Soho Dead (The Soho Series Book 1)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Kenny?’

  ‘What’s going on, Frank?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Vigo Street.’

  Frank’s voice sounded thick, as though he had been sleeping or drinking. Bearing in mind his circumstances, the latter seemed more likely.

  ‘The police are looking for you,’ I said.

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘I just got out of West End Central fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘That they’d appreciate a chat. Where the hell are you and why are you using Dervla Bishop’s phone?’

  ‘I’m in her studio. I can’t use my mobile in case they trace the number.’

  A thrum of anxiety ran up my spine.

  ‘Is Dervla with you?’ I asked.

  ‘She popped out for a few minutes. Kenny, we have to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘We know who killed Harry but we need your help to prove it.’

  ‘Can’t you go to the police?’

  There was a rasping noise on the line as though Frank had just dragged a piece of steel wool over his mobile.

  ‘That won’t work,’ he said. ‘How quickly can you get here?’

  ‘Twenty minutes, I suppose. At least tell me who it is.’

  ‘Not on the phone.’

  ‘Frank, d’you know that Hester and Tabitha are missing?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll explain about that when you get here.’

  ‘So, does that mean—’

  ‘Make sure you come alone,’ he said, and cut the line.

  On the way to the studio, I attempted to stitch together the fragments Frank had given me into a coherent scenario. Presumably Dervla had got in touch with him. As far as I was aware, Frank didn’t know that she and Harry had been lovers. That meant Dervla must know who the killer was. Had he taken Tabitha and Hester for their own safety? If so, why hadn’t he told Roger what was going on?

  The other possibility was that Frank had discovered who Harry had been sleeping with and decided to confront Dervla. Each had a temper, but if it had come to a physical confrontation there would only have been one winner. Perhaps when Frank had said that Dervla had popped out he meant terminally.

  But then why call me? Did he want help with some kind of flight plan? I had an image of myself driving a hired car on to a ferry in Harwich with Frank hiding in the boot. If we were caught it would mean life for him and three or four years for me for attempting to pervert the course of justice.

  Of course, Farrelly would be Frank’s first choice when it came to disposing of a body and fleeing the country. Unless, that was, the police were keeping him under observation, in which case Frank would have to go for the second-best option. All the stuff about knowing the identity of the killer was just a ruse to get me to the studio.

  The final possibility I was considering as the cab drew to a halt was whether Frank was just quietly off his fucking swede. Didn’t serial killers subconsciously want to be caught? Frank might hold me responsible for not tracking him down in time and intend to make me victim number three. If Dervla didn’t answer the intercom when I buzzed then I had zero intention of entering the studio.

  Remove half a dozen parked cars and Quebec Street would have looked more or less as it had a century ago. Three-storey buildings loomed above me, the rusted cogs of disused winding gear stark against the starlit sky. The only windows to show any light were those on the second and third floors of Dervla’s studio. I turned my collar up against the chill and pressed her intercom button.

  ‘Hi – Kenny?’ she said a few moments later.

  ‘Dervla, is everything okay in there?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Is Frank with you?’

  ‘Didn’t you speak to him?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but it was a bit peculiar. He said you know who killed Harry.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘So why not go to the police?’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Kenny. A lot’s happened in the last twelve hours.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Come up to the third floor and we’ll tell you all about it.’

  The grille on the lift seemed stiffer than when I’d used it last. The steel latticework groaned as I dragged it open and screeched when I pulled it back again. The brass safety catch clicked home and I began my ascent.

  Floor one was dark; the second bathed in sodium-yellow light that came from a safety bulb protected by a metal cage. The lift juddered a couple of times on the way to floor three. When it arrived, I pulled the door open and stepped out. Seconds later there was the sound of footsteps on the cement stairs.

  Dervla was out of breath. She wore black jeans and DMs. Her grey T-shirt was smudged with grease and had sweat stains around the armpits.

  ‘One flight and I’m knackered,’ she said. ‘I’m knocking the fags on the head this year, no excuses.’

  ‘Maybe you should give up stairs,’ I suggested. ‘Where’s Frank?’

  ‘In there,’ Dervla nodded towards the door. ‘Sorry about all the secrecy stuff, Kenny. I’m not sure it’s absolutely necessary, but Frank insisted.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If we’re going to nail Harry’s killer, he reckons there’s no other way.’ She exhaled heavily. ‘It’ll mean you playing a part, though.’

  ‘What kind of part?’

  ‘Nothing major: you just make a couple of calls and pretend to know something you don’t. Although that’s more or less what you do on a daily basis, isn’t it?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ I said. ‘How long has Frank been here, Dervla?’

  ‘He turned up first thing this morning.’

  ‘You know the police want to interview him in connection with Harry’s death.’

  A frown crinkled Dervla’s brow. ‘Haven’t they done that already?’

  ‘As a suspect.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, they’ll soon change their minds.’

  ‘So let’s call them.’

  ‘Not without proof,’ Dervla said. ‘That’s where you come in.’

  ‘Are you sure Frank’s right?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely. So will you be when he tells you.’

