Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  I’d heard similar claims when working for Odeerie. Usually as precursors to tales in which the narrator wasn’t morally responsible for cheating his employer, or reneging on a debt. Now I knew why Peachy had invited me in.

  Absolution.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what happened,’ I said.

  The old man fingered the top button of his shirt and straightened in the chair. He ran his hands over his face as though bathing it in water.

  And then he began his story.

  ‘Mary and me weren’t keen on April going tae London, but when she got a place at university it seemed wrong tae stand in her way. From her letters she seemed happy enough, but then they dried up. At first we thought it was because she was so intae her studies. After a month passed, we started tae worry.

  ‘The college hadn’t seen her for weeks. Her landlady said she’d left an envelope in her room with the rent in it and a note saying she’d be leaving town. We were beside ourselves, but there was nothing we could do. The polis didnae want to know because she wasn’t a missing person, and we had nae idea where she would have gone.

  ‘About a year later a postcard arrived asking us to meet her in Glasgow. Nothing else. Just if we wanted tae see her then she’d be in a cafe in Buchanan Street. We arrived early and when she came through the door she had . . .’

  Peachy’s jaw clenched. The sinews in his neck stiffened.

  ‘She had a bairn with her,’ he said.

  ‘Boy or a girl?’

  ‘Girl. She’d met some musician in Glasgow. He’d promised the earth and then done the dirty.’

  ‘What was she living on?’

  ‘Money from working as a chambermaid.’

  ‘Did you offer to take her back to Saltrossan?’

  ‘That I did not,’ Peachy said. ‘I hadnae come to faith then, but I still knew right from wrong. And besides, she didnae want tae come home.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘For us to take the child. Said that living in a bedsit was nae life for it and she would be better off with Mary and me.’

  ‘But you didn’t agree?’

  ‘Why should I be landed with another man’s bastard? You make your bed and you lie on it, Mr Gabriel.’

  ‘What did your wife think?’

  ‘Mary wanted tae help, but I was the master in my own house. And it turned out I was a fair judge of character, as far as April was concerned.’ Peachy’s eyes returned to the cross. He breathed heavily through his nose like a man who had just taken a steep flight of stairs at a fair clip. ‘The next time we saw her, she was laid out on a slab.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Eighty-six.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Overdose. The polis reckoned she’d probably just got hold of some stuff that was stronger than she was used to.’

  ‘April was a junkie?’

  ‘And she hoored tae pay for her drugs. It’s all there in the papers, if you don’t believe me.’ Peachy smiled. ‘Sorry, Mr Gabriel, have I just ruined a cosy wee memory there?’

  Arsehole.

  ‘What happened to her kid?’ I asked.

  ‘Put up for adoption.’

  ‘You must have been devastated.’

  Peachy shrugged. ‘April was nae daughter of mine,’ he said. ‘And her child was the issue of a sinful union.’

  ‘Did your wife agree?’

  ‘Mary left me. Blamed me for not taking them in.’

  ‘Are you still in touch?’

  ‘She passed last year. Her family didnae invite me to the funeral.’

  I wasn’t surprised. The sanctimonious bastard would be lucky to get an invitation to his own funeral. And yet it was hard to feel revulsion and nothing else for Peachy. In heaven he might gain life everlasting; on earth he wasn’t having a happy time of it.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said.

  Peachy leant forward. ‘I’ll thank ye nae to pity me, Mr Gabriel. The Lord tests us all an’ I know I’ll be granted my reward.’

  The implication was that I would be lucky if the Lord granted me a can of Irn-Bru and a mouldy haggis. I’d had enough of Peachy Thomson for one day. In fact I’d had enough of Peachy Thomson to last a lifetime.

  ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ I said, struggling to rise from the depleted armchair. ‘But I really should be on my way.’

  ‘Back to the Bannock?’ Peachy asked.

