Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Who are you, then?’ Baldy asked.

  ‘Raymond Carver’ was the first name into my head.

  ‘The author of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love?’

  ‘Er, no, a different Raymond Carver.’

  ‘Let me help you, Ray.’ Baldy put his hands on my lapels and pulled me up as though I were a rag doll. ‘Nah, I reckon you’re telling me fibs,’ he said, squinting at my face in the low-wattage light. ‘You’re Kenny Gabriel and we’re taking you for a little ride, ain’t we, Steve?’

  ‘Where to?’ I asked, fear blossoming in my stomach.

  ‘To see our guvnor,’ Steve said. ‘He wants a word.’

  Baldy chuckled again. ‘Although that might not be all he wants.’

  ‘Are you the people who beat Odeerie up?’ I asked.

  ‘The fat coon?’ Steve said. ‘Yeah, that was us.’

  ‘And your boss is Billy Dylan?’

  Before Baldy or Steve could answer, there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Whoever it is, tell ’em to piss off, Steve,’ Baldy instructed his colleague, before saying to me, ‘One word from you and . . .’

  The knife was four inches long with serrated teeth along its upper edge. The fear in my stomach migrated to my bowels. Steve opened the door a few inches and put his face to the gap. He turned to us with a puzzled expression.

  ‘There’s no one there, Lance.’

  The door catapulted inwards, delivering a concussive blow to Steve’s head. He fell to the floor. Gary stepped over him into the lobby. Baldy pushed me aside and brandished the knife. Gary reached into his jacket and brought out a short black tube. He pressed a catch and two feet of steel shot out.

  The two men faced off. Baldy slashed the air. Gary bobbed back. The second time Baldy attempted the manoeuvre, Gary brought the baton down on his shoulder. The knife fell from his hand. I kicked it to the other side of the lobby. Baldy took a deep breath, extended his arms and gestured. ‘Come on, cunt, let’s go.’

  Gary took two steps in and swung. Baldy ducked. The baton struck the wall, releasing a puff of plaster. Baldy lunged into Gary and threw his arms around him. They careered across the tiled floor and slammed into the opposite wall. The baton clattered to the ground. Baldy had Gary in a full bear hug.

  I picked up the baton and smacked it across Baldy’s calves. He screamed, released Gary, and turned on me. I had a weighty steel rod in my hand. Baldy had a lifetime of gratuitous violence on his CV. There was only ever going to be one winner.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Lance.’ Steve was more or less back on his feet. ‘Someone’s bound to have called the cops.’

  Baldy looked at me as though he would have loved to grab the baton and stick it where the sun didn’t shine. He pointed and said a single word.

  ‘Later.’

  He retrieved his knife and followed Steve through the door. Gary had his hands on his thighs and was attempting to get his wind back.

  ‘Are . . . you . . . okay, Kenny?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Should . . . we call the police?’

  ‘No point,’ I said. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m . . . fine,’ he said, straightening up.

  ‘How did you know what was going on?’

  ‘I saw them follow you in.’

  ‘Look, Gary, let’s call it quits. Billy Dylan’s got a small army behind him. You’re just one man. Farrelly won’t think any the less of you.’

  Gary picked up the baton and compressed the steel rod back into the handle with extra emphasis.

  ‘I want to carry on,’ he said.

  If it weren’t for my brother, I’d have to live slightly more out of town than Soho. Somewhere like Dungeness or Whitby. A few years ago his company bought a flat in Brewer Street as a place for visiting clients to stay. Most opted for a decent hotel.

  It’s fair to say that I haven’t stamped my personality on the place. The walls are utility-cream and the furniture looks as though an overworked PA chose it from an online catalogue. The sofa and armchairs in the sitting room are charcoal polyester, and the dining table has been lovingly carved from a chunk of balsa wood. Throw in four blokes playing cards in their pants and you’d have the perfect safe house.

