Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Tell me what that is,’ Will said.

  As Arnold examined the car, its gleaming paintwork reflected his features like a distorting mirror. ‘Erm, I’m afraid I can’t quite see what you mean . . .’ he said.

  Nor could I. The finish was flawless. Will sighed and shook his head as though Arnold tested his patience on a regular basis. ‘For God’s sake, man, you aren’t required to do much round here,’ he barked. ‘Is it too much to ask that you don’t leave your fingerprints all over the damn cars?’

  ‘I really can’t—’ Arnold began to say.

  Will whipped the cloth out of Arnold’s overall and used it to dab at a portion of the Jag that looked every bit as pristine as the rest of the Jag. He thrust it back at him.

  ‘I’m sick of doing your damn job for you,’ he said, sounding like an enraged sergeant major. ‘Shape up or ship out. Understand?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Creighton-Smith, but I . . .’

  ‘I said, do you understand?’

  Arnold twisted the cloth in his hands and nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Will said. ‘Now make yourself scarce and don’t let me find any more of your snotty paw prints on anything.’

  Arnold departed. Will sloughed off the bollocky demeanour he had deployed on him in favour of the unctuous demeanour he reserved for me.

  ‘Sorry about that, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘Don’t know why we keep the idiot on.’

  The first rule of pretexting is to stay in character. ‘Absolutely no need to apologise, Will,’ I replied. ‘When people need to be told, they need to be told.’

  ‘My philosophy exactly,’ he said, and smirked.

  ‘But you were filling me in about the car . . .’

  ‘Indeed I was.’ Will gathered his thoughts. ‘Despite her age, the old girl’s got some poke,’ he said. ‘There’s a three-point-eight-litre engine in there with two-hundred-and-sixty-five brake horsepower. Get her on a decent stretch and she’ll nudge one-fifty. Not that a law-abiding chap like your good self would ever dream of breaking the limit.’

  I managed a thin smile.

  ‘But don’t take my word for it,’ Will continued. ‘Go for a test drive.’

  Over Will’s shoulder I could see Arnold furiously polishing a radiator grille. The lock of detached hair quivered like a straw in the breeze.

  ‘That would be a great idea,’ I said.

  EIGHT

  Will led me to the desk – the gorgeous Caroline had not returned – removed a sheet of paper and laid it before me. ‘Just need a few details, Malcolm. Can’t let you take quarter of a million quid on the road without knowing your postcode.’

  I have an eidetic memory. What goes into my head stays in my head. Usually this puts me ahead of the game, although I’ve seen a couple of things over the years that I wouldn’t mind forgetting. As far as Will was concerned, it meant that I could furnish my brother’s details, including: DOB, home address, and both personal and business numbers. Where I came up short was on the driving licence.

  ‘Damn, I’ve left my wallet in the office.’

  ‘No problem. We don’t charge for a test drive, Malcolm.’

  Having been franchised to use my first name, Will intended to make full use of it. The high-beam smile was also on permanent duty.

  Shame, as I was about to spoil the party.

  ‘My licence is in it.’

  A cloud passed over Will’s personal sun. ‘You really don’t have it?’ he asked.

  ‘Afraid not. Gary could nip back to the office.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Although that would probably take the best part of an hour. Tell you what, Will, let’s put this in the diary for another day. I’ll swing by when I get back from LA next week.’

  ‘The car might not be around then.’

  ‘That’s a shame, but what else can we do?’

  Will’s dilemma played out on his florid face. In half an hour he could have sold the car to me. If he were on two per cent commission this would put five grand in his pocket. On the other hand, Mr Mountjoy probably had a very strict rule about not letting punters behind the wheel without presenting their licence first. This particular punter was worth a fortune, though, and he was buying a classic car on what was essentially a whim. Malcolm Gabriel could walk out of the door never to return.

