Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘What if it doesn’t decrease?’

  ‘You’d need to ask the consultant about that.’

  ‘I’m asking you, James.’

  ‘I really can’t comment on—’

  ‘Individual cases,’ I said, finishing his sentence. ‘I get that, but in general, when you’ve seen this kind of injury, what’s been the outcome?’

  Shakespeare maintained there was no art to find the mind’s construction in the face. It didn’t apply in James’s case. His eyes dropped and his lips tightened. ‘It’s fifty-fifty,’ he said. ‘Gary could come out of the coma with very little adverse effect.’

  ‘But on the other hand . . .’

  ‘There could be a degree of brain damage.’

  ‘What type of damage?’

  ‘Loss of motor function, usually. He may experience localised paralysis or struggle with his speech. Although physio can do a lot to help with that.’

  ‘Is there a chance he might not come out of it at all?’

  ‘I think that’s unlikely, but I can’t say for sure.’ The memory of Gary knocking out press-ups in the flat came into my mind. ‘Are you okay?’ James asked.

  I swallowed and nodded.

  ‘I’ll take you through,’ he said.

  Gary was in a bay at the end of the ward, his bed in a slightly elevated position. A Perspex tube led from his mouth. It bifurcated into a pair of units that were presumably keeping his lungs inflated. Half a dozen electrodes fed from his chest into machines that pulsed and bleeped. A fine mesh of wires covered his shaved scalp like an alien creature harvesting his thoughts. I felt an irrational desire to tear it off.

  Farrelly was sitting on a chair beside the bed. He was staring so intently at his son’s immobile face that he didn’t notice our arrival. James coughed. Farrelly looked up and I saw bewilderment in his features for the first time in forty years. This wasn’t anything he could stare down or pummel into submission.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you could bear in mind the time,’ James said.

  ‘No problem,’ I replied, and he left.

  Farrelly stood. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.

  ‘What have they told you?’ I asked.

  ‘Just gotta wait. His mother’s on holiday in the States. They still haven’t managed to track the poor cow down to tell her what’s happened.’

  For thirty seconds the only sound was the systematic sigh of the piston in the oxygen machine and the staccato pulse of the heart monitor. At any moment one might stop and the other go into overdrive. It was horrible and then some.

  ‘How d’you know Gary was in here?’ Farrelly asked.

  ‘The police got the office number from a card in his pocket. Odeerie picked the message up this morning. How did they get in touch with you?’

  ‘One of the cops uses the gym. He recognised Gaz from there.’

  ‘What do they think happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Mugging,’ Farrelly said. ‘He was probably on his phone and they came up behind him. Fuck knows what he was doing in Islington.’

  I could have told Farrelly that Gary had been following Martin McDonald. That the reason he was in hospital was down to me. Farrelly would probably have gone for me there and then. On the other hand, if he found out at a later date that I’d said nothing, the consequences could be far worse and potentially terminal.

  ‘Gary said you’d been giving him some bits and pieces. Said some bloke had nicked his boss’s cash and you were tryna find him?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  ‘What happened to the fella who wanted to give you a hiding?’

  ‘That all blew over.’

  As though it doubled up as a lie detector, the frequency of the electronic beeping escalated, as did the sine wave on the screen. Gradually it resumed its previous beat and pattern. Farrelly reached out and needlessly rearranged Gary’s sheets.

  ‘You know what I said when he first turned up at the gym?’ I shook my head. ‘Told him if he was looking for a handout then he could piss off. Thank fuck he didn’t listen to me. Thing is, now he might never know how . . .’

  ‘I’m sure he knows, Farrelly,’ I said, thinking back to the conversation Gary and I had had when I’d returned from the Dylans’. ‘Not everything needs to be spelled out.’

  Farrelly and I had got through nigh on sixty years apiece without picking up any human baggage. At least, that was the way it had been. Now we were two middle-aged geezers in a hospital ward, wondering what it all added up to.

  James brought us back to the here and now.

  ‘The consultant is on his way down,’ he said, ‘so it would be a good time to end your visit, Mr Gabriel. Assuming that . . .’

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Farrelly, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Ain’t your fault,’ he said. ‘But when I find out who did this . . .’

  Farrelly’s period of introspection had gone. Once again he looked like a psychotic gargoyle carved by a crazy mason. He may never know that Billy Dylan was responsible for what had happened to his son – unless I told him, that was.