  ‘Just for tonight. I’m returning to London first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Then I’d appreciate ye not telling Alec McGovern about this. Like I told the lassie, I’ve my reputation tae think of.’

  ‘What lassie was that, Mr Thomson?’

  ‘She came here askin’ about April as well.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About a fortnight ago.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  Peachy couldn’t recall. I pressed him for a description.

  ‘About so high,’ he said, holding his hand in the air. ‘Slim with dark hair.’

  It was a decent description of Anna Jennings. ‘What made you talk to her, Mr Thomson?’ I asked, bearing in mind the difficulty I’d had opening him up.

  ‘She said she was from the Clydesdale Bank and that April had an old policy with them. The money was due to her nearest surviving relative, and they hadnae been able tae trace her daughter.’ Peachy frowned. ‘Mind you, I havenae heard anything since.’

  Nor was he likely to. It was a story I’d used myself on occasion. Mention cash and people become markedly less suspicious. Even the Wee Frees of this world.

  Peachy threw the bolts on the front door and held it open. It was a relief to walk out of the fetid atmosphere of the house and into the crisp evening air.

  I was near the end of the garden path when it came.

  ‘Mr Gabriel, about April. I know you’re no’ a man of faith, but ye do understand that there was nothing else I could have done . . .’

  I closed the latch on the gate and carried on walking.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Bannock’s front of house may not have changed much since Harry Lauder went roamin’ in the gloamin’. It was a different story in the rooms. Sixty quid bought an Orwellian hutch with walls, carpet and bedspread in matching lilac. Freeview TV was available, as was complimentary Wi-Fi. After struggling out of my clothes, I finessed the controls in the shower stall. When the jets reached a precise median between scalding and freezing, I stood under them and reviewed my conversation with Peachy.

  April had run away from her dad, slap-bang into Frank and then DI Cartwright. If that weren’t enough, the father of her child had left her to bring up her daughter alone. It didn’t make me proud to be male, or entirely surprised that April had turned to drugs and God alone knew what else.

  Anna Jennings was presumably aware of Frank’s affair with April. Otherwise why had she bothered to see Peachy? I wondered how much she knew about Cartwright. If she had found out that Frank had pimped April out to him, it would make for one hell of a story. And that was before factoring the DI’s death into the equation.

  So why hadn’t it been printed? The only reason I could think of was that Anna Jennings lacked sufficient proof. Accuse multi-millionaires of corruption and murder and you need to be standing on pretty firm ground. As far as I was aware, the only people who knew all the details were Frank, Farrelly and myself.

  I stepped out of the stall and into a scratchy white robe. Dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour. I staved off hunger with a half-tube of Pringles, after which I slid under the duvet for a kip. I was out longer than I’d anticipated. Four hours and twenty-six minutes longer, to be exact. According to my watch it had gone ten, which meant they’d be clearing up in the restaurant. I hoped a burst of Gabriel charm would soften up the waitresses enough to plead my case with the chef. As it turned out, there were none to charm. The room was locked and empty.

  My back-up plan was to visit the bar and clear its shelves of peanuts and crisps.
The Wee Frees may have been big in Saltrossan, but there was still a healthy congregation in the church of the latter-day drinker. At least fifty congregants had crowded into the place. Alec had a deputy to deal with the clamour. I gave him a wave and he marched to the end of the bar.

  ‘Busy tonight,’ I said as an opener.

  ‘Aye,’ he agreed.

  ‘I was hoping to get something to eat, but they seem to have closed the kitchen.’

  ‘The cook’s sick.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you have a bar menu.’ Alec looked at me as though I’d asked him for a loaded gun. ‘Crisps or nuts?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘If it’s food yer after, there’s a nice wee restaurant in Lomond Street. Ye might just get there before it closes. Tell ’em I sent ye.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ll have a whisky and ginger ale to be going on with.’

  Alec poured out a shot of Famous Grouse and placed the glass next to an uncapped bottled of Canada Dry.

