Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  The message was clear: interrupt proceedings again and Meg Dylan would let slip the dogs of war. Billy was grinning broadly and revelling in my discomfort. I looked at the blood covering Magda’s chin and opened my mouth.

  Absolutely nothing came out.

  For the next few minutes I stared at the floor. The sound of grinding teeth was punctuated by the occasional snigger from one of the meatheads. Only when Meg Dylan called time did I look back up. Blood was streaming from Magda’s lips, and tears from her eyes. Her grey T-shirt had soaked up a lot of the gore and there were smears on her left arm where she had dragged it across her mouth.

  ‘Lance, get her out of here,’ Meg Dylan said. ‘The rest of you go back to work, apart from you, Billy. We need to chat to Mr Gabriel.’

  The missing links filed out of the room and the door closed. Were it not for the breadboard and the bloodstains on the carpet, it was as if nothing had happened.

  Billy Dylan sat on the sofa and stretched his legs out. It was peculiar seeing the contemporary versions of the figures in the painting. And by peculiar, I mean fucking horrible. The buzz in my head felt like a nest of angry wasps.

  ‘Now that’s out of the way, Kenny, we can move on to more important matters,’ Meg Dylan said. ‘You’re probably wondering why you’re here.’

  ‘I’ve got a fair idea,’ I said. ‘Your daughter-in-law approached my partner and asked him to spy on Billy. We realise now it was a terrible mistake.’

  ‘You’re dead right it was,’ Billy Dylan said.

  ‘Obviously there’s nothing we can do to put that right,’ I continued with a dry mouth, ‘although I’m prepared to make you both a proposal.’

  Billy laughed as though I’d just delivered the punchline to an unexpectedly good joke. ‘What were you thinking of?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Yeah, go on,’ Billy said. ‘Tell us what it is and then me and Lance’ll take you into the garage and make you a counterproposal.’

  ‘Shut up, Billy,’ Meg Dylan said. Her son’s cackling stopped immediately. ‘What did you have in mind, Kenny?’

  ‘Well, obviously Cheryl has gone into hiding with your granddaughter. However unwittingly, I admit that I was to blame to a degree—’

  ‘You were the only fucking reason she left me,’ Billy said. ‘And in twenty minutes you’re gonna seriously regret that.’

  ‘Billy, if you’d kept your prick in your trousers this would never have happened,’ Meg Dylan snapped. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them again and smiled at me. ‘At least listen to what our guest has to say.’

  ‘My partner and I track people down for a living,’ I continued. ‘We’re prepared to find out where she is and give you the address.’

  ‘What if you can’t find her?’

  ‘We’ll find her.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours.’

  Throughout this exchange, Billy had been staring at his mother, open-mouthed. Meg Dylan seemed to be giving my proposal consideration.

  ‘There is a slight problem,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘We already know where she is. The only reason we haven’t contacted Cheryl is because of the media coverage. In our line of work, it’s a good idea to keep a low profile. It’ll go to court eventually and Billy will get custody of Caitlin.’

  ‘Which means you can stick your poxy offer up your arse,’ Billy added. ‘Can I take him into the garage now, Ma? I need to be back in town by six.’

  ‘Although there might be something else you can help us with, Kenny,’ his mother continued. ‘Last month, one of our associates disappeared with a large amount of cash. All efforts to locate him have drawn a blank.’

  Meg Dylan withdrew two pieces of paper from her handbag and handed them to me. They were copies of a passport and driving licence. The owner was a guy in his late thirties with short brown hair, greying at the temples.

  ‘His name is Martin Gordon McDonald. I’d like you to find him. The documents are fakes, although the photographs are a good likeness.’

  ‘Is the name right?’ I asked.

  ‘Ma, we can handle this on our own,’ Billy interjected before his mother could respond. ‘Dad always says not to bring outsiders in.’

  ‘I think it’s a bit late for that, don’t you, Billy?’