  And while I would have liked to see Farrelly’s wrath descend on Billy Dylan’s head, chances were it would also fall on mine for putting Gary in harm’s way.

  Not the easiest choice I’d ever made.

  St Michael’s was founded in the early nineteenth century. Additions have been made to the original building over the years. Lifts, escalators and stairs link each part of the hospital complex, although you have to have your wits about you to navigate the place efficiently. The ICU has no direct exit on to the street. In order to leave the hospital without triggering half a dozen alarms, it’s necessary to cross into the Duke of York Memorial Wing via an elevated walkway and to descend a further two floors using a lift or the stairs.

  What with the shock of having seen Gary in a coma and the dilemma of whether to confess to Farrelly that I was indirectly responsible for putting him in it, I didn’t pay much attention to the other two passengers in the lift.

  Only when Woman A asked Woman B if she knew whether the pharmacy was open did recognition dawn. ‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ she replied in a familiar accent.

  ‘Someone said there’s a chemist’s nearby,’ Woman A said. ‘I don’t suppose you know where that is?’ Woman B murmured that she had no idea about that either.

  I turned and saw Judy Richards.

  The canteen looked like an airport departure lounge. Huge circular lights were suspended from a high ceiling and the floor had been laid with polished beech-wood panels. The walls were decorated in soothing pastel shades and the tables covered in linen cloths. Add a departures board to the mix and we could have been in one of the snootier cafes at Gatwick rather than a major London teaching hospital.

  Judy was wearing a navy jacket over a V-neck sweater and pair of cream slacks. Maroon lipstick and blue eyeshadow made her look five years older than she actually was. Thus far, the conversation had been limited to the excellent quality of the drinks and how busy the canteen was. Judy had asked why I was visiting St Mick’s but not shared any information in return. She made an adjustment to the control panel of her electric wheelchair and dabbed a trace of cappuccino from her lips.

  ‘How are your investigations progressing, Kenny?’

  ‘Slowly. Something else is taking up a lot of time at the moment.’

  Judy fingered the large onyx pendant hanging around her neck from a silver chain. ‘You’re probably wondering why I wanted to have a coffee,’ she said.

  True enough. I was also curious as to why Judy had lied to her son about visiting her friend Patti that morning. ‘When you asked if I’d seen Alexander Porteus, I’m afraid I wasn’t . . . Well, I wasn’t entirely honest,’ she continued.

  ‘You have seen him?’

  ‘Porteus is dead, Kenny.’

  ‘Someone pretending to be Porteus, then.’

  Judy’s head twitched involuntarily a couple of times. She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds
, took a deep breath and opened them.

  ‘The day before you visited, something odd happened. It was one thirty in the morning and I was having difficulty sleeping. The flat was stuffy, so I went on to the balcony for some air . . .’

  ‘And you saw something?’

  ‘Someone. They were in a cloak standing under the trees in the garden doing this odd jigging routine, with peculiar hand movements.’

  ‘Was his face visible?’

  ‘I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so I can’t even be sure it was a man.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘I had a coughing fit. When it was over, whoever it was had disappeared.’ Judy smiled and took a sip of coffee. ‘Look, it was probably someone who drank too much at a fancy-dress do and was a bit out of it. You get all sorts on the estate.’

  The insouciance would have been more convincing had her free hand not been gripping the armrest of her chair so tightly that the knuckles were showing.

  ‘Did you get a phone call shortly afterwards?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Judy said. ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘No particular reason. Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen Porteus when we met?’ The last question was tacked on quickly in the hope that Judy wouldn’t pursue the matter of the call further. Fortunately she didn’t.

  ‘I lead a quiet life, Kenny. And whoever it was, they weren’t trying to spook me. It was pure chance I went on to the balcony.’ Judy pulled her jacket together and fastened the button. ‘My coughing jag only lasted a few seconds,’ she said. ‘When I looked up again, Porteus— the person wasn’t there.’

  ‘Behind a tree?’

  Judy shook her head. ‘I went back into the flat and turned the lights off. Then I put my glasses on and watched for half an hour. The only living things I saw were a couple of foxes.’

  ‘So you don’t think it was the ghost of Alexander Porteus but you don’t think a real person could have moved so fast? Does that about sum it up?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Then what are you going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘At the very least speak to your son.’

  ‘It would only worry him, and what’s the point in doing that?’

