Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  There was no way of knowing until the following day, and I was about to call Odeerie for an update on Ray Clarke when Gary entered Bernie’s. He sat opposite me at the same time the waitress arrived to collect my plate and ask if I wanted anything else. I said I was fine but that my friend might be interested.

  After a cursory glance at the menu, Gary requested a three-egg omelette minus the yolks. The waitress made him repeat the order as though he’d asked for a crocodile sandwich and shook her head as though she doubted if such a thing were possible. ‘What’s wrong with the yolks?’ I asked on her behalf.

  ‘They’re not as proteinaceous,’ Gary said.

  The waitress left, and I moved on to other matters.

  ‘Did you get out of the showroom before Creighton-Smith turned up?’

  ‘Yeah. What the hell happened on the test drive?’

  I took Gary through our spin in the E-Type, including its dramatic conclusion.

  ‘Kenny, he’ll call the police,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  I shook my head. ‘Will shouldn’t have let me near the thing without checking my licence. He’ll keep schtum and source a new wing mirror on the web.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just ask him whatever it was you wanted to know?’

  ‘I had to be sure he was telling me the truth.’

  ‘About what?’

  I’d told Gary nothing about why I wanted to interview Will Creighton-Smith. There were rules about client confidentiality that I was obliged to respect as a member of the SIA. On the other hand, he was technically an employee of the company, even if Odeerie hadn’t exactly welcomed him with open arms. I took an executive decision to give him a synopsis with the caveat that he had to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘So you wanted to know if he’d seen a ghost?’ he asked.

  ‘And if he’d had any contact with George Dent,’ I said.

  ‘The dead politician?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And had he seen him?’

  ‘They met at an old boys’ do last year.’

  ‘But you think he was lying about that?’

  ‘No, that was the truth. He was fibbing about not seeing him since.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Instinct.’

  Gary scratched his chin. ‘You reckon Will might have something to do with Dent’s murder?’ he asked. A guy eating sausage and chips looked up sharply on hearing the M-word. I gave him a reassuring smile and he returned to his meal.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Gary,’ I said under my breath. ‘No one’s saying George Dent was murdered. What might be interesting is why he committed suicide.’

  ‘You mean someone fitted him up with the porn and the drugs?’ he asked. I shrugged. ‘How are you gonna find out if they did?’

  ‘Not by talking to Will Creighton-Smith,’ I said. ‘That door is definitely closed. Hopefully we can have a word with Ray Clarke, though, assuming Odeerie can locate him, that is. And I’ve just made an appointment to see Blimp Baxter.’

  I’d pretty much briefed Gary on my conversation with Blimp by the time our waitress arrived bearing a plate. She waited until Gary and I had moved apart before placing it on the table. ‘Three-egg omelette. No yolks.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Gary replied. The waitress remained.

  ‘Ain’t you gonna try it?’ she asked.

  Gary unwrapped the knife and fork that had arrived in a paper napkin. He cut a chunk of omelette, placed it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

  ‘It’s terrific,’ he said. The waitress nodded. Having witnessed a man eat a yolkless omelette and pronounce it good, she was ready to go to Jesus.

  ‘You’d better get a move on,’ I said, checking my watch.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Gary asked.

  ‘We’ve got a date with death,’ I told him.

  TEN

  I was eight years old when my grandfather died. It didn’t mean a lot to me other than the fact that I would no longer be required to sit on Grampie Cyril’s knee, be given mint imperials, shown the intricate workings of his pocket watch, or told that the country would be far better off if the coloureds were all sent home.

  Three decades later I got to take a look at death close up. In his sixties, my father contracted pancreatic cancer. By this time he had ascribed the catastrophe of my youth to the vagaries of character and we were on better terms. I read to him three afternoons a week, usually the books he had loved as a child. We hadn’t quite finished Treasure Island when Pop set sail for the final time.

  My mother took a massive stroke in the checkout queue at Waitrose. The Reaper can be wonderfully ironic. My grief was tinged with relief that I hadn’t watched her take the slow trudge into oblivion. I had formed a fear of mortality, particularly my own, that was increasing exponentially as the years progressed. For this reason, visiting a Gothic necropolis wasn’t a joyful prospect. But there’s no substitute for reviewing the scene of the crime, even if it is forty years after the fact.

  The public isn’t allowed to wander around Highgate Cemetery unaccompanied. For me and Gary, that meant forking out £24 to take the tour. Around thirty people gathered around Clive in the space where mourners congregated when the place was fully operational. Our guide was a white-bearded gent wearing a panama hat and a purple fleece. He had a posh accent and a lazy, or possibly glass, eye.

  It had been drizzling on and off for most of the day. The leaves on the trees were turning colour and their branches dripped arrhythmically as we ascended the path into the cemetery proper. Some tombstones had been subsumed in vegetation; others were perfectly legible.

  Periodically, Clive would stop and allow us to gather round him. He would point out features of Victorian funereal design and their significance. Empty chairs spoke for themselves. Celtic crosses represented the pagan tree of life fused to the Christian tradition. Inverted torches marked the extinguishing of the light, and a broken column mourned a life cut short at an early age.

