Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘I’m not saying he did. Just that he was under a lot of stress with the company going through a tough time and his missus bailing. Put an idea in someone’s head and sometimes they imagine things that aren’t really there.’

  Malcolm slipped his phone into his pocket. He was wearing a three-grand suit, a vintage Patek Philippe and slightly too much Eight & Bob cologne. Had he been the one giving a statement, he would have been offered a decent cup of coffee and zero wisecracks. Money talks and it sure as hell gets listened to.

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ he said. ‘Peter thought something bad was going to happen and it did. He wasn’t the type to see or hear things that weren’t there.’

  ‘What are you saying, Malc? That someone bumped him off?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why didn’t they just stick a knife between his ribs?’

  ‘Because it would have drawn attention.’

  ‘And the same person threw George Dent out of a window?’

  Malcolm shrugged. The rain was really coming down now, battering the car’s roof and windscreen. ‘I don’t know, Kenny, but something isn’t right.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘You said they didn’t take you seriously.’

  ‘They thought I was barking mad is what I said.’

  Malcolm bit his bottom lip and examined his signet ring. I had an idea what was coming next and I was right. ‘How would you feel about carrying on with the job?’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘But you’ve got interviews lined up?’

  ‘Blimp Baxter’s agreed to see me and I know where Ray Clarke lives.’

  ‘Then why not follow through? I’ll pick up the tab for the last couple of days and pay you for however long it takes to speak to Baxter and Clarke. If they say they haven’t seen anything, then fair enough.’

  Typical of Malcolm to finish what he started. He could speak four languages fluently and had a judo black belt for the same reason. Not to mention a top-ten ad agency. Only this time he wanted me to finish what he’d started.

  ‘I’m too busy with another job,’ I said.

  ‘Really, Kenny? Because if one of the others has seen the same thing and taken the same call, how are you going to feel if he dies too? And it’s only going to take a couple of hours. How important is this other job that you can’t spare the time?’

  The temptation to tell Malc about the Dylans was almost overwhelming. He looked at me and frowned. ‘Are you still taking your meds?’

  ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘You seem a bit tense.’

  The previous year I’d hit a low patch after my best friend dropped dead. I’d also been involved in a case that ended disastrously. My doctor had prescribed antidepressants. After a couple of weeks I’d thrown the pills away.

  ‘That’s between me and my physician,’ I said.

  ‘Have you called Stephie?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘I don’t, as a matter of fact. And even if I did, what am I going to say? Sorry I bailed on Manchester and haven’t been in touch for nearly a year?’

  ‘You’re right, Kenny,’ Malcolm said after starting the engine with an aggressive twist of the key. ‘No point in trying for some happiness in life when you can sit around feeling sorry for yourself all day.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that—’

  ‘And if something else happens to one of the other guys, then I’m sure you’ll be able to live with yourself. When you’re busy, you’re busy, right?’

  ‘That’s not fair, Malcolm.’

  My brother flicked the wipers on and checked his mirror. He put the Lexus into drive and edged out of his parking spot.

  ‘Can’t you get someone else?’ I asked.

  ‘Bit late in the day for that.’

  He switched the radio on and began picking up speed.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  The satnav advised a right turn.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ I said. ‘But only until I’ve seen Ray and Blimp.’

  And that was that. If I hadn’t been guilt-tripped into carrying on with the job, then the mayhem that occurred over the next five days could have been avoided.

  Brothers. I ask you.

  Malcolm dropped me on Oxford Street, where I bought a replacement phone. I checked my messages, one of which was from a tense-sounding Blimp Baxter asking if we could change our meeting to the same time the following day as ‘something urgent’ had come up. After leaving a message on his machine that this would be fine, I entered the parish via Wardour Street and ordered the bacon bap and tea I’d been longing for since Malcolm had picked me up at six thirty. Both were consumed between Bar Bernie and Albion Mansions. It had just gone nine by the time Odeerie ushered me into his flat. Waiting in the office, as arranged, was Gary. Judging by the atmosphere, Odeerie hadn’t warmed to him since their last meeting.

  I filled both of them in on my visit to East Hampstead Police Station and subsequent conversation with my brother. The fact that we were still on the clock went a long way to cheering Odeerie up. As did his third breakfast Danish.

  ‘I’ve always liked your brother,’ he said through a mouthful of dough.

  ‘You’ve never met him.’

  ‘Liked the sound of him, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t get too excited. He’s only paying until I’ve spoken to Ray— What’s he calling himself now?’

  ‘Judy Richards.’

  ‘Until I’ve spoken to Judy Richards and Blimp Baxter.’

  ‘That might take a while.’

  ‘No, it won’t. I’m seeing Blimp tomorrow afternoon and I’m going to Wapping this morning. That’s why I asked Gary to join us.’

  Gary was sitting on one of the desk chairs. Odeerie stared at him as though I’d just drawn his attention to a leak in the roof.

  ‘We’ve got a week to find Martin McDonald for the Dylans,’ I said. ‘And as I’ve agreed to spend a bit more time on the Porteus thing, Gary’s prepared to lend a hand.’