  ‘Did ye manage tae talk to Peachy?’ he said as I poured the contents of the bottle into the glass.

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Was he pleased tae see ye?’

  ‘Absolutely. We cracked open a few cans and had a singsong.’

  ‘No doubt that’ll be yer famous English sense of humour.’

  ‘Not exactly Captain Chuckles, is he?’

  ‘You were warned.’

  ‘Did you know his wife?’

  ‘That I did. No one could understand what she saw in Peachy.’

  ‘Thought he used to be a bit of a player.’

  ‘Aye, he was a handsome man, all right,’ Alec said. ‘But he was always quick with his fists.’

  ‘Until he found the Lord?’

  ‘And after.’

  ‘Did he hit Mary?’

  ‘Let’s just say she walked intae doors quite often.’

  ‘What about April? Did she walk into doors?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. Does Peachy know where she is now?’ I nodded. ‘That’s a result, then.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Just not the one I was hoping for.’

  The Nook turned out to be a cosy bistro that wouldn’t have been out of place in Covent Garden. Refreshingly, the owners hadn’t Scotsed it up in an effort to attract the tourists. There were no pictures of Flora MacDonald, proverbs about mickles and muckles, and the menu hadn’t been edged in tartan.

  The lighting was low and a jazz track faintly audible. Only one of the eight tables was occupied. A young couple gazed into each other’s eyes over the remains of dessert. The waitress looked as though she was about to disappoint me. When I mentioned Alec’s name, she sighed heavily, grabbed a menu, and showed me to a table.

  I opted for a fillet of locally caught cod and a bottle of Sancerre with a portion of blueberry pie to follow, and a pair of malts to finish. Unfortunately not even the excellent food and booze could ameliorate my sour mood. After my second Scotch, I paid the bill and left the Nook less than an hour after arriving.

  The walk to the Bannock took me along the promenade. It was bloody freezing, but the whisky insulated me from the worst effects of the cold. The tide was in and a small flotilla of boats bobbed on the water. For a while I hung over the barrier and listened to rigging rattle in the wind and waves slap against the harbour wall.

  All I had to do was duck under the rail and slip into the sea. The freezing water would numb me into unconsciousness and whatever lay beyond. It was probably a better way to check out than in an old folks’ home or a cancer ward.

  My brother would be upset and Stephie might shed a tear or two, but that would be it. And it wouldn’t be as though anyone could definitively call it suicide. The alcohol in my system would make it feasible that I’d accidently toppled in.

  Dr Leach had asked if I ever had what she euphemistically described as ‘dark thoughts’. I’d shaken my head but the truth was that there wasn’t much holding me on to the face of the earth. Most people my age were looking forward to spending their golden years playing with grandchildren and growing tomatoes on their allotment. Things might work out in Manchester. On the other hand, they might not.

  A seagull shrieked and something warm and wet landed on my head. Contemplating the infinite in a moonlit bay isn’t made easier with a dollop of bird shit running down the back of your neck. Using a discarded copy of the Saltrossan Advertiser, I mopped up the mess as best I could.

  The culprit had perched on the end of a telescope twenty feet away. I threw the balled-up paper more in hope than expectation and scored a direct hit. The gull shrieked indignantly and took to the air. Not a huge victory in the grand scheme of things, but a victory nonetheless. I celebrated by lighting a fag and inhaling deeply.

  Maybe it would be the cancer ward after all.

  By the time I got back to the Bannock, it was well past midnight. The bar was still busy, but I wasn’t in the mood for company. Alec picked up on this and didn’t try to engage me in conversation when I ordered a couple of miniatures. The lingering aroma of seagull shit may also have had something to do with this.

  In my room I set the alarm on the clock radio for 4.55 and tried to tune into a decent station. The reception was dreadful and the best I could manage was a local oldies show. Listening to songs penned when the world was young isn’t the best idea when you’re half in the bag, and particularly not after the kind of day I’d had.

