Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘How do I go about getting a copy?’

  ‘Bound to be something online. Although I wouldn’t tell Liv you’re reading it. Not if you want to stay between the sheets, that is . . .’

  Olivia emerged from the basement accompanied by a man in his sixties wearing a tweed suit and a mane of grey hair that fell to his shoulders. ‘So nice to have met you, Professor O’Connor,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know when the book arrives and we can arrange a time for you to pick it up.’

  The pair shook hands and Rodney let the prof out of the shop. The smile left Olivia’s lips. She stared at me as though I were an anthrax carrier.

  ‘I’m amazed you have the nerve to show your face.’

  ‘What? I thought you said we should meet at six thirty.’

  For a moment I thought Olivia was going to tell me to sling my hook. Then she turned on her heel and marched downstairs. Rodney gave me a baffled shrug before I followed his boss.

  Olivia lost no time getting down to it. ‘Well, now you’re here, at least I get to say what I think of you to your face,’ she said, hands on hips.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sure we can—’

  ‘You’ve really no idea?’

  ‘None at all.’

  Olivia shook her head in wonderment.

  ‘Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong?’ I said.

  ‘Sebastian popped in this morning. He said that he came round unannounced and found you rooting through the bureau—’

  ‘He said what?’

  ‘When he checked to see if anything was missing, he found our grandfather’s Rolex was gone. If you’ve sold it, Kenny, then you’d better contact whoever took it off your hands and tell them it was stolen property.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t sold it!’

  ‘Then return the watch and that will be that. Sebastian doesn’t want to go to the police and nor do I. To be honest, I’m just embarrassed that . . . Well, let’s just say I’m very embarrassed and leave it there, shall we?’

  ‘I’m not surprised Sebastian doesn’t want to involve the police,’ I said. ‘He’s the one who took the watch.’

  This drew a sardonic smile from Olivia. ‘He said you might try something like that,’ she said. ‘Seb has his problems, but at least he isn’t a liar.’

  I took her by the shoulders and forced her to look me in the eye. ‘D’you really think I’d steal from you, Olivia? And if I had taken the watch, why would I turn up here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have noticed it had gone missing for months. During that time you could have got away with God knows how many other things.’

  ‘Has anything gone from the flat before?’ I asked.

  No answer.

  ‘Something portable you could pawn or sell in a pub?’

  Still no answer.

  ‘Perhaps you convinced yourself that you’d just mislaid it . . .’

  A small tear formed in the corner of her left eye. ‘Last month someone forced the lock on the book cabinet in the sitting room. My grandfather’s notebooks were taken.’

  ‘Did you report it to the police?’

  Olivia shook her head.

  ‘Because you didn’t want to get Sebastian into trouble?’ I asked.

  ‘It might not have been him,’ she said. ‘No dealer would take them without proof of ownership. I’ve put the word round but no one’s been approached.’

  ‘Does Seb have any interest in Alexander Porteus?’

  ‘None whatsoever. So, you see, it might well have been someone else.’

  ‘Olivia, you need to stop conning yourself about your brother. It’s not doing you any favours and it’s not doing him any either. Sebastian needs professional help.’

  ‘Seb’s been in clinics,’ she said, the tears flowing freely now. ‘He always ends up relapsing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just a matter of finding the right kind of therapy,’ I said.

  ‘There is something . . .’ Olivia dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘But it’s drastic and I don’t know whether it’s the right thing or not.’

  ‘Drastic in what way?’

  ‘It would mean a residential stay and cost a fortune.’

  ‘If it means Sebastian recovers then it’s got to be worth considering.’

  Being cooped up behind a razor-wire security fence and given kale juice enemas six times a day would do Seb a world of good. Just thinking about it made me feel a whole lot better. I put an arm around Olivia’s shoulders.

  ‘I know what you think of Seb,’ she said, ‘and I can’t blame you. But he really was the sweetest little boy. The drugs changed him overnight.’

  Yeah, right. Course they did.

  ‘All the more reason to take drastic action,’ I said, pulling her closer. ‘How does Sebastian feel about going into rehab again?’

  ‘Oddly enough, he’s amenable to it, with a couple of provisos.’

  Olivia pulled me in and delivered a lingering kiss. She broke it off, looked in my eyes and then repeated the process. First Gary’s news and now this.

  It just kept getting better and better.

  Over a pair of lobsters in J Sheekey, the tension between Olivia and me began to thaw even further. After dessert, she suggested returning to her flat for a nightcap. Second time round, the sex was less frantic and more considered. Olivia put the safety chain on the door, which meant that Seb couldn’t barge in unannounced. A jolly good time was had by all – unless Olivia was faking a jolly good time, that was.

  As she was attending a two-day conference in Edinburgh the following day and had an early start, I volunteered to trail back to Brewer Street. She kissed me goodbye and promised to call from her hotel. At 1 a.m. the main thoroughfares of the parish were still fairly busy. The backstreets were quieter.

  No message from Gary, which seemed peculiar. The last time I’d spoken to him, he’d had Martin McDonald in his sights. I thought about calling him but he was probably asleep back at his own flat, which was nearer Docklands, and what difference would a few hours make? It had been a long day and tomorrow promised to be longer still.

