Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Go on, then,’ I said. ‘What d’you know about him?’

  Odeerie consulted the paper. ‘After they kicked him out of Hibbert & Saviours, Ray Clarke went to live with his parents up North. He took his A levels and came back to London to train as a teacher. He married in his thirties and had a son. Eighteen months ago he contracted motor neurone disease and had to quit his job at a local comp.’

  ‘Where did all this come from?’ I asked.

  ‘Social media, mostly.’

  ‘Wasn’t that the first place you looked?’

  ‘Yeah, but Ray Clarke isn’t Ray Clarke any more.’

  ‘I’m not with you, Odeerie.’

  ‘She’s Judy Richards.’

  The picture on Odeerie’s computer was of a pale-faced, middle-aged woman with short, dirty-blonde hair. She was wearing a blue blouse with a puritan collar and a pair of square glasses. Her smile was slightly strained, as though she had been holding it for several seconds. It was the kind of face you saw behind a bank counter or the reception desk in a civic building. Memorable it wasn’t.

  There was information about her struggle with motor neurone disease and a link to the MND Association, for which she had raised funds. The disease was progressive and degenerative. It caused muscle-wasting and there was no cure. Half the people who contracted it died within two years of diagnosis, the rest not long after.

  I clicked through a few other pictures on Judy’s page. In one, she was sitting in a bar with two women her own age. In another she was cradling a marmalade tabby on her lap, and in a third she was sitting in front of a lawn that had a bunch of kids playing on it. Standing behind her wheelchair was a man in his early twenties.

  ‘That’s Judy’s son, is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep,’ Odeerie replied.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Connor.’

  ‘Wonder how he feels about his old man turning into Widow Twanky.’

  ‘Judy prefers the term trans woman,’ Odeerie said a little stiffly. ‘And Connor seems fine with it.’

  Judging by the way Connor Clarke’s hand rested easily on his mother’s shoulder, indeed he did. Wide shoulders, blonde hair and gleaming teeth gave him a vaguely Californian appearance. Judy Richards looked as though she could do with half an hour under a sunbed and a course of vitamin D injections. But then I guess motor neurone disease isn’t exactly a makeover.

  ‘Why did it take so long to find her?’ I asked.

  ‘I had Ray Clarke’s name linked to that address. When it switched to Judy Richards, I figured Ray had moved on.’

  ‘But all he’d done was change his name?’

  ‘I’d say he’d changed a bit more than that, Kenny.’

  Another click brought up a shot of Judy Richards in front of a minibus clutching a stick of half-eaten candyfloss. The square specs had been replaced by large-frame sunglasses and her smile looked more relaxed.

  ‘What made you realise it was the same person?’ I asked.

  Odeerie commandeered the mouse. Within a few seconds I was reading an article from a national paper that had maintained a sense of continuous editorial outrage since the Suez Crisis. The piece was titled Is this really what the NHS was created for? It detailed how a transvestite called Ray Clarke (aka Judy Richards) was receiving NHS funding to undergo gender reassignment. If that weren’t bad enough, Ray was also living on a rent-controlled Carbury social housing estate.

  ‘I found this,’ Odeerie said. ‘It’s the only time both names are linked.’

  ‘When was it printed?’

  ‘Twelve years ago.’

  ‘And Judy’s kept a low profile ever since?’

  ‘She posts on Facebook now and again, but that’s it,’ Odeerie said.

  ‘Anything worth reading?’ I asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A zombie black magician threatening her with death?’

  Odeerie shook his head. ‘Mostly it’s stuff about cats.’

  ‘Friends with anyone interesting?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll visit her. But work on McDonald is all you do, Odeerie. Meg Dylan doesn’t fuck around. If we don’t deliver, then it isn’t just a bonus at stake.’

  ‘I’ll call the forgery guy this evening,’ he promised.

  Dusk is my favourite time in Soho. Developers may be trying hard to turn the place into a retail park, but at sunset there’s a crackle of expectation in the air that you can’t buy with a charge card. A white witch once told me that it had something to do with ley lines crossing under the Algerian Coffee Stores (no doubt scheduled to become a Costa). Another theory is that the buildings have absorbed the emotions of the personal dramas that have been playing out in the parish since Huguenot refugees arrived in the seventeenth century. Fortunes have been lost, livers destroyed, genius squandered, hearts broken, not to mention John Logie Baird inventing TV in Frith Street.

  Perhaps twilight is when the roaring boys and girls return to see what fresh kinds of sin have been invented. Look hard enough and maybe you can see Julian Maclaren-Ross trying to talk his way into the Colony Room, or Soho Pam extracting a ‘donation’ from the regulars in the Coach and Horses. Quite what they would have made of Spice and Special K was anyone’s guess, although I like to think they’d have pitched right in.

  I knew I too would become a Soho ghost one day. And if Odeerie couldn’t weave his magic, that day wouldn’t be too far away. I entered Brewer Street with optimism at low ebb. Even if Odeerie managed to trace Martin McDonald, it didn’t follow that he would still have the Dylans’ money. And then I would die with McDonald’s screams ringing in my ears as Billy and Lance doubled up on the Black & Deckers.

