Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  Difficult to tell which of us was the more surprised. Sebastian had been anticipating an empty flat, and I’d been expecting his sister. As my T-shirt didn’t quite cover my pants, probably Seb received the bigger shock. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel,’ I said. ‘We met in your sister’s shop yesterday.’

  ‘You and Olivia slept together! How long has this been going on?’

  ‘None of your fucking business’ is what I wanted to say. ‘She’s gone to the shop’ is what I did say. He sighed, shook his head and marched into the sitting room. I popped into the bedroom and pulled my chinos on. When I joined Sebastian, he was busy searching a drawer in a bureau. ‘Does Olivia know you’re here?’ I asked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’ he replied.

  ‘Maybe we should call her.’

  ‘Feel free.’ Sebastian slammed one drawer closed and opened another.

  ‘Are you looking for cash?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Not that it would be any of your business if I were. My sister is happy for me to come and go as I please.’

  He pulled out a red velvet box and opened it. Inside was a set of Apostle spoons. He snapped it closed and carried on rooting. He looked worse today than he had yesterday. His hair was greasier, and stubble covered his chin like mould on a Petri dish. Another box was opened. This one contained several pairs of cufflinks.

  Seb swore under his breath. A leather photo album was examined briefly before being discarded. Next out was a narrow cardboard box fraying at the edges and held together with an elastic band. Sebastian snapped the band and opened it up.

  ‘Yes!’ he said triumphantly.

  My brother collects vintage watches. A favourite is a Rolex Prince for which I know he paid a mint. The one Sebastian was holding looked to be in superior condition.

  ‘Did that belong to your grandfather?’ I asked.

  ‘What if it did?’ Sebastian turned the winder and grinned. He put the watch back into the box and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. Then he closed the drawer and got to his feet. ‘I’m wearing it to a function this evening, if you must know,’ he said.

  The only function Sebastian was likely to attend was the Smackheads’ & Crack Dealers’ Ball, with carriages at 3 a.m. or whenever the Drug Squad kicked the doors down. The Rolex would be sold within the hour. He knew it and I knew it.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you’re lying,’ I said.

  Sebastian’s face contorted into a rictus of rage. He took a couple of steps towards me. ‘Say that again and I will fuck you up.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ I repeated.

  For a couple of seconds, I thought he might actually follow through. What would have happened then was anyone’s guess. Which was precisely why Sebastian backed down. The only type of fights he picked were those in which victory was assured.

  ‘The reason your teeth aren’t on the floor right now is because I don’t want my sister upset,’ he said. ‘And, while we’re on the subject, stay away from Liv.’

  I rolled my eyes. Sebastian grinned. It was hardly a Colgate smile, but then crack isn’t cut with fluoride.

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he said.

  After which cryptic warning, he departed the flat.

  On the way to Brewer Street, I wondered whether to call Olivia and tell her that Sebastian had stolen their grandfather’s watch. In the end I opted not to. For one thing, the arsehole had been right: it really wasn’t any of my business. For another, it was too late to do anything about it now. Seb would probably sell the Prince for a fraction of its true value and blow the swag on assorted pills and powders.

  My plan was to take a shower and change into fresh clothes before heading off to meet Blimp Baxter at the River Heights development. I decided against calling his PA to see if our appointment was still in his diary. After the discovery of the medieval burial ground, there was every chance he might want to postpone it again. Far better to turn up regardless and hope that Blimp would still spare me some time.

  Gary was in the kitchen piling chopped fruit into a juicer I didn’t recognise. He looked like he could do with the vitamin C. Dark circles were spreading under his eyes and his skin was looking a touch waxy. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone invited me round for supper. I ended up spending the night.’

  ‘You didn’t think to tell me?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  Gary put the lid on the juicer and flicked the switch. Its blades screamed as they tore through the fruit. ‘Because Billy Dylan might change his mind about taking you out,’ he said over the noise. ‘And he could have changed it last night.’

  ‘Weren’t you watching his place?’ I asked.

  ‘Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have got someone else to do it.’ Gary took the lid off the juicer and transferred its contents into a glass. ‘Where were you, then?’ he asked.

  ‘With Olivia Porteus, the woman from Highgate Cemetery.’

  Gary looked as though he were about to make a comment, but changed his mind.

  ‘How long were you outside Billy Dylan’s place?’ I asked.

  ‘Until nearly midnight. It was bloody freezing.’

  ‘Any joy?’

  ‘He went out at four and came back around eight.’

  ‘Anyone with him?’ Gary shook his head. ‘What about visitors?’

  ‘It’s hard to say because he lives in a complex. There’s thirty apartments. You don’t know who’s visiting who. That bloke who came at you in the flat picked him up and dropped him off.’

  ‘Lance?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Anyone with them?’

  ‘Not unless they were in the boot.’

  Gary knocked back the rest of the smoothie and began rinsing out the glass.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ I asked.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘You should have been outside Billy’s place for the last three hours.’

  ‘I have to go back?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, you do, Gary. Hanging around like a spare prick at a wedding is what this job’s all about. Or didn’t I explain that to you?’

  ‘What’ll you be doing?’