  I turned into a deserted Brewer Street looking forward to getting at least six hours. I’d just fished my keys out when the car started up. After a couple of throaty revs, it pulled out and accelerated hard.

  First it was on the opposite side of the road.

  Then it was on my side of the road.

  Then it came straight at me.

  One option was to run across the street. If the driver jerked the wheel in time, I was roadkill. If not, he was hardly likely to throw the Ford Focus into reverse and back up over me. I abandoned this risky option in favour of running like crazy in the opposite direction. Had it not been for a lamppost and a rubbish bin, I’d have been toast. The driver swerved to avoid the former; the latter caught under the bumper and seriously reduced his speed. When it slid out, he floored the accelerator again.

  Thank God Zorba’s Magz & Vidz was still open.

  The door had been wedged in order that its more bashful punters could make a swift entrance and exit. I hurtled through the multicoloured streamers and careered into a rack of corporal punishment DVDs. The green Focus roared off, leaving me writhing around on the grubby carpet trying to force air into my appalled lungs.

  ‘Looking for something special, are we, sir?’ the guy behind the counter asked.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I only had a fleeting glimpse of the driver. Probably male and definitely wearing a baseball cap would be the best description I could give the police. In time they might have run through CCTV footage and found a licence plate. Assuming it was a serious attempt to take me out, the car would almost certainly have been stolen. I’d have to spend several hours in the cop shop explaining why someone might want to murder me to a bored DS who’d probably wish they’d succeeded.

  Prime suspect was Billy Dylan. I’d been stupid to tell him I was close to finding Martin McDonald. Assuming Billy was still in league with McDonald, t
he best way to ensure it remained a secret was to put me in a hospital or a morgue.

  Were there any other suspects? I pondered the question while soothing my nerves with a quintuple Monarch and a chain of Marlboros. I’d come up with jack shit on the Porteus front. Unless my brother was trying to take me off the case without hurting my feelings, it wasn’t connected to that. Other than Billy Dylan, the only person I’d royally pissed off in the last few days was Will Creighton-Smith.

  And so I felt doubly satisfied that Gary had a photo placing Billy and McDonald together. It got me off the hook as far as Meg Dylan was concerned, while dropping the apple of her eye in the clart at the same time.

  Sleep seemed an unlikely prospect and I decided to search for The White Tower online instead. It took ten minutes to locate a Wicca site from which I could download a regular copy for a tenner or an annotated version for twice the amount. Following Rodney’s less-than-glowing review, I clicked on the budget option.

  The White Tower featured a nobleman living in an unnamed city and dying of an unspecified disease. The former sounded like Paris; the latter was a dead ringer for lung cancer. And the count was a romanticised description of Alexander Porteus.

  The count’s enemies had brought him low through cunning and deception. Now he was face-to-face with eternity in a tall building by a river. That was until our hero was visited by the demon Asmodeus, who informed him that, if he wanted another ten years on the planet, he must follow his instructions to the letter.

  Primarily these involved sacrificing his enemies after certain incantations and rites had been recited both pre- and post-slaughter. The count accepted the deal, for which I had some sympathy. His enemies were a shower of shits. Too weak to carry out the attacks himself, he co-opted his amanuensis, Simeon, to do the dirty work.

  The book dragged, particularly when it got into specifics, and I could see how people thought the novel was little more than a handbook in disguise. Several sections were printed in French and Latin.

  Simeon nailed his master’s first victim with a garrotte and the second with a dagger to the heart. Asmodeus then required Simeon to present himself to the universe and perform a jig of some description. At least that’s what Google Translate reckoned sautiller meant. Whoever had penned it, The White Tower was a crock.

  I closed my laptop and fell into a doze. My last conscious thought was whether Gary had been able to supplement the picture with an address.

  Four hours later, I woke to the sound of the shutter being raised on the Parminto Deli. After a certain age, no man should fall asleep in an armchair after downing half a bottle of Highland Monarch. My head felt as though it had spent four hours in a tumble dryer and my legs almost buckled when I attempted to stand.

  Knowing Gary’s penchant for the early start, I gave him a call that went straight to voicemail. I allayed my anxiety with the thought that he had probably turned his phone off while working out in the gym. I sent a text asking for an update as soon as, and headed for the bathroom.

  It was 6.45 a.m., which meant I had just enough time to shower and drink a litre of black coffee before packing my bags for the trip to Suffolk. I’d arranged to meet Connor Clarke at nine to take a look at Judy’s hate mail. That gave me ample time to make it across town to Liverpool Street station. It was going to be a long day.

  The Carbury Estate looked less welcoming than on my last visit. Then it had been bathed in autumn sunshine. Now it was lacquered in drizzle and no kids were playing on the swings in the central garden. Connor Clarke answered the door wearing a lumberjack shirt over tracksuit bottoms.

  ‘Oh, hello, Kenny,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good, thanks,’ I said. ‘We did say nine a.m. . . .’

  ‘Absolutely. I was writing an essay and lost track of time. Do come in.’