  Eventually we arrived at the Mausoleum Porteus. Some of the sepulchres – particularly those in Egyptian Avenue – looked as though they were straight out of a Boris Karloff movie. By comparison, the tomb of Alexander Porteus might have been spun out of icing sugar. Grooved white walls rose up to arched windows glazed in miniature panels of stained glass. The roof resembled a three-cornered party hat.

  As we approached, a woman wearing a long grey coat was standing before the building. She moved twenty yards away as the tour group mustered.

  ‘Jeffrey Porteus was a Scottish printer who made his fortune through publishing bibles and religious tracts,’ Clive began. ‘He subsequently moved to London and invested in the property market. At the time of his death in 1872, Porteus was a very wealthy man, although the mausoleum was built initially for his daughter, Elizabeth, who passed away aged eleven in 1850. Several members of the Porteus family have been interred in the mausoleum. Does anyone know the name of the most notorious?’

  ‘Is it Alexander Porteus?’ a Welsh woman in a cagoule asked.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Clive said. ‘Porteus was an occultist, prominent in the interwar years. There was a court case brought by other plot owners unhappy about his being buried on consecrated ground. However, the High Court found in favour of the Porteus family and he was interred in the cemetery in June 1947.’

  While Clive gave us the lowdown on the black sheep of the Porteus clan, I stole a glance in the mystery woman’s direction. Dark-brown hair cascaded over the collar of her coat. She had strong features and a pale complexion emphasised by scarlet lipstick. She was tall, maybe six foot, and in her mid-forties.

  ‘The tomb was designed by Sir George Gilbert Scott, who also created the Albert Memorial,’ Clive continued. ‘Look through the gaps in the doors and you will see a stone angel bearing Elizabeth Porteus to heaven. For those of you who are interested, the sarcophagus of Alexander is on the far left.’

  Although the apertures afforded a restricted view, it was sufficient to take i
n the floor, the marble panels adorning the walls, the angel with a girl in her arms, and seven sarcophagi. No footprints leading from the one in the far corner.

  After everyone who was interested in taking a peek had done so, Clive announced it was time to move on.

  ‘I’m staying for a bit,’ I whispered to Gary. ‘I’ll meet you at the front.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I want to, that’s why.’

  Gary walked after the crew while I loitered under cover of a nearby tree. When the coast was clear, I emerged. Disappointingly, the woman appeared to have left. For a few minutes I imagined the scene when the H&S boys had conducted their ceremony. The place was eerie enough by day; it must have been truly terrifying at night.

  For the second time, I put my eye to one of the slits. The daylight had decreased and the interior lay in shadow. There was nothing exceptional about Alexander Porteus’s sarcophagus. If anything, it was slightly smaller and less ornate than its companions. And yet there seemed to be something luminescent about the marble. Almost as though it was lit from within.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ someone asked. I leapt back from the door. ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Just got a bit of a shock.’

  ‘My fault entirely. I’m here so often I forget how it must affect other people, particularly if you sneak up on them. Not that I was trying to do that, of course.’

  From a distance the woman had been attractive. Up close she was truly beautiful. Flawless skin and lustrous hair were impressive enough, but it was the chestnut eyes as wide and bright as a child’s that really caught you out.

  ‘What d’you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Of the mausoleum? It’s an amazing building.’

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ she agreed. ‘Even more so inside.’

  ‘Are people allowed in?’ I asked.

  ‘Only family. My name’s Porteus. My mother and father are in there, and when the time comes . . .’ A dazzling smile finished the sentence.

  ‘Does that mean you’re related to Alexander?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s my grandfather. I heard your guide spouting the usual nonsense about him.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I’ve complained God knows how many times, but it never seems to do any good. One idiot even claimed that he was involved in child sacrifice.’

  ‘Which he wasn’t?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ the woman said. ‘The worst mistake Alexander made was criticising Lord Beaverbrook, who called him the wickedest man alive.’

  She ran a hand through her thick hair. On one finger was a chunky gold signet ring. A heraldic device had been carved into what looked like a carnelian.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t get so vexed over someone who’s been dead for seventy years. You must think me a very odd fish.’ I assured her I didn’t. ‘Look, if you’re interested in my grandfather and you live in London, then you must visit the shop.’

  ‘Which shop?’

  ‘Porteus Books in Cecil Court? D’you know it?’

  ‘I’ve walked past a few times.’

  ‘We’ve got quite a large collection of volumes about my grandfather, if you’re at all interested in him. My name’s Olivia, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Kenny,’ I replied, and we shook hands.

  ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Kenny,’ she said.

  ‘And you,’ I replied. I’d spent two minutes with Olivia Porteus, although it felt more like half an hour. The other odd sensation was a suspicion that our meeting had been prearranged. The feeling persisted as I trotted off in search of the tour.

  Clive had convened the group by the war memorial. I joined at the rear and listened to him detail the number of deaths in the First World War. Most Tommies had been buried close to where they fell, although some had returned to Blighty and subsequently died of their injuries.