  Gary dumped his bag in the spare room and declined a shot of Highland Monarch Scotch in favour of getting his head down. Competitively priced at £9.99 a bottle, the Monarch doesn’t win many blind tastings, so he had probably made the sensible choice. Ten minutes later I could hear snoring from behind his door.

  Sleep came less easily to me. A surfeit of adrenaline had much to do with this, although, as usual, the slideshow on the bedroom ceiling was the real culprit.

  I watched the years churn over, from the day I arrived in Soho as an eighteen-year-old kid eager for the big adventure to the point when it became apparent that the Road of Excess was scheduled to bypass the Palace of Wisdom.

  Opportunities were squandered through arrogance, indolence, fear and frequently a combination of all three. At least I could rerun the slideshow to work out exactly what went wrong and how I could have made infinitely better choices.

  Which is pretty much what I did for the next two hours.

  SEVEN

  I awoke at 7 a.m. and heard a series of grunts and groans coming from somewhere in the flat. Grabbing a pool cue, I went to investigate whatever was happening in the sitting room. I tightened my grasp on the cue and flung the door open. My guest/bodyguard was wearing shorts and a singlet, and knocking out press-ups at a tidy rate. ‘Morning, Gary,’ I said. ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Pretty good.’ He bobbed up and down another half-dozen times before discontinuing his routine. ‘What are you doing with that?’

  ‘Oh, you know, just tidying up a bit.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Been awake long?’

  ‘Since five thirty. I went for a run.’

  ‘You ought to have woken me up. I could have joined you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  Gary mopped his head with a towel. ‘What are we doing today?’ he asked.

  ‘Seeing my business partner first.’

  ‘To talk about what happened last night?’

  ‘And a few other matters.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking about that. Billy Dylan blames you for his marriage going tits-up, right?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What if you persuaded his missus to go back to him?’

  ‘She’s in hiding.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you do? Find people who’ve done a runner?’

  Which of course was true. It’s virtually impossible to disappear without trace in this day and age, particularly with someone like Odeerie on your trail. The fat man usually plays by the rules, but is prepared to go off-piste if all else fails.

  ‘Congratulations, Gary, you’re employee of the month.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.

  ‘You get to make the coffee,’ I said.

  Soho used to be a ghost town at eight in the morning. These days it’s swarming with millennials marching towards boutique marketing agencies. Occasionally I wonder what advice I’d give my teenage self should I meet him on Wardour Street. Probably nothing that would do any good. Determinists maintain that everything in life is nailed on. It makes for both a depressing thought and a decent excuse.

  This philosophical conundrum occupied my thoughts on the way to Odeerie’s. I also pondered how likely it was that I’d convince Cheryl Dylan to return to her husband. By the time we arrived at Albion Mansions, my optimism had waned. Billy wasn’t the kind of guy to forgive and forget easily, a fact of which Cheryl was presumably aware. Odeerie answered the intercom and buzzed us in. When he came to the door, I couldn’t help but react in the traditional manner.

  ‘Fuck me!’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he said.

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  The left eye had closed entirely, its l
id purple and grotesquely swollen. The left orbit was badly bruised but still operational. Odeerie’s nose had never been a thing of beauty. Now it was in danger of touching his ears. He ushered us into the office. I introduced Gary and covered off the previous night’s events.

  ‘Maybe it’s time to go to the police,’ Odeerie said.

  ‘Won’t make any difference,’ I said. ‘If the Dylans want you, they get you.’

  Odeerie didn’t dispute the point.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got a plan,’ I continued. ‘Well, it’s Gary’s plan, actually.’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘We find Cheryl Dylan and persuade her to give the marriage a second chance.’

  Odeerie’s good eye opened a little wider. ‘That’s it?’ he said. ‘That’s your plan?’

  ‘Can you think of a better one?’ I asked.

  The fat man looked sheepish, as well he might. Yesterday it had been a matter of if Billy Dylan got to me. Today it was more a question of when and how.