  ‘Is it Roger?’

  If Frank knew about the leaked memo then perhaps he’d done some more digging that incriminated his son. It was the only logical possibility I could think of.

  All it did was bring an amused smile to Dervla’s face. ‘It’s a lot more left-field than that,’ she said.

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘I think it’s best you hear that straight from the horse’s mouth.’

  Dervla pulled open one of the swing doors. I took a few steps inside. Something solid connected with the back of my head.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  My cheek was resting on a cement floor and my hands were secured behind my back. April was looking down at me. She was smiling like she used to when I cracked some corny joke – more embarrassed than amused. Another April was smiling too: the token stretch of the mouth that’s offered up when someone arbitrarily points a camera. Her skin was the colour of putty and her hair had been given a utility chop. Most disturbing were the eyes. They were as dull as a cod’s on a marble slab.

  Each photograph had been enlarged and printed on a canvas sheet that hung from the roof. Beneath them, on a raised dais, was the set from a gritty period drama. A threadbare sofa formed the centrepiece. Beside it were a battered standard lamp and a three-bar electric fire. Stage right was a battered freestanding stove and a small kitchen table; stage left a double bed with a floral duvet stretched across it.

  On the sofa was an unconscious little girl.

  Blonde hair obscured the girl’s face, although there was something familiar about her sky-blue dress. Skinny legs terminated in chunky pink trainers. The lights in their soles pulsed like mini distress
beacons. Lightning flashed across the neural storm in my skull. It provoked an involuntary groan.

  ‘Good, you’re awake,’ Dervla said. ‘I was beginning to worry. Sorry I hit you so hard.’ She crouched beside me. ‘If we propped you against the wall it might make you feel more comfortable and you’d definitely have a better view.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I croaked.

  ‘Installations need an audience, Kenny. Oddly enough that only occurred to me a couple of hours ago, which was when I arranged for Frank to give you a call. You were part of the story at the beginning, so I thought you should be there at the end.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘Mum’s, of course.’

  ‘Your mum?’

  Dervla stared at the photographs of April hanging on the wall. The intense look on her face answered my question.

  ‘You mean April was your birth mother?’

  ‘That’s right, but there’s no need to look so worried, Kenny. What’s going to happen here won’t involve you. Not directly, at least.’

  If this was designed to relax me, it fell short of the mark.

  ‘Who’s the girl?’ I asked.

  ‘Hester.’

  ‘Roger Parr’s daughter?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘She hasn’t suffered, if that’s what’s concerning you. I gave her a sedative. She’s been asleep for hours.’

  Bile rose unexpectedly into my mouth. I spat it out and took several deep breaths. The room defocused. I teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. The moment passed and my vision returned.

  ‘Let’s get you sitting up,’ Dervla said.

  My hands chafed as she dragged me over the cement floor. The pain was nothing compared to that in my head. Eventually I was propped against the wall like an eleven-stone rag doll. At least I had a more complete view of the room.

  Frank was strapped into an ancient barber’s chair. Two thick nylon bands ran around his torso and his hands were handcuffed to the armrests. In his mouth was an orange ball choke. One eye was closed and his nose comprehensively broken.

  ‘How long’s he really been here?’ I asked.

  ‘Since last night,’ Dervla said, panting slightly from her exertion. ‘He came over when I told him I was about to put a bullet in his granddaughter’s head. It was the same method I used to encourage him to call you earlier. Amazing what people can achieve given the right motivation.’

  ‘What happened to his face?’

  Dervla frowned. ‘He said a few things that made me lose my temper.’

  I recalled the muffled sound of Frank’s voice on the phone. Bearing in mind his nose had swollen to almost twice its usual size, that was entirely understandable.

  ‘Dervla, no one’s been hurt yet, so I’m sure if you just call the police then everything can be sorted out.’

  ‘What d’you mean, no one’s been hurt? Harry’s dead, and so is that bitch of a journalist.’

  ‘Did you kill them?’

  ‘Of course,’ Dervla said, as though answering a particularly dumb question.

  She crossed the room to a trestle table piled with a jumble of objects. Most I couldn’t make out, but the one she selected was easy enough to identify. For the second time in a week I was staring at a gun.

  Farrelly’s had been a snub-nosed thing; Dervla’s looked more like a starting pistol, although I suspected it didn’t fire blanks.

  ‘Who do you intend to use that on?’ I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  Dervla looked towards Hester. Frank struggled violently. Judging by the blood encrusting his wrists, it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to free himself.

  ‘Hester’s a child,’ I said. ‘What’s she done to deserve this?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ Dervla replied, ‘but there’s no other option. Not for that bastard to get what’s coming to him.’

  If I had any questions about Dervla’s sincerity – and by this stage there really wasn’t much room for doubt – they were removed entirely. The only thing I could do was play for time. ‘At least tell me what all this is about,’ I said.

  Dervla laid the gun on the table, pulled a moulded plastic chair from a stack, and carried it over. She sat down and crossed her legs.

  ‘Tell me what you already know about Mum.’