  Billy’s head recoiled as though his mother had slapped his cheek. ‘That’s not fair,’ he said. ‘You thought Martin was kosher too. Why don’t we write the money off and write this wanker off while we’re at it. Then we can get on with business.’

  I struggled to keep my eyes off the bloodstains on the carpet. All Magda had done was smash an ornament. I’d broken up Billy Dylan’s marriage and caused Meg Dylan to be estranged from her only grandchild. The sour bile of fear rose into my mouth.

  ‘No, Billy,’ Meg said eventually. ‘If it gets out that some toerag took us for a ride, we’ll be a laughing stock. We need to cancel bad news with good news.’

  Judging by Billy’s scowl, he didn’t see it the same way. But his mother’s word was law. At least, in her house it was.

  ‘If you tell me exactly what happened then your chances are far better than if all I have to go on are these,’ I said.

  Meg Dylan shifted position on the sofa and crossed her legs.

  ‘You may know that Billy served a short prison sentence recently,’ she said. ‘He used the opportunity to study accountancy. After he was released, we decided to make use of his skills in the business.’

  ‘Doing what?’ I asked.

  ‘A significant part of our operation involves converting large amounts of anonymous cash into less anonymous cash. The challenge lies in finding a legitimate business owner prepared to partner with us.’

  ‘And that’s where this guy came in?’

  ‘Billy attended a small-business seminar in the hope that he might do some recruiting. He met a man called Martin McDonald, who ran a training company.’

  ‘What kind of training?’

  Meg Dylan looked to her son.

  ‘Business skills,’ he said after a long pause.

  I wondered why Billy was so reluctant to get the family cash back. Was it embarrassment at losing it in the first place, or some other reason?

  ‘McDonald ran open courses in hotels. He had a serious gambling problem and needed to pay some debts off quickly. He was exactly what we were looking for.’

  ‘How much cash are we talking about?’ I asked.

  ‘Why does that matter?’

  ‘Any information you can give me might help.’

  ‘Just short of six hundred thousand,’ Meg Dylan said.

  ‘What? You gave him that much on the back of a meeting in a hotel?’

  The incredulity in my voice tripped a switch in Billy, for whom this was clearly a sensitive subject. He leant forward and jabbed a finger at me.

  ‘No, I fucking didn’t give him six hundred grand. I tried him with twenty thousand and he came back on time with the cash. Next thing we put fifty through his books. Same thing happened. We’d just done a big deal and we had to recycle the money fast. Martin was the best option.’

  Billy sank back on the sofa, crossed his arms and scowled.

  ‘Did you check the business out at Companies House?’ I asked.

  ‘He used another firm’s name and registration number,’ Meg Dylan said.

  ‘So this guy’s pissed off with six hundred thousand quid and all you’ve got is two fake documents and a false address?’

  ‘You don’t think it’s something you can assist with?’

  ‘God, no – this is right up our street.’

  ‘How long will it take you?’

  ‘A month?’

  ‘You mean a week.’

  ‘Slip of the tongue,’ I said. ‘If, by some chance, it did take a tiny bit longer – which it definitely won’t – how would you feel about that?’

  ‘D’you really want to know?’ Meg Dylan asked.
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  ‘Probably not,’ I replied.

  THIRTEEN

  Returning to London, I tried to come to terms with what I’d witnessed at Duckett’s Farm. Informing the police about Magda was risky. The Dylans had more than one Met officer in their pocket. Added to which, Meg Dylan could simply deny anything had taken place. I examined the copies of the passport and driving licence. Although no expert, I would have taken both as kosher. This threw up two possibilities: either Martin McDonald kept world-class forgeries on hand just in case, or he’d commissioned them specifically to fuck over the Dylans.

  I’d quizzed Billy Dylan on a few salient points. The seminar had been held at the Burbage Hotel on Great Queen Street in early March. Subsequent meetings with McDonald had taken place at Central London pubs. He’d been invited to the farm and Meg Dylan had run the ruler over him before handing over the first envelope. The six hundred grand had been given to him in a bar at Heathrow Airport. McDonald had probably gone straight to check-in.