  While sipping the first miniature, I tried some positive thinking. Tomorrow I’d be back in London. Only for a day, but at least that would give me enough time to present my invoice to Frank before packing my worldly goods. Then I could bid a leisurely farewell to the French and a couple of other favoured pubs.

  Twenty-four hours after that I’d be departing the Smoke again – this time without a return ticket in my wallet. Stephie would be sitting next to me and it would be goodbye to the bad old days, and hello to whatever Manchester had to offer.

  I decided that it sure as hell wouldn’t be skip-tracing. I’d had a bellyful of crouching behind hedges trying to photograph person A entering address B in order that company C could serve him a summons. Exactly what I was going to turn my hand to was less clear-cut. Fortunately the Stones came to my rescue.

  You might not always get what you want, Jagger advised, but you just might find that you get what you need. That was what it was all about. Surrendering to providence and not worrying whether it turned out to be everything I’d hoped for. Had Mick and Keith been in the room, I’d have clapped them on the back and insisted they share the second bottle. As things were, I twisted off the cap and drank it alone.

  Years of the Monarch have made me pretty resilient when it comes to hangovers. Nevertheless I had a stunner when the taxi picked me up at dawn. The driver was chirpy, as ‘the Accies’ had apparently beaten Dundee the previous evening. It was a one-way conversation, which suited me.

  It had been a miserable time in Saltrossan and I had no regrets about leaving. All I felt when boarding the train was gratitude that someone had switched the heating on. I chucked my bag into the overhead rack and stretched out on a seat. The next thing I knew, the ticket collector was shaking me awake in Glasgow Queen Street.

  A few hours’ sleep had done much to restore my equilibrium. A BLT and half a pint of orange juice did an awful lot more. I was knocking the booze on the head after my farewell tour of Soho’s pubs. Complete sobriety would be a votive offering to the patron saint of the second chance, whatever his or her name might be.

  I alternated my time on the way back to London between reading the latest Stephen King and supplementary bouts of dozing. Shortly after we pulled out of Darlington, I called Stephie to update her on my circumstances.

  ‘What the hell’s going on, Kenny?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for the last twenty-four hours. Didn’t you get my messages?’

  ‘I’ve been up in Scotland working on a case. It’s been a bit hectic.’

  ‘Too hectic to return five ca
lls?’

  ‘Sorry, Steph, you cut out there. I’m on the train back to London and the signal’s not so great. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.’

  ‘When’s that going to be?’ Stephie asked, irritation in her voice.

  ‘How about I swing by Wednesday morning?’

  ‘Do you want to load any stuff into the removal van? I assumed you’d be coming with me, but if you want to make other arrangements . . .’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘I’ll pack everything tomorrow and see you about nine on Wednesday. That okay?’

  ‘I suppose it will have to be,’ Stephie said, not sounding entirely mollified. ‘There’s one other thing I need to discuss with you . . .’

  ‘Actually, we’re just about to go into a tunnel,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I give you a call from the flat tonight and we can sort everything out?’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ she said just before the connection died.

  At Euston, I remained in my seat until everyone had retrieved their bags and headed for the doors. Then I sauntered out of the empty carriage and on to the platform. Usually I discover that I’ve lost my ticket before having to put up a convincing argument that I had one in the first place. Not this time.

  I walked through the gates to find DI Standish and a pair of uniformed policemen waiting on the other side.

  ‘Kenneth Gabriel,’ Standish said, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Anna Jennings. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ I said.

  He wasn’t.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Detective Inspector Standish was wearing the same suit as when we’d last had a chinwag in Matcham. The wart on his cheek appeared larger, an optical illusion that may have been caused by the harsh light in Interview Room 4 of West End Central. Sitting beside Standish was Detective Sergeant Hugo Jacobs. His chalk-stripe whistle was a class apart, and could have been tailored a few doors down on Savile Row. The accent went with the suit, and Hugo’s cheeks were as pink as a pair of freshly picked Braeburns.