  In no position to argue, I began at the beginning. ‘We became friendly when she came to work at Frank’s club. One day she didn’t turn up for her shift and I didn’t see her again. I got a postcard from Glasgow a couple of months later, but it didn’t have a return address. That’s it.’

  ‘Did you know about her and Frank?’

  ‘I had my suspicions.’

  ‘What about him giving her to some bent cop to rape?’

  ‘I didn’t find out about that that until a few days ago. Frank had no idea things would turn out the way they did.’

  ‘DON’T FUCKING LIE TO ME!’ Dervla’s voice reverberated around the room. ‘Frank knew exactly what Cartwright was like,’ she continued at marginally lowered volume. ‘All he cared about was staying out of prison.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘And that makes it okay?’

  Dervla’s chin was flecked with spittle and her muscles rigid with rage. I tried to find some wriggle room against the ties. No chance.

  ‘Thirty years ago I woke up next to my mother’s corpse,’ she said. ‘That’s not the kind of thing you forget, no matter how many shrinks you see.’

  I recalled the painting that had won the McClellan Prize. A girl about Hester’s age lying on grimy sheets next to a young woman with her eyes closed. Along with everyone else, I’d assumed the woman was asleep. Now I knew better.

  ‘There’s still time to call this off,’ I said. ‘Your life doesn’t have to be over.’

  ‘Except that I’d spend it in a secure unit pumped full of drugs while Frank Parr would be outside enjoying his money and playing with his grandchildren.’

  Wherever we were going, it wasn’t in the right direction.

  ‘I still don’t understand how you found out about all this,’ I said, in a bid to return to a relatively neutral topic.

  ‘Mum kept a diary from the age of twelve until a week before she died,’ Dervla said. ‘It’s all in there.’

  ‘How did you get hold of it?’

  ‘I found out what had happened to my birth mother when I was in my mid-twenties. That meant I also knew who my natural grandmother was. Mary was living in sheltered accommodation by then. When I visited, she said I should forget about the past and concentrate on the future.’

  ‘You don’t think she had a point?’

  Dervla ignored my question. ‘Last year I was the sole beneficiary in Mary’s will. Mostly it was just photographs and a few books. But in a separate box were my mother’s diaries.’

  ‘That’s how you found out about what had happened to April in Soho?’

  She nodded. ‘The consequences I had more personal experience of.’

  As long as we were still talking, Hester was still breathing. ‘What was the situation with you and Harry?’ I asked.

  Dervla winced, as though I’d hit a dental nerve.

  ‘After Mary died, I did some research into Frank. Harry was the apple of his eye, and I became intrigued.’

  ‘Did you always intend to . . .’

  ‘It was certainly in the back of my mind, but when we met it was clear there was something between us. I was the one who insisted we kept our relationship secret. Harry was all for coming out and telling Frank. Obviously I couldn’t let that happen. Not until I’d decided how to punish him.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘We used the place in Matcham because I couldn’t risk letting the press see us together. It pissed Harry off and one weekend I decided to come clean.’

  ‘And she reacted badly?’

  Dervla exhaled heavily. Her breath condensed in the cold air of the studio.


  ‘From the way she spoke about Frank, you’d have thought she hated him more than I did. But when I told her who I was, she totally lost it. I tried to calm her down but she wanted to tell him and I couldn’t let that happen . . .’

  ‘So you killed her and made it look like a sex crime?’

  The tear that slalomed down Dervla’s cheek gave me a glimmer of hope. If she felt remorse about Harry, there was a chance I could change her mind about Hester.

  And then my curiosity fucked everything up.

  ‘What about Anna Jennings?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘That bitch deserved everything she got.’ Dervla drew the back of her hand across her face. ‘She was doing loads of digging about Frank to discredit his bid for the Post and found out a bit too much about his affair with Mum.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She contacted his ex-wife to find out why they’d broken up and whether she had any dirt on him. She hated Frank’s guts and was more than pleased to tell her all about it. And to be fair to the woman, she only knew that Frank had been seeing one of the waitresses, not that he’d had her raped and mutilated. Jennings connected a piece that had appeared in the paper and followed it up. She was bloody diligent, I’ll give her that.’

  I recalled the clipping I’d found in Anna’s filing cabinet. The reporter had probably run April’s name as a matter of routine and started to make some connections and then some more connections. As Odeerie often says, everything’s there if you’re determined enough and you know where to look. With Lord Kirkleys’ resources behind her, Anna Jennings had hit the jackpot. Much good it had done her.

  ‘How did she find out who adopted you?’ I asked.

  ‘We didn’t get into that, but I assume by paying someone to hack the records. Dad was working in the oil business then. He was based in Aberdeen. When his contract finished, we moved down south.’

  ‘Why did Anna contact you?’

  ‘Allegedly to give me a chance to comment. You know the way red-tops operate. And the more sensational the story, the more shit would stick to Frank.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘D’you remember the auction at Assassins?’ I nodded. ‘That’s when she called me. I told her to meet me on a slipway at Greenwich. Silly cow thought that was incredibly exciting. Made her feel like a real reporter.’