  Most clients are keen to give you all the information you need, along with a whole lot you don’t. Getting it out of Billy Dylan had been like yanking teeth. That his mother didn’t want me abbreviated with power tools had clearly put a crimp in his day.

  Worst-case scenario: Billy might decide that forgiveness was easier to gain than permission, as far as his mum was concerned. And even if we found McDonald, there was no guarantee that Meg would be as good as her word. She might decide I needed taking care of anyway, what with knowing too much about the Dylans’ business.

  While driving me to the local station, Miles tunelessly whistled various Adele numbers. It was bloody irritating, although telling him that wasn’t an option. Instead I chose a different subject. ‘I was wondering about something,’ I said, shortly after he slowed for a speed camera.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘What happened in the day room . . .’

  Miles chuckled. ‘Yeah, that was some freaky shit. Even for Mrs D.’

  ‘How long has . . . Mrs D been running things?’

  ‘Since Marty went inside.’

  ‘About four years, then?’

  He changed gear and pondered the question. ‘It must be about that now. Time flies when you’re having fun, eh?’

  ‘When’s Marty up for parole?’

  ‘He got eleven years,’ Miles said. ‘Even with good behaviour, the poor bastard ain’t getting out for at least another three.’

  ‘Presumably he still runs things from prison, though?’

  ‘Yeah, but Mrs D’s properly in charge. Funny thing is that she didn’t give a toss about the business until her old fella went inside. Spent most of her time in Harvey Nicks having her nails done. Lotta people thought Marty goin’ away would scupper the Dylans. Ain’t turned out like that.’

  ‘She’s good at what she does?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Miles said, signalling for a right turn. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s goin’ on with you and Billy and I don’t wanna know either. But if you take my advice, you’ll stay on the right side of Mrs D.’

  ‘What’s the story with Magda?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Isn’t Mrs Dylan worried she might go to the police?’

  ‘Ain’t gonna happen. She’s here illegally, and she’s fucking terrified of the cops.’

  ‘Does she live in the house?’

  ‘In a caravan out the back. Believe me, it ain’t the Ritz, but it’s probably better than whatever shithole she was living in in Poland.’

  ‘Aren’t Poles allowed to stay in this country by right?’ I asked.

  ‘Course they are, but Magda don’t know that.’

  Miles gave me a wink in the rear-view mirror.

  My train pulled into King’s Cross just before five. Without my mobile it had been impossible to call Gary, who was, no doubt, wondering what had happened to me. Odeerie probably had a few questions too. He’d been about to divulge something sensational about Ray Clarke when Miles bundled me into the SUV.

  The business with Peter Timms and George Dent had taken a back seat compared to the more pressing matter of finding out where Martin McDonald was and what he’d done with the Dylans’ cash. The sooner I could get Odeerie looking for him, the better. For that reason, I took the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square and then walked to Meard Street. The fat man sounded relieved to hear my voice over the intercom; even more relieved when I entered his flat without a heavy limp.

  ‘Thank God you’re all right, Kenny’ was the first thing he said.

  ‘I’m not all right. I’ve been with Billy Dylan.’

  ‘Gary told me what happened. I knew he wasn’t up to the job.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault. What did the two of you do?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘When you knew the Dylans had me?’

  ‘Well, Gary wanted to go to the police, but I said that wasn’t a very good idea as they’d just ask a load of awkward questions. I suggested he tell Farrelly what had happened but he was dead set against that for some reason.’

  ‘Okay, so what did you do?’

  ‘We thought we’d give it a few hours and assess the situation.’

  ‘Fuck-all, then, basically.’

  ‘That’s unfair, Kenny,’ Odeerie said with a pained expression. ‘Gary said that you were going to tell Billy Dylan about finding his wife and kid, and that you reckoned that would sort everything out.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t.’

