Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Of course she didn’t,’ Frank said. ‘Harry was one hundred per cent behind taking Griffin to the next level. Why throw all that over to help a bunch of dipsos?’

  A muscle twitched under Callum’s eye. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand Harry’s motivations, Frank. Not from what she told me about the nature of your relationship.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Harry initially approached me because she wanted to find out more about who her father really was. She knew Frank Parr the media baron, but she didn’t know anything about Frank Parr the man.’

  ‘And I can imagine what you told her,’ Frank said.

  ‘Really? What’s that, exactly?’

  ‘About how I took advantage when you wanted out of the company. How she ought to get away while the going was good. Blah, blah, fucking blah.’

  ‘Not what I said at all.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I told Harry the truth, Frank. Deep down you’re scared. Money can insulate you from your feelings but it doesn’t make them go away. And if you’re locked out then everyone else is locked out with you. Including your children.’

  ‘Psychobabble bullshit.’

  ‘Harry didn’t agree.’

  ‘What am I meant to be scared of, exactly?’

  ‘Who knows? Failure, perhaps? Not measuring up to your father? You’d have to sit down with a therapist to work that one out.’

  ‘Someone like you? I’d rather put a bullet in my head.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. You’ve undergone a terrible loss, Frank. My advice would be to seek professional help as soon as possible.’

  Callum’s tone suggested he had nothing but his ex-business partner’s best interests at heart. Frank swallowed a couple of times and the knuckles in his fists showed against the skin.

  ‘Have you spoken to the police?’ he said, his voice filled with tension.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Harry.’

  Callum shrugged. ‘I haven’t anything to tell them, Frank.’

  ‘You don’t know that. She might have said something to you that would only make sense to them.’

  ‘That might help identify a suspect?’ Frank nodded. ‘Based on our conversations, there’s only one person who could possibly have had a motive to kill her.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘You,’ Callum said.

  And that was when Frank went for him.

  The distance between the chairs was about eight feet. Even for a bloke with as much timber on him as Frank, it took no more than a couple of seconds to cross the space. Callum was ready for him. Using his left arm he diverted Frank’s momentum towards the floor. Then he placed him in a chokehold.

  Gone was the tranquil countenance of a man who had expelled his demons. Callum’s lips were drawn back from his teeth in a vulpine rictus and the veins in his temples stood out like twine.

  ‘Now, I’m going to tell you something, Frank,’ he said, ‘and then you’re out of my life for good. Do you understand that?’

  Frank struggled. Callum tightened his hold and carried on talking.

  ‘I only met Harry half a dozen times but it was clear that her life was becoming increasingly meaningless. To her credit, she wanted to do something about that.’

  A much less vigorous spasm from Frank.

  ‘Now, you may not approve of the work we do here, but Harry offered to help raise funds on our behalf. At no time did I try to prejudice her against you. Although, if you want my honest opinion, the best thing she could have done as far as you’re concerned was to run a thousand miles in the opposite direction. You’re poison, Frank. You were to me and you were to her. Everything you touch turns to shit.’

  With each sentence, the pressure on Frank’s throat increased. He was struggling to breathe and pawing at Callum’s sinewy forearm. Events had happened so quickly it seemed as though they were taking place on a cinema screen. Unless I intervened, there wouldn’t be a happy ending. At least not for Frank.

  ‘You’ve made your point, Callum,’ I said. ‘Let him go.’

  He showed no sign of having heard me. I looked round for something to use as a weapon, if necessary. The only thing with potential was a fire extinguisher.

  ‘If I knew who was responsible for Harry’s death, I’d have gone to the police long ago,’ Callum said. ‘But the only things we spoke about were you, her depression, and then her potential involvement in Plan B. Do you understand that?’

  Frank was close to losing consciousness. His face had turned an alarming shade of puce, and bubbles of saliva traced his lips. I had the extinguisher raised and was about to bring it down across the back of Callum’s shoulders—

  A knock on the door.

  ‘Everything okay in there?’ Truda asked. The effect was as though a hypnotist had clicked his fingers in her boss’s face.

  ‘Yeah, we’re fine,’ Callum said, the anger in his eyes disappearing.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Silence for a few moments, followed by the sound of Truda descending the stairs. Callum released Frank’s head. It hit the floor like a bowling ball. Snot sprayed out of his nose and air rushed into his outraged lungs.

  Callum took several deep breaths of his own. I got the impression that throttling Frank had done him a world of good on a level that transcendental meditation didn’t nearly reach. Even if it had left his chakras looking like they’d been run over by a combine harvester.

  ‘What were you intending to do with that?’ he said to me.

  ‘I thought you were going to kill him,’ I replied, putting the extinguisher down.

  Callum didn’t contest the possibility. Frank was groaning but showing no sign of getting to his feet. Callum stared, as though noticing him for the first time. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ he said. ‘When I get back I don’t want to see either of you here. If you are, then I’ll call the police immediately.’