  ‘Where have you been, Kenny?’ Gary said out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Talking to Alexander Porteus’s granddaughter.’

  ‘The woman in the grey coat?’

  ‘You noticed her?’

  ‘Every bloke on the tour noticed her. What did she—?’

  Clive interrupted Gary, asking if we would observe a few seconds’ silence in memory of the fallen. We stared at the cenotaph for a minute, after which our guide thanked us for our company, explained that the cemetery relied for its upkeep on donations, and that books and postcards were available in the chapel shop.

  The group disbanded, although a couple of people remained to interrogate Clive on the finer points of the Victorian way of death. I intended to wait until they had finished. Gary, however, looked longingly at the gates.

  ‘Kenny, I’m desperate for a slash,’ he said.

  ‘So have one.’

  ‘The cemetery toilets are out of order. Nearest ones are in Waterlow Park. It’s a twenty-minute walk there and back.’

  I shrugged and said, ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m shadowing you, remember?’

  ‘Fair enough. Nip behind the war memorial.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you want to keep me in view at all times, that’s your best option.’

  ‘Or you could come with me to the park . . .’

  ‘I need to speak to that guide,’ I said. ‘Otherwise it’s a wasted journey.’

  A couple of workmen were unloading paving slabs off the bed of a low-loader. Clive was having an awkward selfie taken with one of the Japanese tourists. The only other living thing in sight was a large fox lolling on a grassy bank.

  Gary looked at the cenotaph. Then he looked at the gates. Then he looked at me. Then he sighed. ‘Okay, but wait for me in the road afterwards, Kenny. Do not, repeat do not, go wandering off.’

  ‘I’m not a bloody toddler!’

  He didn’t seem entirely convinced of this.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘Billy Dylan won’t come after me so quickly after last night.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Because there’s a chance I may have gone to the police. Plus, he knows you’re on the job. Billy may be a nutter; he’s not stupid.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Kenny. What if—’

  ‘I’ve been in this business long enough to know what I’m talking about, Gary. After lunch I’ll find a way of getting in touch with him and float the idea of tracking down his wife and kid. Then we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘It still seems a bit risky.’

  ‘It’s as safe as houses.’

  Gary’s wince suggested that a bulging bladder might be trumping bodyguard best practice. ‘Right, well, see you in a bit,’ he said, and walked through the cemetery entrance with a slightly hampered gait. I stared at the fox and the fox stared back. The tourist shook hands with Clive and collapsed his selfie stick. I made my approach.

  ‘I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your tour.’

  Clive’s good eye focused on my face while the other sought out a point roughly three inches above my left shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Is this your first visit?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ll certainly be back. I was interested in the Porteus mausoleum. Do many people visit the cemetery because of Alexander?’

  ‘Not as many as used to.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Clive tugged his beard and considered the question. ‘I suppose because he’s not so current with young people any more. A few rock bands became tangled up with Satanism during the sixties and seventies. Alexander Porteus was referenced on an album cover by . . . No, can’t remember them. I’m more of a Bach man myself.’

  ‘You said that before the Friends of Highgate was formed, there was a lot of vandalism and people breaking into the place at night.’

  ‘I’m afraid there were all manner of appalling things going on.’

  ‘What about séances and black-magic rituals?’

  ‘Do you have a specific interest in Alexander Porteus?’

  I held my hands
up as though rumbled. ‘I’ve been commissioned to write a book.’

  ‘Really? By whom?’

  ‘If I tell you, would you mind keeping it to yourself?’

  Inspired by his comments about the album cover, I dropped the name of a grizzled old rocker that even a man more familiar with the Brandenburg Concertos would have heard of. Clive’s eye widened.

  ‘Next time, perhaps I could get a photograph of you and Keith by the Porteus mausoleum,’ I added. ‘It would look terrific in the book. Maybe on the front cover.’

  ‘He’s coming to visit?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’ I tapped the side of my nose. ‘But, like I said, if you could keep it under wraps, I’d be grateful. Perhaps the three of us could take a private tour.’

  ‘I’m sure that could be arranged.’

  ‘Here’s my number, Clive,’ I said, opting to write it on an old receipt rather than hand over a card with OC TRACE AND FIND inscribed on it. ‘Actually, one thing I was interested in were the stories about Alexander Porteus being seen in the cemetery.’

  ‘Er, I’m not with you.’

  ‘I’ve interviewed several people who claim to have been in the place at night during the seventies and seen his ghost. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s come up so often that it’s starting to look like more than a coincidence.’

  ‘Probably on drugs,’ Clive said gloomily.

  ‘You’ve never come across anything like that?’

  ‘There was all that nonsense about the Highgate Vampire, of course, but I’ve never heard anything about Porteus.’

  Intriguing though the vampire sounded, I didn’t have time to get sidetracked. ‘And no one’s been in the cemetery recently asking about him?’ I said.

  ‘There have been a couple of people who have come on the tour because they’re clearly interested in Alexander Porteus and his views.’

  ‘What views?’

  ‘Porteus was a notorious anti-Semite. Many of his ideas seem to be becoming rather popular again, which is a little depressing.’