?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s a friend of Daddy’s, darling,’ Tabitha said, adding, for my benefit, ‘This is Hester, our daughter.’

  ‘Hello, Hester,’ I said, and gave her a wave.

  ‘You look like Granddad Nigel,’ she said. ‘He died of cancer.’

  ‘Go and play with Godfrey, darling,’ Tabitha said. ‘He’s in the dining room.’

  Hester gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Oh, all right, then,’ she said, and marched past us.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ her mother said. ‘You know what they’re like at that age . . .’

  Roger’s study looked as though it had been transplanted from the Reform Club. One wall supported shelves of leather-bound books, and a pair of burgundy chesterfields faced each other across the room. In one corner was a large oak desk. Covering the floor, an ancient Turkish rug. The only things that would have perplexed Phileas Fogg were a large flat-panel TV screen and the laptop on the desk.

  ‘Do sit down,’ Tabitha said. ‘Can I get you a coffee or something?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘Roger should be with you in five minutes or so. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get on with my run.’

  The books turned out to be medical tracts in German, or bound copies of ancient agricultural reports. The kind of thing interior designers bought from libraries and house clearances for clients who wanted to appear cultured without having to read anything. Maybe Roger stayed up half the night boning up on the function of the spleen, or Lincolnshire milk yields in 1902, but I had my doubts.

  I spent a while looking through the window on to the garden, where Hester was gooning around with Godfrey. When I got bored with that, I checked out some Spy cartoons of long-dead politicians. I suspected that a large globe of the ancient world had a secondary use, and I was right. A catch near Mesopotamia released the northern hemisphere. The globe swung open to reveal a varied selection of quality spirits.

  Even I draw the line at knocking it back at seven thirty in the morning, but the lack of sleep was beginning to kick in and I could do with a sharpener. I unscrewed the top of a bottle of Hennessy and had just applied it to my puckered lips when Roger entered the room. ‘Glad you’ve made yourself at home, Kenny,’ he said.

  ‘I couldn’t find any glasses,’ was the best I could manage.

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find most people are taking their breakfast aperitif straight from the bottle these days,’ he said. ‘It’s all the rage.’

  I screwed the top back on and replaced the bottle in the globe. Roger was in a dark business suit. His white shirt was pristine and his mauve tie perfectly knotted. He smelled of expensive aftershave. I felt at a disadvantage.

  ‘Perhaps we should sit down,’ he said, and we occupied separate sofas. ‘I’m assuming your visit has something to do with Harry.’

  ‘It’s connected. I’ve interviewed quite a few people now. One of whom gave me some interesting information.’

  ‘Which you couldn’t wait to tell me about?’

  I looked him directly in the eye and said, ‘You leaked the information about your dad planning to move to Docklands and sack half the workforce.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Doesn’t matter who told me,’ I said. ‘What does matter is that it’s true.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Why would I want to sabotage my father’s company? The company I work for. The company that pays for all this.’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Kenny. Whoever fed you this is clearly some kind of fantasist with an axe to grind. Now, if we’ve quite finished, I’ve got a job to go to and I’m sure there’s a drying-out clinic wondering where you are . . .’

  Roger checked his watch and I decided to give the interview a bit of bite. ‘You couldn’t bear the idea of Harry being in charge of the company, could you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I told you my sister’s the one with the nose for business. I have absolutely no problem with that.’

  ‘And you’ve probably been telling yourself that for years. Maybe you even managed to believe it. But when Frank made Harry MD, something snapped. God knows I understand, Roger. All my brother’s really done in life is
get lucky a few times. Drives me nuts when people bang on about how talented he is. What it really comes down to is that some of us get the breaks and some of us don’t.’

  Roger nodded. ‘Harry was good at boiling down spreadsheets,’ he said. ‘But I had much more of an idea what was going on at the sharp end of the business.’

  ‘I’m sure you did.’

  ‘Dad never listened to me. All he ever wanted to know was what Harry thought about this and what Harry thought about that.’

  ‘Must have been frustrating.’

  ‘Whenever I took him a business idea, all he’d say was that he’d take a look and that would be the last I’d ever hear of it. If she came up with something, though, it was like the bloody Oracle had spoken.’

  ‘It’s understandable you did what you did.’

  ‘D’you really think so?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘There’s not a day gone by when I haven’t regretted it.’

  ‘I’m sure that will be taken into account when it comes to sentencing. You could be out in nine or ten years.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe less.’

  ‘For forwarding a couple of emails to a journalist?’

  ‘I thought you were talking about . . .’

  ‘You think I murdered Harry?’

  ‘Not murdered, exactly . . .’

  ‘You come to my home looking like Christ knows what and start making wild accusations. I should beat the shit out of you.’

  Roger stood over me with balled fists and a face contorted by rage. He might not have killed his sister, but he was on the verge of doing me some serious damage.

  ‘The fact that Harry confronted you about the memo gives you a motive for killing her,’ I said. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t tell the police about it when they interviewed you.’

  ‘Who says they interviewed me?’

  ‘Don’t piss me around. Of course they did.’

  Roger’s fists uncurled, although the tension in his jaw remained. ‘Are you going to tell them about this?’ he asked.

  ‘Not the police,’ I said. ‘But I’m professionally required to let Frank know.’

  ‘Why? It makes no difference to anything.’

  ‘I’ll let myself out,’ I said, and got up from the sofa. Roger’s offer came when I was still ten feet from the door.

  ‘Five thousand to keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In cash.’

  ‘I’m not blackmailing you, Roger.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, of course you aren’t. I’m sorry, Kenny, it’s just that . . . Well, you can probably imagine how my father’s going to take this.’ Roger’s lips tightened and he breathed heavily through his nose. I almost felt sorry for the bloke. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘at least let me tell Dad face to face. He’ll respect me for that, if nothing else.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m at a conference in Birmingham today, but I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘What about the journalist? Is there anything you’ve told her she hasn’t printed?’