  The light was on in the flat, meaning Gary was home. There was little point in my retaining his services now that the Dylans had successfully made their move. I would assure the kid that it wasn’t his fault, issue a company cheque that almost certainly wouldn’t bounce, and bid him a fond farewell. I opened the sitting-room door to find him wearing a tracksuit and drinking something that looked like methylated spirit.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you call me?’ was his first question.

  ‘They threw my phone away. Didn’t you see?’

  Gary shook his head. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.’

  I collapsed into an armchair. ‘Yeah, well, we all make mistakes.’

  ‘What d’you mean? You were the one who said there was no chance Billy Dylan would come after you again so quickly.’

  ‘Like I said, we all make mistakes.’

  ‘What happened?’ Gary asked.

  ‘Billy’s associates drove me to a farm in Hertfordshire.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I met his mum.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I’m not kidding anyone.’

  ‘Why would Billy Dylan want you to meet his mum?’

  ‘He didn’t. Billy wanted to carve me up in his garage. Meg Dylan had a proposition for me. Just as well, otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you now.’

  ‘What kind of proposition?’ Gary asked.

  ‘The kind you don’t refuse,’ I told him.

  While I related my afternoon’s adventures with the Dylans, Gary continued sipping his meths (or it might have been an isotonic recovery drink). When I got to the part where Magda ate the glass, he paled and put the bottle down. The Martin McDonald theft had him leaning forward in his chair.

  When I concluded, he let out a long sigh. ‘You were right about having my dad put someone more experienced on the job.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t, Gary. You sorted Lance and Steve yesterday. Not many would have managed that. And what happened today was entirely my fault.’

  ‘D’you think Odeerie will find this McDonald bloke?’

  ‘Not sure. There isn’t much time and there’s bugger-all to work with.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re gonna need me any more,’ Gary said.

  I was glad he�
�d reached this conclusion before I had to reach it for him. ‘The Dylans won’t come after me now unless I don’t produce the goods on McDonald. Then I’ll need a small army to stop them.’

  ‘How about if I helped out with the legwork? If you’ve got two things on at once, won’t you need someone to check stuff out?’

  ‘It’s a nice idea, Gary, but—’

  ‘No need to pay me. Just don’t tell my old man about today.’

  ‘Can’t we say the Dylans have given up?’

  ‘He’ll know we’re lying.’

  ‘I can’t really put you to work for nothing just because you don’t want to disappoint Farrelly,’ I said. ‘Why not tell him the truth?’

  Gary folded his arms. ‘You and my dad have got history, haven’t you?’

  ‘We used to work together a long time ago,’ I said. ‘And then we ran into each other again last year.’

  ‘How was he back then?’

  ‘Pretty much the same as he is now.’

  ‘How did you know if he liked someone?’

  ‘Easy. He didn’t hit them.’

  ‘Seriously, Kenny.’

  ‘What did your mum say?’

  ‘She was only with him a few weeks.’

  ‘But you’ve known Farrelly almost a year . . .’

  ‘Yeah, although sometimes I think I might as well have met him last Tuesday. The thing is that . . . well, I am his son.’

  ‘It doesn’t always feel that way?’

  ‘It never feels that way. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking for him to start hugging me or anything. It’s just that it would be good to . . .’ Gary trailed off and stared at the floor.

  ‘Farrelly’s old-school,’ I said. ‘Just because he doesn’t show it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. You’ve got to make allowances.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Gary took a few seconds to digest this information. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s a bit hard to get through to him, that’s all. And look, the reason I want to stay working with you isn’t because I don’t want to disappoint my dad. Well, not that completely. What you and Odeerie do . . . It sounds interesting.’

  ‘Odeerie spends half his life hunched over a screen and I get told to go fuck myself at least twice a week. Does that really sound interesting to you?’

  ‘The George Dent thing does.’

  ‘That’s the exception that proves the rule.’

  ‘It’s a no then?’

  If I have a weakness – other than rogan josh, indolence, pessimism, fear of heights, the Monarch, an inability to commit to relationships, Marlboro Reds and a dust-mite allergy – it’s that I’m not brilliant at saying no to people.

  ‘Until the end of the week,’ I said. ‘After that, we’re quits.’

  Gary had bought supplies from the Parminto Wholefood Deli downstairs. He intended to rustle up a tofu stir-fry and wondered if I felt like joining him. Tofu looks like it started out in life as a yeast infection, but the only thing I’d eaten since breakfast was the cheese toastie in Bernie’s. He promised it would be ready in twenty minutes, which was a third of the time it usually takes Domino’s to bike round a Meat Feast, so I gave him the nod.

  Turns out that tofu also tastes like a yeast infection. Gary frowned when I introduced half a bottle of HP into his subtle blend of Asian vegetables and aromatic spices. After the meal, I told him about my meeting with Olivia Porteus. As far as she was concerned, Alexander had been stitched up by posterity. That may or may not be true, but the old boy was indubitably parked in the family mausoleum and not wandering around back gardens in North London.