  ‘Not right now,’ he said, and changed the subject. ‘I had a go at the names you gave me. Nothing on Ray Clarke, but quite a bit about Creighton-Smith.’ Odeerie referred to a notepad. ‘He went to Sandhurst and served with the Blues and Royals for twelve years. After that he joined his father’s financial consultancy. That was all good until it was busted for insider trading. Will got off with a suspended sentence, but his old man did four years. The family became bankrupt and had to sell their home in Richmond. Things get a bit sketchy after that.

  ‘Creighton-Smith set up a security company with an old army pal. That went west after two years. He definitely worked for a Chelsea letting agency for a while, and he was in Gibraltar for three years after the crash, although I don’t know what he was doing. Currently he’s a salesman for a classic-car company based in Mayfair.’

  ‘How did you find all that out?’ Gary asked, clearly impressed.

  ‘By knowing where to look,’ Odeerie snapped. He wasn’t big on giving away secrets of the guild, particularly to people he’d only just met. Gary maintained steady eye contact with him for a few seconds. The fat man looked away first.

  ‘But nothing on Ray Clarke?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s on the electoral roll as living in Wapping until eight years ago. After that he disappears without trace.’

  ‘Could he be dead?’ Gary asked.

  ‘No certificate.’

  ‘Emigrated?’

  ‘If he has then we’re shit out of luck.’

  ‘Why d’you want to find these men?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I said. Odeerie pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘What’s the name of the car dealership?’ I asked.

  ‘Mountjoy Classics. Take a look.’

  Mountjoy’s website showed a range of gleaming cars on plinths in what resembled an art gallery. There was a lot of verbiage about timeless elegance, beauty and craftsmanship. Odeerie clicked on the Our People tab. Up came five faces. Will Creighton-Smith’s was last.

  Mountjoy’s senior sales consultant had a receding hairline. A double chin hung over his regimental tie and the bags under his eyes looked as though they had been properly earned. Despite this, there was a rakish charm to the photograph that might carry the day for women of a certain postcode.

  ‘Have you got a home address?’ I asked.

  Odeerie shook his head. ‘I can keep looking if you like.’

  ‘Don’t bother. Spend a bit more time on Ray Clarke. If that doesn’t work out, start looking for Cheryl Dylan. She’s the priority now.’

  Odeerie snapped out an ironic salute.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Gary asked.

  ‘Have you heard of pretexting?’

  He hadn’t, and I gave him a brief overview.

  ‘Basically it’s lying, then?’ he said.

  ‘Only if actors are liars.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this, Kenny?’

  ‘I’d like you to make a call on my behalf.’

  ‘What sort of call?’

  I explained what I was after and what it would involve. Gary had his reservations, although I expected they could be overcome.

  It took less than two minutes.

  Mountjoy Cars’ frontage comprised thirty yards of plate glass with the company’s logo etched into it. Inside, the showroom was as bright as an operating theatre. The black-and-white-tiled floor looked clean enough to eat your lunch off. A guy in blue overalls was polishing the windscreen on what might have been a Ferrari. One punter was contemplating a yellow car so low it couldn’t have been more than three foot off the ground. Useless for towing a caravan but that probably wasn’t top of his wish list.

  In the middle of the showroom was a desk, and behind it was a woman in her early thirties. She looked like the human incarnation of the cars: curvy, sleek, classy and expensive. Glossy dark hair framed angular cheekbones. Perfect lipstick might have been applied with a miniature spray gun. ‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ she asked.

  ‘My assistant called earlier,’ I said. ‘I have an appointment with Will.’

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Malcolm Gabriel.’

  The woman consulted a laptop. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Will’s in the back office. If you and your friend would like to take a seat.’

  ‘He’s not my friend, he’s my employee,’ I said.

  The girl reddened. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Would either of you like a drink?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘And we don’t have all day.’

  ‘In that case, if you could just excuse me for a moment.’

  The woman – Caroline, according to her badge – left the desk and sashayed across the showroom on three-inch heels. Gary’s eyes followed her every step of the way.

  ‘Was that really necessary?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m the CEO of a major ad agency. It goes with the territory.’