  ‘No. The last time we spoke she said she had a bigger story.’

  ‘About Frank? Didn’t you ask her what it was?’

  Roger shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. You know what reporters are like.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Anna Jennings.’

  ‘And she works for the Gazette?’

  ‘She’s freelance but they picked up a lot of her stuff.’

  ‘Nothing’s come out under her name since Harry died?’

  ‘Not that I’ve noticed, but right now’s probably not a very good time to print anything negative about my father, is it?’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’

  ‘A week ago.’

  ‘How did you hook up in the first place?’

  ‘She interviewed me last year for an article about changing trends in media. I had her details and when I got the memo . . .’

  ‘You didn’t think to forward it anonymously?’

  Roger’s face coloured. ‘I’d had a few drinks,’ he said. ‘You know how easy it is to send the wrong kind of email when you’re pissed.’

  ‘D’you have Anna’s details?’

  ‘Are you going to see her?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I don’t have a card or anything but I can give you an email address . . .’

  Roger went over to the desk and switched on his laptop. While it was booting up, Hester came into the room followed by a subdued-looking Godfrey.

  ‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘Godders ate some white berries and then he was sick. D’you think he’s going to die?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine, pumpkin.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we take him to see the vet?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Roger had located Anna’s address. He located a pad and started to write it down. Hester stared at me in the unembarrassed way that kids have.

  ‘What happened to your eye?’ she asked.

  ‘I fell over and banged it.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘A little bit.’

  ‘Mummy’s looked like that when it was my birthday. Afterwards we went to stay with Auntie Kath for ages. Daddy stayed here because he had work to do.’

  ‘No need to bother our visitor about that, darling,’ Roger said, tearing the sheet off the pad. He held it out to me. ‘You will be discreet, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Only I wouldn’t want things to get any worse.’

  It was hard to imagine how things could get worse but I chose not to point this out to Roger. If his daughter hadn’t been in the room it might have been a different matter. ‘Twenty-four hours,’ I said instead. ‘And then I’m talking to Frank.’

  ‘You have my word I’ll have spoken to my father by then,’ he said. Godfrey made a couple of guttural barks before honking over the floor.

  It pretty much said it all.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Vehicles were bumper to bumper on the A40. To keep myself from nodding off, I reviewed my conversation with Roger. His anger when I had all but accused him of killing his sister had been too palpable to be faked. Less persuasive had been his promise to confess to his father about spilling his guts to Anna Jennings.

  I didn’t think Roger had much to worry about. If he played the mea culpa card – or even told the truth as to how he felt about his sister – then Frank would eventually calm down. Added to which, he must already have known what a limp dick his son was, otherwise he wouldn’t have favoured his daughter in the first place.

  At ten thirty I reached Camden and parked the Toyota in Pratt Street. I thought about texting Farrelly its whereabouts and decided against it. The way my luck was running, fate would almost certainly arrange an accidental meeting. It was a five-minute walk to Stephie’s flat. The surprise in her voice when she answered the intercom was nothing compared to that on her face when she opened the door.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘I’ve had a busy night.’

  ‘You’ve got a black eye.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you’re covered in crap.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You reek of booze.’

  ‘Stephie, d’you think I could come in?’ I said before the inventory got any longer. ‘I need some kip and I can’t go home.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s a bloke waiting to kill me.’

  Stephie insisted on an account of the previous night’s events. When I finished my story, she asked why I hadn’t called Frank straight away instead of fannying around. She had a point. Instead of flopping immediately on to the spare-room bed, I rang his number. After thirty seconds I was preparing for voicemail and wondering what kind of message I could leave that would make any sense, when he answered in person.

  ‘Got something for me, Kenny?’

 
; ‘Not exactly, Frank. I sort of need a favour.’

  ‘You sort of need one, or you do need one?’

  ‘Do need one.’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  I took Frank through everything that had happened the previous night, apart from my interview with Roger.

  ‘Are you pissed?’ he asked. I told him I wasn’t. ‘D’you think I need this shit right now?’ was his second question.

  ‘There wasn’t much I could do. If I hadn’t intervened, Farrelly would have killed Rocco. At least I think he would.’

  ‘Serve the bastard right.’

  ‘I know how you feel, but he had nothing to do with Harry’s murder.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Farrelly was electrocuting him, Frank. Rocco would spill his guts if you gave him a Chinese burn.’

  He took a few seconds to think this through.

  ‘So Harry took a call in this club before she left?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And whoever spoke to her is probably the killer?’

  ‘I can’t be certain, but there’s a chance.’

  ‘It was definitely a sex club?’ I assured him it was. ‘And Harry was into that?’

  ‘A lot of people are, Frank.’

  ‘What else have you found out?’

  I thought about withholding certain pieces of information, but was just too tired to edit the story. Plus Frank was my client, so I had certain obligations.

  ‘Harry was gay. She married Rocco because you kept suggesting she settle down with someone. It was never going to last, but she wanted to teach you a lesson.’

  ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’

  ‘It’s the truth, Frank.’

  ‘Who says it is?’

  ‘Rocco.’

  ‘That piece of shit would come up with anything if he thought it could make him a few quid. Okay, Harry might have gone to this club now and again. Might have done. But I know my own daughter, Kenny, and she wasn’t gay.’

  I took a deep breath and said, ‘Roger confirmed it.’

  A long silence followed.

  ‘Harry told Rog she was gay, but not me?’

  ‘He sort of worked it out for himself.’

  ‘But I didn’t notice?’

  ‘Sometimes we see what we want to see, Frank.’

  ‘What else?’ he asked.