  What with the excitement of the afternoon, I’d neglected to give Peter Timms the daily debrief included in Odeerie’s premier package. There wasn’t a whole lot I could tell him apart from that I’d checked out George Dent’s apartment and found nothing and interviewed Will Creighton-Smith and discovered nothing. Perhaps he would think better of the entire thing and call time on what was clearly a pointless project.

  Unfortunately I’d left my phone behind in the East Cemetery – or rather Miles had left it there for me – and I couldn’t find Peter Timms’s card. I knew my brother’s mobile by heart, though, and it had only just gone eleven by the time Gary was washing up. Malcolm answered on the third ring.

  ‘Have you given up answering your phone, Kenny?’

  Malcolm is phlegmatic by nature. I’d only heard real tension in his voice a couple of times in my life. This made it three.

  ‘I lost it,’ I said. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Peter Timms is dead.’

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Let me get this straight, then, Kenny,’ DI Paula Samson said. ‘The only time you met Mr Timms was two days ago, when he asked you to investigate a ghost who had been stalking him. Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Not so much that as to find out if his other friends had seen the same thing.’

  ‘The same ghost?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why would that have been the case?’

  ‘The boys played this magic prank when they were at school together. Peter thought it might have something to do with that.’

  DI Samson was an attractive woman who looked as though she’d seen her share of trouble. Her complexion had the kind of pallor that came with too much artificial light and not enough sleep. What she needed was a fortnight on the Med, not some eejit blathering on about the occult at eight in the morning.

  ‘It’s quite a list,’ she said, looking down at the sheet of paper on her desk. ‘Have you spoken to Blimp Baxter?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Simon Paxton?’

  ‘No. The only person I interviewed was Will Creighton-Smith.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said that Alexander Porteus hadn’t visited him.’

  ‘No ghostly experience reported,’ the DI said as she recorded this on the paper. I’d have preferred it had she not kept repeating the word ‘ghost’ every thirty seconds. It made me feel as though we were in an episode of Scooby-Doo. But you can’t tell senior officers what to do in their own interview rooms.

  ‘Tell me more about George Dent,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve covered everything Peter told me.’

  ‘Specifically that he saw the ghost shortly before he died?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Were they very friendly?’ she asked. ‘I mean George and Peter, not George and the ghost.’

  ‘They met every few months for dinner.’

  The DI stifled a yawn. ‘Did Mr Timms tell you anything about the intruder in his garden?’ she asked.

  ‘Only that he looked like Alexander Porteus.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘He said he made this peculiar howling noise.’

  ‘A barking ghost! You don’t hear of those very often.’

  Paula Samson’s face was poker-straight, although I had a feeling that she was struggling to keep it that way. ‘Did he report the incident to the police?’ she asked.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Okay, I think that’s it, Mr Gabriel. Unless you’ve anything else to add . . .’

  ‘There is something,’ I said. ‘Peter Timms said that George Dent and he had the same phone call after they’d seen Porteus, telling them that they had ten days.’

  Samson looked puzzled. ‘To do what?’

  ‘Dent died exactly ten days later, and Timms with only a few hours to go.’

  She wrote something on her pad. ‘I’ve made a note of that information, but it does seem that Peter Timms’s death was accidental.’

  ‘It’s being reported it was a scaffolding collapse at his home. Is that right?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that at this stage. Although thanks for materialising today, Mr Gabriel – it shows the right spirit.’

  And they say cops don’t have a sense of humour.

  I walked o
ut of East Hampstead Police Station into the gloom of a mid-October morning. A mother was dragging her kid to school. I knew how the poor sod felt. The sensible place to be was in bed, not having phonics rammed down your throat, or the piss ripped out of you by the Met.

  Malcolm’s Lexus was parked on the opposite side of the street behind a squad car. I trotted through the drizzle and got into the passenger seat. He was busy instructing someone about the client meeting he’d deputised them to attend. It was a couple of minutes before the call ended. I passed the time by watching raindrops course down the windscreen and wishing I had a bacon sarnie.

  My brother’s last instructions were to tell the client that he would join them by ten thirty. ‘So how did it go?’ he asked me after cutting the call.

  ‘About as well as could be expected,’ I said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I told the DI about Alexander Porteus. She thought I was off my trolley and so was Peter Timms.’

  ‘She really said that?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Did you mention George Dent?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And the phone calls?’

  ‘And the phone calls.’

  ‘She didn’t think that was weird?’

  ‘She thought I was weird.’

  Malcolm stared at the dashboard as though this was inexplicable news.

  ‘What did you expect, Malc? God knows why I let you talk me into giving a statement in the first place. I must need my bumps feeling.’

  ‘Peter Timms said the ghost was a portent.’

  ‘This isn’t Macbeth, for Christ’s sake. It was an accident. Peter wasn’t found dead at the crossroads with a stake through his heart.’

  ‘Neither was Macbeth, if memory serves.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘You really don’t think it’s suspicious, Kenny?’

  ‘It’s a coincidence, I’ll grant you that. And maybe someone was trying to put the shits up him for some reason. But there aren’t any such things as ghosts, even Peter agreed with that. The other thing you might want to take into account is the possibility that he didn’t actually see anything in the first place.’