  Since taking Odeerie’s shilling, I’ve witnessed people grapple with similar issues. Usually it’s personal loyalty versus fifty quid in cash. The stakes were bigger this time round, but the decision would be the same. When you get down to it, people are very, very predictable. Will Creighton-Smith was no exception.

  ‘We can waive the licence details, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘What kind of world is it when two gents can’t trust each other?’

  ‘If you’re sure, Will,’ I said.

  ‘Positive,’ he replied.

  If I ever make a fortune, which at the time of writing isn’t looking likely, then I’ll buy myself an E-Type Jag. Appropriately, the example parked on the cobbles at the rear of Mountjoy Classics looked more animal than automobile. The bodywork undulated like firm flesh over trained muscle. Recessed headlights stared imperiously ahead. Put your fingers into the spokes of the wire wheels and you risked them being bitten off. All this and it was painted British racing green. God bless the sixties.

  ‘Looks even better in daylight, doesn’t she, Malcolm?’ Will said.

  ‘Incredible,’ I replied.

  ‘Ever driven anything like this?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, the thing to remember is that, even though she’s fifty years old, there’s still a lot of acceleration there.’

  Will got into the passenger side of the car; I got into the driver’s seat. Not an elegant manoeuvre for either of us. The interior was upholstered in crimson leather faded to surgical pink. At the centre of the wooden steering wheel was a Jaguar’s head set against a chequered field. Old-school dials along with toggle switches and an elongated hood made me feel as though I was in a Second World War fighter plane.

  We belted up and Will handed me the key. I looked in vain for the ignition until he pointed to it on the dashboard. The car spluttered a couple of times on wakening (don’t we all) and then the engine caught. Noise and vibration meant you knew you were in a vintage car, although the chassis felt solid enough. It would have been a shame to damage one of these machines. Almost a crime, in fact.

  ‘How does she feel?’ Will asked.

  ‘Amazing,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s keep it local until you get your eye in and then, if Piccadilly isn’t too jammed, we can run her into Knightsbridge.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I replied.

  We bumped over the cobbles in first gear until the mews led on to Mount Street. Traffic is always lively in Mayfair, although the morning rush hour was over. I’d managed to get up to third before we reached South Audley Street.

  It isn’t every day that you get to drive an E-Type around the most exclusive part of town, and I have to admit I was enjoying myself. Unfortunately the fun couldn’t last.

  There are two ways to get information. First you simply ask for it. If that doesn’t do the trick then a pair of twenties usually does. Neither was an option with Will. When several grand’s worth of commission disappeared in a puff of exhaust fumes, the chumminess was likely to go the same way. All of which meant that I had to find another strategy. A space opened up and I stepped hard on the accelerator.

  The Jaguar leapt forward as though it had spotted an orphaned gazelle. I jerked the wheel to the right and overtook a Volkswagen something-or-other. For about five seconds we were doing forty-five miles per hour on the wrong side of the street, until I corrected the car. Fortunately its braking was superlative, otherwise we would have rear-ended an Ocado delivery van.

  Will’s eyes were wide and his mouth parted. ‘Steady on, sport. This isn’t Silverstone.’

  ‘And my name isn’t Malcolm Gabriel.’

  For a few moments Will struggled to comprehend my words, as though he were back at Hibbert & Saviours digest
ing a chunk of Virgil.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘I checked you out online.’

  ‘I look like the bloke,’ I agreed. ‘But that’s as far as it goes.’

  I cornered South Street at speed. The Jag’s wheels squealed and the car fishtailed before straightening out. A woman carrying a pair of John Lewis bags stared at us as we came to a halt behind a black cab. I kept the revs high and gave her a wave.

  ‘Don’t try anything stupid, Will. If my foot slips off the clutch . . .’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked, loosening his tie.

  ‘I’m a private investigator and I want to ask you a few questions.’

  He groaned. ‘Is this to do with Audrey? Because I promise I’ll start the payments again just as soon as I can. You can’t get blood out of a damn stone.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Audrey,’ I said as the traffic started moving. ‘I want to ask you about something that happened when you were at school.’