  After Callum left, I grabbed a handful of tissues and used them to mop up the crud from Frank’s chest and chin. He tried to get up but I told him to stay down. Gradually his breathing returned to something approaching normal.

  ‘Bastard got . . . lucky . . . is all,’ he said, presumably in an attempt to explain how Callum had managed to take him down so comprehensively.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, helping him to his feet. ‘Now, let’s get the fuck out of here in case he comes back and gets lucky all over again.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Two minutes from Plan B was probably the only cafe in the area that didn’t have its own artisan baker. When we entered, Frank was still rocky on his feet. It was obvious what the ferrety-looking guy behind the counter thought. ‘Is he pissed?’ he asked. ‘Because if he is, you can both get out of here right now.’

  ‘He’s not feeling so well.’

  ‘So take him to a hospital.’

  ‘All he needs is some coffee,’ I said. ‘Ideally with half a dozen sugars in it.’

  ‘Just coffee?’

  ‘And a tea.’

  ‘There’s a five-quid minimum charge.’

  The cafe’s walls were covered in vinyl paper, and its tables protected by sheets of plastic gingham. An Insect-o-cutor mounted behind the counter was mottled with dead flies. I had my doubts about the cover charge.

  ‘No problem.’

  Ferrety reached for a large kettle. The only other customers were a man in his sixties and a teenager in a grey hoodie. They continued to stare at each other over a travel chess set and seemed not to register our arrival.

  ‘Maybe he’s right about getting you checked out,’ I said to Frank, after easing him into the nearest seat. ‘You don’t look too hot.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘He probably does a decent bacon sarnie.’

  ‘Not hungry.’ Frank chased half a dozen grains of sugar around the table with his index finger. Whate
ver was on his mind, I decided to let it percolate a while. ‘What were you doing in there?’ he said, eventually.

  ‘You wanted me to pay Callum another visit. I was asking him whether there was anything he might have forgotten to tell me.’

  ‘Was there?’ I shook my head. ‘Did you believe all that stuff he said about Harry wanting to work with him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Why didn’t she mention it to me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Frank.’

  ‘Maybe she’d changed her mind.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I intended to send the cheque back to Hathaway’s with Opened in error written across the envelope. If they wanted to contact the police, so be it. Telling Frank wouldn’t be doing anyone any favours, least of all him.

  ‘D’you think he was right?’ he asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Everything I touch turning to shit.’

  ‘Most people would give their right arm for the kind of success you’ve had.’

  ‘You know what he meant.’

  ‘You’re not responsible for Harry’s death. I know that.’

  At least I thought I did. Frank had corralled the spilt sugar lumps into a small pile. He scattered them back over the plastic tablecloth with a flick of his hand.

  ‘If I’d got to know her better, she might still be here.’

  ‘That’s complete rubbish.’

  The man arrived and placed two mugs on the table. ‘We close in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Just so you know.’

  ‘You can stay open half an hour later,’ Frank replied.

  ‘I decide when this place closes, mate. And I need to cash up, so I’d appreciate you paying your bill.’ Frank pulled out a wallet and extracted a fifty. ‘Ain’t you got nothing smaller?’

  ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Frank nodded and the man went to take the note. Frank folded first one hand around his fingers and then the other. He squeezed. A grimace of pain spread across the guy’s pinched features. His knees buckled slightly.

  ‘You’re open until eight,’ Frank said. ‘Got that?’ The waiter nodded. Frank applied more pressure. ‘You sure?’

  Another nod and Frank released his hand. The guy scuttled back to his counter like a wounded animal. Frank took out a phone, pressed a single digit and held it to his ear.

  ‘I’m in a cafe on Skipton Street,’ he said, then looked at me. ‘What’s this shithole called?’

  ‘The Wise Owl.’ Frank relayed the information and added that whoever he was talking to should get there as soon as possible. ‘Farrelly?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’s under control.’

  Frank laid his phone on the table. Colour had returned to his cheeks. The incident with the waiter had gone some way to restoring the natural order of things.

  ‘Have the police said anything else about Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope. To be honest, I think the wankers have got me pegged as a suspect.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘They interviewed me about where I was when she was murdered.’

  ‘It’s procedure, Frank.’ He grunted. ‘They’ve probably done the same with Roger. Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘He’s had to stay in Birmingham late. But he’s asked to meet me first thing tomorrow morning. Something he wants to talk about.’

  ‘D’you know what?’

  ‘Probably just a debrief about the clients he’s seen. Hardly a priority right now, but I don’t want to upset Rog after what’s happened to his sister.’

  If Roger intended to keep his promise about leaking the memo, then Frank was the person whose nose would be put out of joint.

  ‘I made a twat out of myself in there, didn’t I?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe you should see a grief counsellor.’

  ‘Do I seem like I’m losing the plot?’

  ‘You did go a bit overboard in Callum’s office.’

  ‘All I wanted to do was have a chat. That bitch on reception started pissing me around and suddenly my blood’s up.’

  ‘Truda can have that effect.’

  Frank sat back heavily in his chair. ‘Who am I kidding?’ he said. ‘I was pissed off because of this business with the Post and I needed to take it out on someone.’