  The layout of Connor’s flat was identical to Judy’s. Four doors led off a central passage that culminated in a sitting room. A cheap wooden table supported an open laptop and a pile of textbooks. A pair of black vinyl chairs on steel legs might have been rescued from a skip. The floorboards were bare and unsanded.

  ‘It’s a bit basic,’ he said, which was putting it mildly.

  ‘Must be good to have your own space, though,’ I replied.

  ‘It has its advantages, particularly if you want to have someone back. Judy was happy for me to have visitors but it could be a bit, you know, awkward.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘How is Judy?’

  ‘She’s visiting her friend Patti this morning. It’s a palaver and the taxi costs a fortune, but it’s good for her to get out of the flat.’

  ‘It must be hard for both of you,’ I said.

  ‘There are certain challenges,’ he replied. ‘But we’re meeting those.’

  ‘Actually, I’m a bit pushed for time. Perhaps I could see the letter . . . ?’

  ‘Of course,’ Connor said. ‘Have a seat and I’ll get it.’

  I occupied the chair nearest the window. A damp patch above the fireplace was speckled with mould and the light bulb was unshaded. The only thing that smacked of personality was a four-foot cactus in an earthenware pot. Connor returned holding a plastic envelope. He removed the letter and laid it on the table. It had been handwritten on a sheet of quality paper. He moved aside to allow me a closer look.

  Abominator,

  The Architect punishes you for your sins, although your suffering now will be as naught compared to that in the eternal place. You and your kind transgress His natural law. For that you shall burn in The Pit. Now is but a taste of what is to come. He will render your flesh and grind your bones. Understand that I am His Righteous Servant. He has risen me to deliver justice in the earthly realm. As with the others, so with you. Know that I will contact you again in 10 days.

  SP

  ‘You said there’d been others,’ I said after reading it.

  ‘That’s the fifth,’ Connor replied.

  ‘All signed SP?’ He nodded. ‘And the language and handwriting were similar?’

  ‘Pretty much. They were pretty abusive and it was all in that kind of biblical style. This is weirder, though. There’s all that business about delivering justice and being in touch again in ten days. D’you think he’s serious?’

  ‘When did it arrive?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone unusual about the estate recently?’ Connor shook his head. ‘Has Judy been behaving oddly at all?’

  ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Would she tell you if anyone was making physical threats?’

  Alarm filled Connor’s eyes. ‘Why wouldn’t she tell me?’ he asked.

  ‘She might not want to worry you.’

  ‘You think I should show her this, don’t you?’

  ‘At the very least take it to the police. There’s someone called DI Samson at East Hampstead Police Station. Tell her I sent you.’

  ‘Okay, I will,’ Connor said, ‘although I’d still prefer not to involve Judy. She’s been making fantastic progress and I’m worried this might set her back.’

  ‘That might not be necessary,’ I said.

  Connor’s gaze drifted back to the letter. He ran his hand over his chin and shook his head. ‘Some people are really fucked up,’ he said.

  ‘Half the world,’ I replied.

  Before leaving Connor’s flat, I photographed the letter. ‘The Architect’ had a slightly Masonic ring to it. The rest simply read like standard extracts from the Book of Nutter. He has risen me up was perhaps an allusion to Porteus coming back from the dead. And, of course, the initials SP were those of Simon Paxton – and probably a couple of million other people. But it was the ten-day line that was most concerning.

  Hopefully it would be enough to persuade Paula Samson to take some action, although there was no guarantee. If anything happened to Judy, at least I’d made every effort to prevent it. Quite why the threat had been delivered by letter this time, I had no idea. But then, I had no idea as to
who the hell was behind the threats either.

  Perhaps Simon Paxton would be able to enlighten me.

  On my way to Wapping Tube station, I pulled my phone from my pocket intending to see if Gary had deigned to call. Odeerie’s name was displayed on the screen. His message requested an urgent response.

  ‘What’s up, Odeerie?’

  ‘Gary’s in St Michael’s Hospital.’

  ‘How bad is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Very bad,’ he replied.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I stepped out of the lift and followed the signs to the Intensive Care Unit. Behind the reception desk was a black woman in her fifties wearing a light-blue uniform. A pair of thick-framed glasses hung from her neck. She finished inputting something into a computer and asked how she could help.

  ‘I’m here to see Gary Farrelly.’

  ‘Are you a family member?’

  ‘I’m his employer.’

  ‘Only immediate family members are allowed to visit.’

  ‘Perhaps you could let his father know I’m here.’

  The woman took my name and instructed me to take a seat. While she conducted a brief phone conversation, I drew some water from the cooler. The only other person in the waiting area was a middle-aged man in a high-vis jacket reading a copy of Chat. He looked up and registered my presence before refocusing on the magazine.

  I was drawing a second cup when a guy around my age with thinning blonde hair and a white coat stepped through a pair of swing doors. The woman nodded towards me and he approached.

  ‘Mr Gabriel?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘My name is James. I’m the senior ward nurse. Mr Farrelly is happy for you to see his son but I’d appreciate you keeping your visit brief.’

  ‘How is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Gary’s in an induced coma. The consultant is hoping this will allow the swelling on his brain to decrease. Then he may decide to operate.’