Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  Far more likely that Anna had spent an afternoon at a newspaper library printing off anything she came across about Frank Parr. This picture was simply background material that might prove useful when it came to colour and context. I slipped it into my inside pocket before beginning to return the rest of the archive to the cabinet.

  I locked the door, replaced the key on the ledge, and walked out of the gate with all the nonchalance I could muster. It was dark and, apart from a pensioner walking his collie, the pavement was free of potential witnesses. Chances were that Anna Jennings had been asked to cover a story at very short notice. But if something untoward had happened, I’d prefer not to have to explain to the police why I’d illegally entered her flat.

  In a cafe on the high road I ordered a coffee and a Danish. On my table lay a discarded copy of the Standard. Its front page carried the news that Frank Parr had withdrawn his bid to acquire the Post. The reporter speculated that he had done so for personal reasons, although in a sidebar the business editor commented that City analysts had always considered the paper overvalued. There was even a hint that Frank had deliberately inflated the asking price to cock a snook at Lord Kirkleys. Either way, he was now free to concentrate on the digital side of his business.

  I bit into my Danish and wondered what the truth was. Almost certainly the business guy had it right. The Frank Parr I knew wouldn’t have pulled out of a deal for any reason other than profit and loss. But time changes us all in one way or another. Maybe he had just thought fuck it, and thrown in the towel.

  The news that Roger had leaked the memo wouldn’t make him feel any better. Hopefully his son would bite the bullet on that one. I didn’t want to add to Frank’s woes by telling him that his surviving child had sold him down the river.

  Apart from the photograph in my jacket pocket – and I wasn’t exactly sure why I’d nicked that – my visit to Anna Jennings’ flat hadn’t been fruitful. I might be okay at finding blokes late with their alimony payments, but – let’s face it – I was an abject failure at tracking down killers. The very idea that I could nail Harry Parr’s murderer would have been hilarious if it weren’t so pathetic.

  I’d decided to call Frank and tell him that I was quitting when my phone started ringing. Although not a recognised number, I pressed Accept.

  ‘Mr Gabriel?’ an elderly voice enquired.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Rolfe?’ I asked.

  ‘You left me your card when you visited and said I should call if anything untoward happened.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘No,’ Rolfe said. ‘But several letters have arrived for Miss Parr and I was wondering what to do with them. Under the circumstances, I’m loath to bother her father with something so trivial.’

  ‘I’m sure if you send them on to his office they’ll reach Frank, Mr Rolfe.’

  ‘Do you have the address?’

  I thought about looking this up for Rolfe before calling him back. Then it occurred to me that having Harry’s mail might give me a good pretext to visit Frank and claim my final cheque before going to Manchester. Not to mention deliver the bad news about Roger, if necessary. ‘I’ll come round and pick them up,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Rolfe asked.

  ‘I said I’ll come round for the envelopes.’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that . . .’

  ‘I said I’ll pick the mail up!’ I yelled into the phone.

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ Rolfe said testily. ‘When will you get here?’

  ‘In about an hour’s time.’

  ‘I’ll expect you then,’ he said, and cut the line.

  My ETA for Beecham Buildings was bettered by fifteen minutes. I was prepared to spend another ten ringing Rolfe’s buzzer, but he must have turned the volume on his hearing aid up since our phone call. I avoided the stairs and took the lift to the third floor. His door was ajar. I pushed it open and announced my arrival. Rolfe came out of the sitting room holding a sheaf of envelopes.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ he said, and we shook hands. ‘You’ve picked up quite a shiner there,’ he added. ‘Ought to put a chunk of beefsteak on it.’

  ‘Bit late for that now, Mr Rolfe,’ I said.

  ‘You’re probably right. Need to get something on it straight away. Hope you gave as good as you got.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, well. Better luck next time.’ He looked expectantly at me for a few seconds and said, ‘Well, what d’you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The smell!’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, recalling the appalling stench that had been in his flat on my last visit. ‘It’s gone, hasn’t it?’

  ‘D’you think so? Sometimes I still catch a whiff of it.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said after nosing the air a few times.

  ‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ Rolfe said. ‘Anyway, here is Miss Parr’s mail. Dreadful business. Please pass on my condolences to her father.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘When’s the funeral? I’d like to attend, if possible.’

  ‘I think that depends on when the police release the body,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask Mr Parr’s PA to let you know.’

  ‘Appreciate it.’ Rolfe handed over four envelopes held together by an elastic band. ‘The others were clearly junk, so I threw them away.’

  I nodded and took a quick look at the envelopes without removing the band. Three looked like bills. The fourth was larger and of superior paper stock.

  ‘I’ll see that Harry’s father receives them,’ I said.

  ‘Has there been any progress in finding out who’s responsible for Miss Parr’s murder?’ Rolfe asked.

  ‘Not that I’m aware.’

  He shook his head and said, ‘One wonders what the world’s coming to.’

  People have been killing each other since time immemorial but there was no point telling an ex-soldier that. Equally as depressing to realise that things weren’t getting any better as it was to think they were getting steadily worse.