  ‘Talking to Blimp Baxter, hopefully.’

  ‘He’s the property developer, right? The one who has that show on TV?’

  ‘And who held the ladder when the boys went into the cemetery.’

  ‘Maybe you could take over from me when you’re done.’

  ‘That’s not the way it works. As I’m a skilled operative, it’s important that I’m deployed where my skills are of best use.’

  ‘Shagging Olivia Porteus, you mean.’

  ‘We all contribute to the cause in our own way, Gary,’ I said. His eyes rolled. ‘But if you want to quit, then all you have to do is say . . .’

  Gary placed the glass on the draining board. He stared at the taps intently, as though trying to turn them on with the power of thought alone.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said eventually. ‘But if nothing happens today, can I contribute to the cause by doing something indoors?’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ I said.

  ‘And I’ll probably stay at my flat if it gets late. It’s only a couple of Tube stops away from where Billy lives. If there’s anything unusual, I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Good luck.’

  After showering, I googled Blimp Baxter’s River Heights development, specifically regarding discoveries of archaeological significance. The search returned half a dozen results, a couple of which carried more than a whiff of schadenfreude.

  According to the Post, a workman had noticed a skull and called the police. The cops concluded that the remains were ancient and the Association for British Archaeology had applied to have work suspended. Blimp said that, while he fully appreciated the need to excavate, it was important that activity be resume
d as soon as possible in order that homes could be built to alleviate the housing crisis.

  The Post pointed out that the cheapest apartment would go on sale for 3.8 million, so it was unlikely the average Londoner would benefit from the River Heights development. It was indicative of the media’s ambivalent attitude to Blimp. He had taken over his father’s modest construction business after leaving school and within twenty-five years turned it into a billion-pound global company.

  On the plus side, he fronted a TV show called Elevator Pitch!, in which young entrepreneurs explained their idea to him in the time it took the lift to travel from the Shard’s ground floor to its summit. If Blimp thought it had potential, the contestant made the second round. If not, he told them why in no uncertain terms.

  Cross Oliver Hardy with Caligula and you more or less had Blimp Baxter. Spray the result in Teflon and you’d be closer still. No one had got anything to stick to Blimp, although plenty had tried. He’d been accused of bribery, physical assault, sexual excess (two-day orgies, according to the Mirror) and a flagrant disregard for planning laws. If a loophole existed, you could be sure Blimp’s lawyers would find it. That hadn’t been the case with River Heights. Not yet, at least.

  I wasn’t looking forward to asking Blimp whether he had seen the ghost of Alexander Porteus. So much so that, when my phone rang, I half hoped it would be his secretary calling to de-schedule our meeting. It wasn’t.

  ‘Is that Kenny Gabriel?’ a male voice asked. I confirmed it was. ‘It’s Simon Paxton here. You left a message on my machine.’

  ‘Thanks for calling me back, Simon,’ I said, sitting bolt upright and giving the call my full attention. ‘I wanted to speak to you about George Dent.’

  There was a silence on the line. I was about to check we hadn’t been disconnected when Paxton spoke again. ‘Are you a reporter?’ he asked in a clipped voice. ‘Because if you are, then I have no interest in continuing this conversation.’

  ‘I’m a private investigator,’ I said.

  ‘Working for whom?’

  ‘Initially Peter Timms. And now for my brother, who was a friend of his.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Peter died a couple of days ago.’

  Again there was no immediate response from Paxton, although I could hear a dog barking in the background.

  ‘I’m sorry if that’s come as a bit of a shock,’ I continued. ‘It was in the papers. I assumed you knew.’

  ‘It’s not a shock,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen Peter in forty years.’

  ‘And George Dent?’ I asked.

  ‘What are you investigating, exactly?’ Paxton replied.

  ‘Peter thought the child pornography and the drugs in George’s flat had been planted by someone who had a grudge against him.’

  ‘What kind of grudge?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘Who else have you spoken to?’

  ‘Ray Clarke and Will Creighton-Smith. And I’m about to talk to Blimp Baxter.’

  ‘Just a moment, Sappho!’ Paxton said, following more barking. ‘And you want to see me too?’ he asked.

  ‘If you know anything that might be useful.’

  ‘Be here tomorrow round four p.m.’

  ‘Can’t we speak on the phone?’

  ‘It isn’t safe,’ Paxton replied, which was kind of interesting. ‘The nearest station is Middlemere,’ he continued. ‘You’ll need to hire a taxi to Zetland House from there. Oh, and one other thing, Mr Gabriel . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, and cut the call.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Walking from Brewer Street to Albion Mansions, I wondered what Simon Paxton had to tell me that couldn’t be said over the phone. Of course, the guy could just be a world-class paranoiac. According to Peter Timms, his former schoolmate had been in and out of various mental institutions. I might travel all the way to Suffolk only to be told that I needed to be careful as MI5 were monitoring my thoughts.

  One person who was taking extra precautions was Odeerie. ‘Are you alone, Kenny?’ he asked after I pressed his intercom buzzer.