  Odeerie gave me a closer examination in case there was anything small he’d overlooked, like a missing eyeball or a screwdriver in the skull.

  ‘Christ, Kenny, did they use electricity?’

  ‘No, they didn’t use electricity. But if you can’t find a bloke who’s done a runner with six hundred grand, Meg Dylan will plug my dick straight into a wall socket.’

  ‘You mean Billy Dylan.’

  ‘I mean Meg Dylan.’

  ‘What’s her problem?’

  ‘She’s pissed off because her daughter-in-law’s done a runner and she hasn’t seen her granddaughter in over a month.’

  ‘I thought you said someone had nicked six hundred grand.’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘I’m confused, Kenny. Can we start again?’

  It took ten minutes to relate my afternoon’s exploits. Odeerie looked green around the gills and swallowed a couple of times when I recounted the incident with Magda. ‘Sometimes you just have to live with the fact that some people get mugged over in life and there’s nothing you can do about it, Kenny’ was his verdict. ‘It sounds as though you did as much as you could under the circumstances.’

  And of course he was right. You have to pick your battles – particularly with people like Meg and Billy Dylan. Not that it made me feel any better.

  ‘Can I look at the copies?’ Odeerie asked. Despite only being able to open one eye, the fat man was impressed. ‘Got the originals?’

  ‘McDonald took them.’

  ‘Shame. There aren’t many people who are capable of this kind of work and have access to the right equipment. I know a guy who consults with the Met, but it’s hard to tell without the actual documents themselves.’

  ‘You could ask him anyway.’

  ‘True, and it’s only going to be one of two or three people, but it might mean talking to all of them.’

  ‘I’ve got less than a week to sort out two jobs, Odeerie.’

  ‘The Dylans are more important, Kenny. Maybe put the Porteus business on the back-burner. Your brother will understand, won’t he?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

  ‘D’you know where the business seminar was?’ Odeerie asked.

  ‘The Burbage.’

  ‘McDonald probably had to register to attend. In which case he’ll have used an email address. If we get that then it’s going to be a whole lot easier.’

  ‘And if we don’t?’

  Odeerie pursed his lips. ‘Then all we’ve got is his f
ace to go on. I’m assuming that the Dylans checked out the address on the licence?’

  ‘It’s a couple in their eighties who’ve lived there thirty years. Apparently they’d never heard of McDonald and they didn’t recognise him.’

  ‘They’re definitely telling the truth?’

  ‘Would you lie to Billy Dylan?’

  ‘Only if I had to, Kenny, and there was absolutely no other option.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I said. ‘So if he’s using an assumed name, and we can’t trace the guy who faked the documents, or find an email address, what’s the bottom line?’

  ‘We’re stuffed’ was Odeerie’s professional opinion. A wave of despondency enveloped me. It must have shown on my face, as he quickly dropped the gloomy attitude. ‘Look, I’ll try with my forgery bloke first thing tomorrow. And I’ll call the Burbage and see what day the seminar was on. They often sell the data after these events so it might not be that hard to get hold of his address. Did Billy Dylan tell you anything else about this guy?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Accent? Height? Distinguishing marks?’

  I shook my head. ‘Said he was average height and sounded as though he was probably from the South-East.’

  For a few moments the only sounds were the ticking of a mantel clock and distant street noises. Odeerie shook his head a couple of times as though a persistent fly were buzzing it. Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

  ‘D’you still want to hear about the scholarship boy?’

  ‘What scholarship boy?’

  ‘Ray Clarke? The guy who went to Hibberts. Although I guess, if you’re going to focus on the Dylan job, there’s probably no point.’

  I took a deep breath and considered the situation. Until Odeerie went to work, there wasn’t much I could do apart from sit on my arse and imagine the worst. Added to which would be Malcolm’s disappointment if I turned down his best mate twenty-four hours after agreeing to take the job on. No way could I tell Malc why I was quitting, as he’d try to help his kid brother out. And the last thing I wanted was to draw Malcolm into any situation involving the Dylans.