  ‘I’ll let myself out,’ I said.

  While walking down Great Russell Street, I examined the envelopes more closely. The brown ones were a gas bill, what looked like an invitation to join the electoral roll, and one that had a return address for HMRC on its reverse. The white envelope was more interesting. The logo on it was for Hathaway’s bank on the Strand, and the address had been handwritten in a cursive script.

  I lost my battle with curiosity outside the British Museum. The contents of the envelope might contain information that could shed some light on what Harry’s movements had been before she died. At least that’s what I told myself.

  What emerged was a sheet of watermarked paper. Attached was a cheque made out to Plan B for twenty thousand pounds, with DECLINED stamped across it in red ink. After examining the dishonoured cheque, I turned my attention to the letter.

  Ref: Cheque number: 347

  Dear Ms Parr,

  Please find enclosed a cheque made payable to Plan B for the sum of £20,000.

  After comparing the signature with that held on file, we were concerned as to its authenticity and have declined to release the funds. This was done only after several efforts to contact you by telephone proved unsuccessful.

  Of course it may be that your signature has altered recently. If that is the case it would be helpful if you could visit the Strand branch at your convenience to provide a new specimen signature.

  However, if you did not authorise the cheque, we would appreciate you contacting us immediately, as fraud is something the bank takes very seriously.

  Yours faithfully,

  Peter Trevithick

  Manager

  I hadn’t been a big hit with Plan B’s receptionist the last time I’d visited. Absence hadn’t made the heart grow fonder. Despite the lateness of the hour, Truda was on the phone when I arrived. Although I suppose the scowl on her face may have had something to do with the person on the e
nd of the line. It had probably been as long a day for her as it had for me.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said, putting the receiver down.

  ‘I’m here to see Callum.’

  ‘He’s busy and there are four people still waiting. It’s best if you come back tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to wait,’ Truda said, her voice becoming even less welcoming. ‘You know where to go.’

  ‘Actually, I think he’ll want to see me now.’ I took out the Hathaway’s letter from my pocket and slid it across the counter. ‘Particularly when you show him this . . .’

  Truda looked at the document and then at me. She snatched it up and marched out from behind her desk. She took the stairs quickly and tapped on Callum’s door.

  During the next two minutes, I read a notice that said violence would not be tolerated and a framed copy of the serenity poem. I was about to make a start on Plan B’s fire regulations when Truda descended the stairs, minus the letter.

  ‘You can go up,’ she said, unable to look me in the eye.

  ‘I don’t have to wait, then?’ I said, just for the badness of it.

  Truda slammed the hatch down and started sorting through a pile of documents. Anyone would think I was there to accuse her boss of fraud. On my way upstairs, I passed Kaz, the woman I’d given my cigarettes to on my last visit to Plan B.

  ‘All right, Kenny?’ she said.

  ‘Surviving, Kaz. How are you?’

  ‘Callum’s been giving me a bollocking.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve been a naughty girl.’

  There were dark circles under Kaz’s eyes, and her skin had a waxen quality. Her hair looked as though it hadn’t been washed since the last time we’d met. Whatever naughty meant, it probably wasn’t scrumping apples or farting in church.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your session,’ I said. ‘But I need to see Callum urgently.’

  She winked and said, ‘No need to apologise, mate. I reckon you need Cal more than I do. Haven’t got a fag handy, have you?’

  The letter and the cheque were laid out on Callum’s desk. He was staring at them intently. For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard me enter the room. I was about to cough to attract his attention when he looked up and said, ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Harry’s neighbour.’

  ‘Did he open it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Does Frank know?’ I shook my head. Callum nodded and picked up the cheque. ‘There’s a perfectly innocent explanation.’

  ‘I take it that’s not Harry’s signature, then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You faked it?’

  ‘There was no other option.’

  ‘Not sure the police will agree with you on that.’

  ‘Do they have to know?’

  ‘I guess that all depends on your version of events.’

  I sat in the same chair I’d occupied on my last visit. Callum didn’t join me.

  ‘You remember I told you that Harry wanted to help raise money for the centre?’ I nodded. ‘Well, things had got to such a stage that we were on the point of closing down. Make that: we are on the point of closing down.’

  ‘So you forged a cheque to keep the place open. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Only the signature. Harry wrote us a cheque to tide us over for a couple of months while we tried to replace our funding. It arrived in the post a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Unsigned?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I called Harry to thank her for her gift – I had no idea she was sending it – but there was no reply. When she didn’t respond to my message I made other efforts to get in touch with her. All to no avail.’

  ‘Which was when you decided to cash the cheque?’

  ‘I assumed Harry was on holiday. She signed our daybook on her first visit, so I had something to copy. Unfortunately it looks as though I didn’t practise enough . . .’

  ‘You know what people get for fraud on this scale?’

  Callum sat back in his chair and smiled. ‘Knowing the judiciary’s tendency to prioritise property over people, I’d say a couple of years.’