  ‘You mean Hibberts?’

  ‘That’s right. Some answers I already know, some I don’t. Lie to me and I’ll put this thing into a lamppost.’

  Will stared at me. ‘You’re bluffing,’ he said.

  Builders were renovating a shop in Farm Street. Outside was a yellow skip into which rubble was being loaded via a chute. I manoeuvred the car left and put my foot down. The nearside mirror caught the skip and snapped like a twig. Will stared at the metallic stump in horror, as though it marked a recently amputated body part.

  ‘Fuck me around and the other one goes,’ I said.

  In truth my heart was probably beating as fast as Will’s. Like most spur-of-the-moment ideas, it had seemed a winner at the time. Now I was having second thoughts. Reckless driving, plus fraud, plus criminal damage, plus abduction, wouldn’t look too great on a charge sheet.

  ‘What d’you want to know?’ Will asked.

  ‘You were at school with George Dent. One night you, George and some other boys broke into Highgate Cemetery.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? It was forty years ago!’

  I gave the steering wheel a wobble.

  ‘Try to remember, Will.’

  My passenger blew out his cheeks. ‘Peter Timms, Simon Paxton and Ray . . . It was probably Higginbottom or something like that. He was a Northern skimp, that much I can remember.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Scholarship boy.’

  ‘What about Blimp Baxter?’

  ‘He didn’t come in. Useless article was meant to be waiting outside with a ladder.’

  ‘Have you seen him since you left school?’

  Will shook his head. ‘Why’s all this so important to you?’

  ‘George Dent died recently.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘You were still in touch?’

  ‘I saw him at a school event last year.’

  ‘Was Peter Timms there?’

  ‘No, I think he was too busy making ice lollies or whatever it is he does now.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have had you down for the alumni society, Will.’

  ‘I like to keep in touch with the old boys.’

  ‘So you can try to flog them vintage bangers?’

  Will’s hands tightened into fists. His gut hung over his belt but he was still a big bloke and, no doubt, they taught a thing or two about unarmed combat in the Blues and Royals. I fluffed a gear change as we passed the imposing portico of the Church of Christ, Scientist on Curzon Street. The Jag didn’t like it. Neither did Will.

  ‘D’you think I’m happy?’ he asked. ‘Kissing towelhead arse and fluffing up Ivans all day. It should be me test-driving this thing, not the other way round.’

  I added casual racism to the list of Will’s less endearing characteristics.

  ‘Did you see George Dent again?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  Politicians avoid a direct answer by asking a secondary question. Lesser criminals use the same strategy. Will was lying. We halted at a set of traffic lights. I kept my foot on both accelerator and clutch. It brought a pitying look from a motorbike courier and the smell of burning oil began to invade the Jag’s interior.

  ‘The man whose tomb you went to that night was called Alexander Porteus.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Have you heard from him recently?’

  ‘From Alexander Porteus? It may not have occurred to you, sport, but people who’ve been dead for donkey’s years aren’t usually interested in Aston Martins.’

  ‘He’d been to see George Dent.’

  The look on Will’s face was one of genuine surprise. ‘Alexander Porteus?’

  ‘Peter Timms saw him too.’

  ‘Believe that and you’re mad. Or maybe Timms is.’

  ‘As it happens, I’m with you, Will,’ I said. ‘Whoever turned up in Peter’s garden was masquerading as Porteus.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he replied, folding his arms. ‘But if you think I had anything to do with it, then you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  Will glanced at the remaining wing mirror. I pressed down my foot until the engine was virtually screaming. ‘You might be telling the truth about Porteus,’ I said, ‘but you’re lying through your teeth about not having seen George Dent since old boys’ day. Level with me or I’ll wrap this thing around the next solid object.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘It’s bullshit.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Will said. ‘Just . . . take it easy.’