  ‘He’s not experienced and he’s not registered,’ Odeerie said immediately.

  ‘And he’s not working for a paying client either, so it makes no difference.’

  Odeerie scowled. What with his eye colour now ranging between gasoline yellow and sphagnum green, it wasn’t a pretty sight. He didn’t attempt to dispute my point, though. All Gary would be doing was the equivalent of intern work.

  ‘Billy Dylan met Martin McDonald at the Burbage,’ I continued. ‘We’ve got a photograph of him, so if Gary goes over there this morning and asks around, then maybe he can pick something up.’

  ‘No point,’ Odeerie said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just got off the phone to them. They didn’t have a small-business seminar in March. In fact, they haven’t had a small-business seminar this year.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘I spoke to three people, including the conference organiser.’

  ‘Maybe it was booked under a private name.’

  ‘She said the closest thing they’ve had to a business seminar was a stag do for the Masons at the end of May. And I’m guessing Billy Dylan isn’t on the square.’

  ‘Are you sure he said the Burbage?’ Gary asked. ‘Maybe it was some other hotel.’

  It seemed unlikely. When someone pisses off with £600,000 of your unlaundered cash, you tend to remember where you first met them.

  ‘Go to the Burbage anyway,’ I said. ‘Show McDonald’s picture to the barmen and the waiting staff. Check if they’ve seen him.’

  ‘What if they ask why I want to know?’

  ‘Make something up.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Say he’s your brother and he went missing in the area. I’ve got Meg Dylan’s number. I’ll check if Billy made a mistake and
call you later.’

  ‘What d’you suggest I do?’ Odeerie asked.

  ‘There’s still no sign of McDonald?’ I asked. He shook his head. ‘Well, according to Billy Dylan he was some kind of business trainer. Maybe you could trawl through training sites for someone who looks like him.’

  The fat man sniffed and brushed some pastry crumbs off the upper slopes of his chest. ‘We have got other clients, Kenny,’ he said.

  ‘Fair enough. I just thought, what with me being six days away from castration at the hands of a bloke you gave my name, home address and inside leg measurements to, you might see it as a priority.’

  ‘I’ll get on to this,’ Gary said, getting up from his chair. He made his way out of the office, leaving Odeerie and me glaring at each other.

  ‘Where did you find him?’ Odeerie asked when the outside door closed.

  ‘He’s Farrelly’s son.’

  ‘The bloke who used to work for Frank Parr?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s a straight-up nutter.’

  ‘It isn’t hereditary.’

  ‘How d’you know we can trust him?’

  ‘Gary’s not hearing anything confidential,’ I said. ‘And he took on two of Billy Dylan’s guys when they jumped me.’

  ‘We’re definitely not paying the guy?’

  I shook my head. Slightly mollified, he plucked another Danish from the box. ‘Well, if it ends in tears, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘Good to know you’re looking out for me, Odeerie.’

  ‘S’what friends are for,’ he said, and chomped into his pastry.

  FIFTEEN

  The Carbury Estate in Wapping was a prime example of social housing put up on bomb sites left by the Blitz. Four granite-built blocks faced on to a communal garden occupied by several young mothers whose squealing progeny were racing around the flowerbeds. Each block bore a nautical name that reflected the maritime history of the area. According to Odeerie’s research, Judy Richards lived in Drake House.

  The front doors on the fourth floor were all coated in emerald gloss. Each had a brass knocker, although I opted to use the bell attached to number 62. It took Judy Richards almost a minute to answer. A grey crop had replaced the blonde bob of the Facebook shot. She was leaning heavily on a stick and wearing a knee-length pleated skirt with a cardigan over a white blouse.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘Judy Richards?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I handed her a card. ‘I was hoping to have a chat about someone you were at school with.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘George Dent, but I’m not a journalist or connected to a paper.’

  Judy stared at me full in the face for several seconds before looking down at the card and then back at me again.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  The walls in the sitting room were sunflower-yellow. The sofas facing each other had been draped in floral throws. A teak unit held several framed photographs. One was of a smiling couple in their seventies standing outside a garden conservatory. The others were of the same boy at three stages in his life. A gap-toothed toddler beamed at the camera, the adolescent on his bicycle looked more serious, and the graduation photograph showed a handsome young man in a gown and mortarboard.

  The final photograph was the one I’d seen on Judy’s Facebook page. It had been taken in the Carbury Estate garden and showed her sitting in a wheelchair with the same guy standing behind her. Blue eyes, thick blonde hair, white teeth and a firm jaw gave Connor Clarke a rugged look.

  ‘My son,’ Judy said, entering the room.

  ‘He’s a good-looking boy,’ I said, replacing the photograph.

  ‘Not a boy any more. Connor turned twenty-three last week. Here you are . . .’

  ‘Kenny,’ I said. ‘Kenny Gabriel.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Judy said. ‘Sometimes my condition affects my short-term memory.’

  She handed me a mug of coffee two-thirds full. Had it been nearer the brim, the tremor in her hand would have caused it to spill.

  ‘D’you see much of Connor?’ I asked.