  ‘I heard you’d pulled out of the deal.’

  ‘Told to pull out.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Frank gave me a lop-sided smile. ‘Let’s just say that it was made clear to me that certain people in high office would prefer it if Lord Kirkleys’ bid was allowed to proceed unopposed.’

  ‘Which people in high office?’

  ‘No idea. You just get some call from a junior minister passing on some information he got from a slightly-less-junior minister who got it from fuck knows where. Bottom line is that you need to understand which way the wind’s blowing.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Life’s made difficult. Your tax situation is heavily scrutinised and your credit dries up at the bank. There’s a raid on your warehouse and a couple of blokes on the night shift turn out to be illegals. Or it might be any one of a dozen pains in the arse you could do without in your life.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘If you think you live in a free society, Kenny, think again.’

  ‘You should say something?’

  ‘All people will reckon is I’m bitter or I’ve got a screw loose. And the pendulum swings both ways. Now I’ve fallen in line, a few nice things will start occurring.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’ll be included in the New Year Honours list, or receive a surprise development grant from the DTI. Watch this space, basically.’

  ‘You’re not happy about the situation, though?’

  ‘Course I’m not. That’s why I went in to see Callum half-cocked.’ Frank rubbed the side of his neck thoughtfully. ‘Reckon he was serious about me killing Harry?’

  ‘He just wanted to piss you off.’ I took my first and last sip of lukewarm tea. ‘Frank, could what happened to Harry have been some kind of warning?’

  He considered the point before responding.

  ‘No one’s gonna do something like that over who owns a fucking paper. And besides, there’s been no message before or afterwards. It wouldn’t make any sense. No, Kenny, some toerag killed Harry for kicks. And, one way or another, they’re going to get what’s coming to ’em. Speaking of which . . .’

  ‘Nothing to report,’ I said. ‘Although I did visit the journalist who wrote about your plans to relocate the Post.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had a tip-off she was working on a big story and I wondered if it might have something to do with Harry?’ Frank looked even more bewildered. ‘Journalists do lots of background research,’ I explained. ‘Often they turn up stuff they think isn’t relevant, but might be to someone else.’

  ‘If you say so. Did she have anything like that?’

  ‘She wasn’t home, so I took a quick look round.’

  Frank’s eyebrows rose. ‘And?’

  I took out the photocopied article and laid it before Frank. He picked it up, scrutinised it for a few moments and replaced it on the table.

  ‘D’you remember April?’ I asked.

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘You had an affair with her.’

  The older of the two chess players flipped the board over, stood up and walked out of the cafe. The kid in the hoodie shook his head and gathered the pieces. He tucked these and the board into his rucksack, and followed suit.

  ‘Did April tell you that?’ Frank asked.

  ‘No. I saw the two of you in a restaurant. It was obvious what was going on.’

  ‘But you didn’t mention it?’ I shook my head. Frank’s gaze dropped back down to the photograph. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said softly.

  ‘Near on forty years.’

  ‘Did you find anything else?’

  ‘About April?’ H
e nodded. ‘Not in the filing cabinet but I couldn’t access her laptop. Although what would be newsworthy about a guy having a fling with one of his employees back in the Dark Ages?’

  I delivered the question in a way that rendered it more leading than rhetorical. For a few seconds Frank continued to stare at the picture.

  ‘It weren’t quite as simple as that,’ he said.

  THIRTY

  ‘D’you remember DI Dennis Cartwright?’

  ‘Vividly.’

  ‘Thought you might. Well, he arrived in the club one morning with a couple of uniforms. Said that he needed to search the premises because he’d had a report that we’d been receiving stolen fags. He didn’t have a warrant, but the place was as clean as a whistle, so there was no danger that he’d find anything.’

  ‘But he did?’

  Frank nodded. ‘While the wooden tops were searching downstairs, Cartwright came out of the office with two hundred acid caps, giving it the old what have we got here? LSD was a big deal back then. There were stories in the press about kids getting fucked sideways and leaping out of windows. Dealers were being sent down for years.’

  ‘So Cartwright had you by the knackers?’

  ‘Yeah, but all he asked for was a free meal once in a while. Said that if he ever needed a special favour, he’d let me know. A year later he called it in.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Were you in the club when April slapped him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Frank ran a hand over his face repeatedly, as though he were trying to wipe away an unusually persistent cobweb. What was coming next seemed an effort to get out.

  When it emerged, I understood why.

  ‘Cartwright wanted me to get April to sleep with him, otherwise he’d fuck me over again and this time he’d follow through. I tried everything to get him to change his mind. Money, other women, you name it. He wasn’t interested.’

  ‘Did he know you and April were together?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That if it got me off the hook, she’d do it.’

  ‘And you let her?’

  ‘Of course I fucking didn’t.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘She got in touch with Cartwright behind my back. They arranged to meet in a hotel in Paddington. April didn’t show up for work for a couple of days. When I called, her landlady said she was in hospital.’