  ‘And that doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘Of course it bothers me,’ he said, as though speaking to a backward child. ‘What bothered me more was letting down the people who use this place, simply because a very busy young woman had forgotten to sign a cheque.’

  ‘You really couldn’t afford to wait another week or two?’

  ‘King’s Cross used to be the badlands, Kenny. Now it’s one of the fastest-growing areas in London. Our landlord has been looking for an excuse to kick us out for years. Default on the rent one more time and we were out on our ear.’

  I raised my hands and clapped slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Nice story, Callum. The problem is, I’ve spent the last few years listening to people spin me tales like that. Ninety-nine per cent of them are bullshit.’

  ‘Why would I lie? The cheque was made out to Plan B. There was no way I could benefit personally.’

  ‘Of course you could. All you’d have to do is finagle the books so that an extraordinary payment could be made to the MD, or whatever it is you call yourself.’ Callum made to defend himself. I carried on talking. ‘Not that I think that’s what happened. You’re an obsessive, and like most obsessives you’ll do virtually anything to get what you want or protect what you’ve got.’

  ‘Some things are worth fighting for.’

  ‘Even if it leads to murder?’

  ‘What?’

  It was the first time I’d seen Callum properly rattled.

  ‘Let me give you a different version of events,’ I said. ‘Let’s say that Harry, in a flush of generosity, did write you a cheque for twenty grand. And let’s agree that she also forgot to sign it. You give her a call to tell her that you can’t cash it and she says she’s changed her mind about the whole thing. You can’t accept this, so you turn up to see her in person to plead your case. Harry remains adamant and a row breaks out. You lose control and the next thing you know . . .’

  Callum had been shaking his head throughout my alternative scenario. ‘And you really think that’s what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe not exactly, but something like it.’

  ‘It’s preposterous.’

  ‘People are capable of all kinds of things in the heat of the moment. You only have to read the papers to know that.’

  More head-shaking from Callum. ‘Leaving aside the idea that I’m a potential murderer,’ he said, ‘why would Harry change her mind about donating the money?’

  ‘Any number of reasons. The pair of you could have fallen out as to what it should have been used for. Harry might have decided that she didn’t want to be involved in the centre any more. Hell, she may just have thought it was a shitload of cash and that she’d been a bit hasty.’

  ‘You didn’t know her.’

  ‘Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with?’

  ‘I don’t have to come up with anything, Kenny, because I’ve already told you the truth. If you don’t believe me then call the police.’

  Callum pushed his phone towards the edge of his desk. Even though I did credit his story, why not call the cops anyway? I thought about Kaz and the people I’d met in the waiting room. If Callum went down, Plan B would close for sure.

  Then I recalled Harry Parr’s putrefied body. I couldn’t be sure he was innocent of her murder and it looked as though the centre was doomed anyway. Why not allow due process to take its course?

  Before I could come up with a definitive answer to these questions, a high-pitched electronic wailing filled the air.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I was first out of the door, with Callum only a couple of seconds behind. Frank Parr was coming up the stairs at speed. He stopped in his tracks. No doubt he was surprised to see me, and Callum’s appearance can’t have been what he was expecting.
When Frank had last seen his ex-business partner, he’d been a walrus in a suit.

  ‘Sorry Cal,’ Truda shouted over his shoulder. ‘I told him you were with someone but he ran straight up.’

  ‘Not to worry, Truda,’ said her boss. ‘I’m sure Mr Parr isn’t here to cause trouble. Turn the alarm off and tell everyone there’s nothing to be concerned about.’

  She nodded and descended the stairs.

  ‘Been a while, Frank,’ Callum said. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘You know why I’m here.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t. But if you step into my office, then I’m sure we can discuss things in a civilised manner. Otherwise I’ll have to ask you to leave the building.’

  Considering that I’d just accused him of attempting to defraud Frank’s dead daughter, Callum was remarkably composed. He stood aside to allow Frank entry. The intruder alarm stopped. Silence seemed weird in comparison.

  ‘Do take a seat,’ Callum said.

  Frank removed his overcoat and sat in one of the armchairs. He hadn’t shaved that morning and looked as though he hadn’t slept too well the night before. Judging by the broken veins in his eyes, I’d have said that alcohol had played a part.

  Callum occupied the other armchair. I sat behind the desk and palmed the cheque into my pocket.

  ‘First of all, I’m sorry for your loss, Frank,’ Callum said. ‘Harry was a remarkable young woman.’

  ‘And you’d know that, would you?’

  If Frank was trying to provoke, he failed. ‘Our friendship wasn’t a long one,’ Callum said calmly, ‘but I like to think that we understood each other well enough.’

  ‘Kenny says that Harry told you she was planning to leave the company,’ Frank said. ‘My company,’ he added, as though there could be any mistake.

  ‘That’s right,’ Callum said.

  ‘And that she was going to work for you.’

  ‘She wanted to help Plan B.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  Callum took a few seconds to respond. When he did it was with a question of his own. ‘You’re telling me that Harry didn’t discuss her plans with you?’