  Before Gary could comment further, Will Creighton-Smith entered the showroom. An inch or so over six foot, he was wearing a grey suit that had been bought in physically leaner times. The face was grog-blossom pink and the moustache drooped slightly. His hair had thinned out quite a bit since the website photograph.

  ‘Mr Gabriel?’ he said. ‘Will Creighton-Smith. Pleased to meet you.’

  Doubtless Will had googled me. Malcolm and I share a similar build and there’s a strong family resemblance. Okay, he looks tanned and distinguished whereas I appear gaunt and desperate, but I had an explanation for that.

  ‘How can I help, Mr Gabriel?’ Will asked after shaking hands.

  ‘I’m interested in buying a car.’

  ‘Well, you’re in the right place, sport.’ Will treated me to a genial chuckle. I parried it with a stony face. ‘I’m assuming you’re a classic fan,’ he continued hastily.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I recovered from a serious illness recently. During my convalescence I decided to stop working so hard and have some fun in life. No point in having a fortune in the bank otherwise.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Will concurred.

  ‘Usually I drive a Volvo but my wife suggested that I treat myself to something more exotic. All the new sports cars I’ve seen look terribly vulgar.’

  Will nodded as though he’d never heard a truer word.

  ‘So that’s what led me here today,’ I concluded. ‘I’m assuming you can help.’

  ‘Delighted, Mr Gabriel.’

  ‘Do call me Malcolm.’

  ‘Delighted, Malcolm. Anything particular in mind?’

  ‘Whatever takes my fancy.’

  ‘Budget?’

  I shrugged to suggest that money was almost as vulgar as the modern sports car. Will looked up at the ceiling. I wondered if he were mouthing a silent prayer to whichever automotive god had delivered me to him.

  ‘Perhaps we should look round and see what takes your fancy,’ he suggested.

  ‘That sounds an excellent idea,’ I told him.

  There are times when I envy the boys
in blue. If you’re Inspector Knacker then all you need to do is wave your warrant card under someone’s nose and start straight in with your questions. We in the private sector don’t have the same luxury. This means that two options present: tell the truth or lie like a bastard.

  Mostly I stick to the truth, because people don’t mind telling you the last time they saw the woman at number 48 go for a jog. Occasionally it becomes necessary to be more creative with the facts, and sometimes you need to dispense with them entirely.

  I’d chosen this option with Will Creighton-Smith as I hadn’t fancied walking straight up to the guy and asking whether he’d seen the ghost of a magician that had been bothering a couple of blokes he hadn’t seen for the best part of forty years, one of whom was a dead paedophile. At some stage I would have to broach the subject. As we navigated the showroom, I tried to think about how best to do that. The problem with pretending to be a multi-millionaire interested in buying a six-figure motor is that people tend to become miffed when it transpires you’re no such thing.

  ‘And there we have it,’ Will said as we stood in front of the only car I could have identified on sight. ‘The E-Type’s a beautiful old girl who’s quintessentially British, wonderfully stylish and a joy to drive. Ticks all the boxes, doesn’t she, Malcolm?’

  There was a note of desperation in Will’s voice. I’d knocked him back on a Porsche, a Lamborghini, two Aston Martins and a Cadillac Eldorado. Time was running out for both of us.

  ‘And Jags represent a pukka investment,’ he continued. ‘Unlike some of the other cars, they’re constantly in demand on both sides of the pond. I don’t think she’ll be on the floor much longer, so you’d have to decide pretty quickly.’

  ‘It’s certainly a wonderful-looking car . . .’ I said.

  I was pondering what the hell my next move was going to be, when Will frowned and bent over the car’s bonnet. The frown hardened into a grimace. He straightened up and shouted to the guy in the overalls, ‘Arnold, over here. Now.’

  The guy in the blue overalls had been rubbing a cloth over the rear window of a car twenty yards away. He stuffed it into his pocket and trotted over. In his sixties, Arnold was about five foot four with a three-strand comb-over and a chapped nose. ‘Can I help, Mr Creighton-Smith?’ he asked in a congested tone.