  ‘No, I’ve got Jon Bon Jovi, Prince Philip and the Dalai Lama with me,’ I said. ‘Can you let us in, please? His Holiness is dying for a piss.’

  ‘Very amusing,’ Odeerie said.

  Usually when I reach the fat man’s door, it’s ajar. Not this time. Odeerie peered at me over a chunky safety chain. He squinted to my left and right as much as the angle would allow. ‘Is the password pizza or donut?’ I asked.

  He gave me a sour look before unhooking the chain. Beethoven’s Second Symphony was playing through a small but powerful speaker in the office. Odeerie pressed ‘Pause’ on his phone and the music stopped. I occupied one of the corduroy sofas while Odeerie descended on to its unfortunate companion.

  ‘You look tired,’ I said. ‘Are you sleeping okay?’

  ‘I was up working most of the night,’ he said, rubbing his face.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Billy Dylan and Longmill Prison.’

  ‘Did you speak to someone?’

  ‘Yeah, the governor said he’d email his file over.’

  ‘That’s a joke, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is, Kenny. What I actually did was spend five hours hacking into the UK prison database. And if anyone finds out about it, I’ll be featuring on the database personally, so this stays strictly between you and me.’

  I made a zip motion across my lips.

  ‘Including Gary Farrelly,’ he added.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘What was on Billy’s file?’

  ‘Mostly just cell transfers and medical issues. He kept his nose clean and got three months off his sentence.’

  ‘Anything about who he was hanging with?’

  ‘Nothing specific.’

  ‘What about his cellmate?’

  ‘Cons get their own cells at Longmill. It’s like the bloody Dorchester.’

  ‘And his accountancy course?’

  ‘Actually, you were right about that,’ Odeerie said.

  ‘He didn’t finish it?’

  ‘He didn’t start it.’

  I gave a low whistle. ‘So the little bastard did lie to his mother.’

  ‘Looks that way. Although he did take a course. Guess what it was . . .’

  ‘Plumbing?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Bookbinding?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Taxidermy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just tell me the name of the course, Odeerie.’

  ‘Acting.’

  ‘Acting!’

  The fat man smirked and shook his head. ‘It’s the biggest doss there is. Just pretend you’re a tree, or improv some bullshit about life on the wrong side of the tracks, and it’s a big tick in the self-improvement box when it comes to parole. Half Longmill signed up. Basically it’s bleeding-heart liberals and third-rate luvvies who want to boost their egos and milk the taxpayers for a few quid.’

  ‘You’ve been reading the Daily Express again,’ I said.

  ‘It’s true, Kenny.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but it doesn’t help me any. You’re sure there wasn’t anyone in Longmill doing time for fraud?’

  ‘Not who looked anything like McDonald.’

  ‘Oh well, it was worth a shot.’

  ‘How much longer do you have?’

  ‘Five days.’

  ‘Why not just piss off for a few months until it all blows over?’

  ‘Because for one thing it won’t blow over, and for another all they’ll do is cut lumps off you until you tell them where I am.’

  ‘What if I don’t know where you are?’

  ‘Then they’ll cut lumps off you for fun. Billy Dylan might believe I carried on looking for his wife when you told me to stop, but that doesn’t mean he won’t do you for second best if he can’t get hold of me.’

  Odee
rie’s hand reached for the eye that had taken a pasting. It may have been healing but the memory was raw. And while I could theoretically take a one-way trip to the arse-end of nowhere, the fat man couldn’t even step on to his balcony.

  ‘Looking on the bright side,’ I said, ‘a lot can happen in seventy-two hours.’

  The Corn Exchange had stood at the junction of Blackfriars Road and Southwark Street since 1885. Experts called it a fine example of Victorian industrial architecture. Blimp Baxter called it a barrier to the growth of London as a global city. The developer won the day and demolished the place in four months.

  Fifteen-foot steel barricades surrounded the site. Peep through the gaps and you could see a level area of ground the size of a football pitch. Positioned at the entrance was a Portakabin with a notice that read ALL VISITORS REPORT TO SITE OFFICE attached to it. I climbed the half-dozen steps and rapped on the door. A huge Sikh in a Parka opened up. He was wearing a blue turban and had a black beard that reached halfway down his chest. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel. I’ve an appointment with Blimp Baxter.’

  The Sikh unclipped a radio from his belt and flicked a switch. ‘Boss, you there?’ he asked. A few seconds of dead air before Blimp responded.

  ‘What d’you want, Adesh?’

  ‘Bloke at the gate says he’s got a meeting with you.’

  ‘Really? What’s his name?’

  ‘Kenny Gabriel.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, the investigator,’ Blimp said without enthusiasm. ‘Bring him out.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’ Adesh clicked the walkie-talkie off.

  ‘Must be a lot quieter since all this blew up,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, everyone’s on standby,’ he said.

  ‘Still being paid?’ I asked.

  Adesh nodded. ‘Once your schedule’s out of whack it costs a fortune. Not to mention the aggro from the Mayor’s office.’

  ‘What have they found?’

  ‘Some kind of burial ground. At first they thought there was just a couple of skeletons. Now it looks as though there’s bleedin’ dozens of ’em.’