  ‘Every day. He has a flat in Raleigh House, on the other side of the garden. He used to live here, but the place isn’t huge, as you can see. The trust placed him at the top of the waiting list. Occasionally I need a little domestic assistance.’

  I wondered if Judy’s husky contralto had been achieved through force of habit, or whether chemicals and surgery had played a part. If so, they hadn’t entirely cancelled her Yorkshire accent.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment, Kenny,’ she said.

  ‘Sure I can’t help?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.’

  Judy hobbled past a wheelchair charging from a wall socket. I wondered how frequently it saw action. Judging by the time its owner took to reach the door, it would have been indispensable to cover any distance greater than twenty yards.

  I settled on to one of the sofas and a marmalade cat padded through the open door. It made a beeline for me and rubbed its head insistently against my shin until I stroked its arched back. My new best friend was purring like a tractor when its owner returned with a second steaming cup.

  ‘Cecil, stop bothering our guest,’ she said. The cat gave a plaintive miaow and slunk under my sofa. ‘You’re not allergic, are you? I’ll sling him out if you are.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I replied.

  Judy put her coffee on a side table and hooked her stick on its edge. She positioned herself over the sofa and fell into it. ‘So, you want to talk about George Dent.’

  ‘If you’re okay with that, Judy.’

  ‘That depends what you want to know and why.’

  ‘Do you remember Peter Timms?’

  ‘Yes, I saw the news this morning. Dreadful accident.’

  I nodded and said, ‘Peter was my client.’

  The information had no discernible effect.

  ‘He kept up with George Dent,’ I continued. ‘They met for dinner occasionally.’

  ‘Is this connected to Hibbert & Saviours? Because I don’t have anything to do with the place, and I haven’t seen George or Peter in nigh on forty years.’

  ‘I believe you were expelled.’

  Judy picked up her mug and took a sip. ‘Did Peter tell you that?’ I nodded. ‘And did he tell you why?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re here to talk about George?’

  ‘Actually, I’m here to talk about Alexander Porteus. Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘Peter Timms didn’t think so. And neither did George Dent, apparently.’

  ‘I get the feeling I’m missing a bit of the story here, Kenny,’ Judy said.

  ‘Allow me to fill you in,’ I replied.

  It took ten minutes to relate the information Peter Timms had given me. He had suggested that Ray Clarke had been a star of track and field at Hibberts. No sign of that now. Judy was tall, although her frame was slender and racked by the effects of her illness. All I could detect in the way of make-up was a trace of lippy.

  During my story, the cat poked its head out and started nuzzling around my ankles until it realised it was on to a loser and departed the room. The only sounds were the distant shrieks of children playing in the communal garden, and a plane departing or arriving at City Airport. After I’d finished, Judy took a few moments to respond.

  ‘Have you been to the police?’ was her first question.

  ‘This morning. They all but laughed me out of the station.’

  ‘Because of the Porteus business?’

  ‘That and a complete lack of evidence.’

  ‘They think his death was an accident?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘And it was exactly ten days for both him and George?’

  ‘Give or take a few hours.’

  Judy flexed the arms of the reading glasses hanging around her n
eck a few times. ‘Now Peter’s dead, who are you working for, Kenny?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t reveal that, but it’s none of the other boys.’

  As my brother was picking up the bill now, my conscience was clear. Well, fairly clear.

  ‘What d’you want from me?’ Judy asked.

  ‘First, I wondered whether you’d had any sightings of Alexander Porteus, although I’m guessing that’s not the case.’ Judy shook her head. ‘Do you believe you saw a ghost that night in the cemetery?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it was too solid to be a ghost. Having said that, there was something . . .’ Judy produced a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan. She dabbed her lips lightly before replacing it. ‘What did Peter Timms say?’

  ‘Couldn’t make his mind up. On the one hand he thought it was someone pranking you. On the other he also seemed to think there was something supernatural about it.’

  ‘And Creighton-Smith?’

  ‘Didn’t give a damn one way or the other.’

  A faint smile from Judy. ‘Will wasn’t overly blessed with imagination,’ she said. ‘I imagine he’s running the family business and on his way to his first coronary.’

  ‘Actually, Will’s selling second-hand motors. Although you’re probably right about the heart attack.’ Judy frowned. ‘The family business tanked,’ I explained. ‘He works for a classic-car company in Mayfair.’

  ‘Poor old Will,’ she said with a straight face.

  ‘Have the other boys contacted you recently?’ I asked.

  Judy shook her head. ‘One thing I learned about the upper classes at Hibberts is that they’re bloody ruthless. That’s how the system perpetuates itself. If one of the pack falls, the rest abandon it and move on.’

  ‘Were you a pack member?’ I asked.

  Judy chuckled. ‘I was a skimp, Kenny. D’you know what that is?’

  ‘A scholarship boy,’ I said, recalling Will’s use of the term.

  ‘That’s right. Hence I failed to make the grade on two levels. Firstly I was poor, which the gentry despises; secondly I was clever, which makes them suspicious.’

  ‘You were unhappy at Hibberts?’

  ‘Not entirely. There was one exception to the rule – at least I thought there was – and I was good at games, which gave me a degree of kudos.’