  The lights changed and a tourist bus ahead of us began to move forward. I decreased the revs, gently released the clutch . . .

  And stalled.

  NINE

  I had my seat belt unbuckled before Will could react. Unfortunately I couldn’t get the door open quickly enough. Middle-aged men fighting in a sports car is unlikely to become an Olympic event any time soon. There isn’t enough space to get a decent swing, plus the gearstick and handbrake hamper proceedings.

  Like most scraps, it would probably have gone with weight in the end. Guile and cunning have a role in the martial arts, though. I thwarted my opponent’s attempt to headlock me by introducing an index finger into his eye. This brought an anguished roar and I was out of the E-Type far more adroitly than I’d clambered into it.

  Will exited the passenger’s door seconds later. My advantage was slight, but telling. He pursued me up South Audley Street for thirty yards before giving up.

  Decades of smoking means that my lungs are for ornamental purposes only. Adrenaline took me as far Grosvenor Square, where I concentrated on forcing air into my chest and avoiding being sick. An elderly woman asked if I required medical assistance. I gasped something about having a touch of asthma and that I would be okay in a minute or so. She looked doubtful but toddled off.

  Eventually I mustered sufficient wind to call Gary and tell him to get out of Mountjoy’s showroom before Will made it back.

  ‘Why?’ was his understandable response.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ I said. ‘Meet me in Bar Bernie in Wardour Street in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Don’t go anywhere near your flat without me.’

  ‘Just get a move on before Will shows up, Gary.’

  I arrived at Bar Bernie and ordered tea and a toasted cheese sarnie. Miraculously, Bernie’s hasn’t yet become a Lebanese street-food outlet or vegan optician’s. The laminated menu features photographs of burgers and chips taken twenty years ago, and its vinyl seats have been polished to high lustre by the slack backsides of intergenerational stodge enthusiasts. If Bernie’s ever does close down, a couple of cardiac units will probably follow suit.

  After scoffing my toastie, I checked my phone. No texts or emails from Odeerie, although there was an unattributed voicemail message waiting. The fat man always conceals his number and I expected to hear him telling me th
at he’d tracked down Ray Clarke. It turned out to be a different fat man entirely.

  ‘This is Henry Baxter speaking. I’m returning your call from this morning and I’d be grateful if you could call me back as soon as possible.’

  Blimp concluded by repeating his mobile number a couple of times. I’d rated the chances of him getting in touch at somewhere around zero. Not only had he responded within three hours, but he seemed almost as eager to speak to me as I was to him. I pressed ‘Call Return’. He responded on the second ring.

  ‘Baxter.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Baxter,’ I said. ‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you left a message with Daisy. Something about wanting to speak to me about George Dent.’

  ‘That’s right. I wondered if it would be possible for us to meet.’

  ‘I’m rather busy. Could you give me an idea as to what you wanted to discuss?’

  Blimp sounded tense. Bearing in mind that the developer routinely ate business rivals for breakfast, this was odd. I didn’t intend to spoil my chances of a face-to-face meet by satisfying his curiosity on the phone.

  ‘It’s rather a delicate issue,’ I said.

  ‘Delicate in what way?’

  ‘As I said, probably better to discuss that in person.’

  A few seconds of dead air, before Blimp responded. ‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘Acting on whose behalf?’

  ‘Perhaps we could discuss that tomorrow.’

  Another silence during which I could almost hear the cogs turning in Blimp’s brain. ‘How about tomorrow afternoon?’ he said eventually.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Let’s say three o’clock. I’m scheduled to be on site at the River Heights development. Know where that is?’

  ‘Blackfriars Bridge where the Corn Exchange used to be?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Blimp replied. ‘Security will tell you where I am.’

  And with that, he broke the line. The call had lasted less than a minute, although it had revealed a lot about Blimp Baxter. Specifically that there was something regarding George Dent he was concerned about. It might be a natural disinclination to be associated with a drug-addicted paedophile. Or it might be something else.