  Judy knew about Porteus. Connor knew about the latest threatening letter. I was aware of both but would betray at least one confidence if I squared the circle. The scenario was tougher than one of the case studies in my SIA ethics exam.

  ‘Did Connor ask you anything about my visit?’

  Judy nodded.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That an old school friend had come into some money but that the solicitor was struggling to find him. That’s why they brought you in.’

  ‘And he swallowed that?’

  Judy shrugged. ‘He didn’t ask any more questions.’

  Which, of course, isn’t the same thing, although if Connor had any suspicions, he would almost certainly have tried to quiz me further that morning. ‘Do you and he share everything with each other?’ I asked.

  ‘What twenty-three-year-old tells his parent everything?’

  ‘Okay, but you don’t keep any secrets from him?’

  It was as close as I could get to edging towards the fact that Judy had lied through her teeth about going to see Patti. Had she told me that she levelled with her son about everything, there wouldn’t have been much more I could do.

  She shifted in her chair and made her choice.

  ‘You remember that Connor said I was making great progress . . . ?’

  ‘Isn’t that true?’

  ‘Perfectly true. Just not for the reasons he thinks. I’ve been coming here every week for the last four months to take part in a drug trial.’

  ‘Is it doing any good?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s made a noticeable difference to my condition, but it won’t cause any change to the outcome. And I don’t want to give Connor false hope.’

  ‘You think he has that?’

  ‘Con has a tendency to think that if he puts his faith in something it will inevitably happen. In certain respects he’s quite naïve.’

  I recalled what Connor had said to me in the garden about his mother getting better in a few months. At the time I’d wondered if Judy had been seeing a quack. Now it looked as though her son wasn’t quite the full ticket.

  ‘I’ve explained that I’ll get very sick eventually and that he probably won’t be able to look after me, but he just says that everything’s going to be fine and changes the subject. When I’m gone . . . Well, I wonder what will happen to him. I’m the only person in his life, and mostly he works on his own.’

  ‘No girlfriend?’

  ‘There was someone a couple of years ago. She was an older woman but it all seemed to be going fairly well. Then, almost overnight, it fell apart.’

  ‘D’you know why?’

  ‘No, but I don’t think he ever really got over her. Connor’s too trusting when it comes to people, which is another thing that keeps me awake at night.’

  ‘What about his mother?’

  ‘Lives in Melbourne and doesn’t give a shit.’

  A waiter advised us that the cafe would be closing for an hour and that, if we wanted anything else, now was the time.

  ‘Can’t you get someone else to explain to Connor what’s going to happen?’ I said when he’d left. ‘Maybe it would be easier for him if it came from a third party.’

  ‘You really think so?’ Judy asked.

  I saw an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

  ‘Why not ask him to move back in for a week or two? If there’s anything peculiar about Porteus— about the person you saw in the garden, then at least you’ll have someone around who can provide security. And during that time you might find an appropriate moment to tell him about the drug trial.’

  Judy twiddled with her pendant again and frowned. ‘We’ll see,’ she said and then added, ‘D’you really think some crazy person is coming after me, Kenny?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But there’s one thing I’ve learned recently.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Judy asked.

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I stared at the afternoon rain lashing Odeerie’s office window. The fat man drummed his fingers on his desk. Occasionally he halted the timpani to shake his head; occasionally it would be a protracted sigh. It was bloody irritating and I’d have told him so under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances.

  ‘I might have been a bit hard on the kid,’ he said, giving the desk a rest for a few seconds. ‘But it was never personal.’

  ‘So you said,’ I replied.

  ‘He just wasn’t experienced.’

  ‘You mentioned that too.’

  ‘I don’t blame you, Kenny. I blame myself.’ Odeerie raised a hand as though refuting any potential disagreement. ‘I’ve been in this business twenty years. Surveillance is an art, and it takes practice.’

  ‘You had me at it on my second afternoon.’

  ‘That was different. You’re naturally furtive.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll tell Farrelly it’s your fault and give him your address. The pair of you can sort it out between you.’

  Odeerie shuddered.

  ‘That’s what you did with me and Billy Dylan,’ I said.

  ‘Only because it was a matter of life and death.’

  ‘And you think this isn’t?’

  ‘You don’t know the kid was fucked over by Billy. The police think he was mugged and they know what they’re talking about.’

  ‘I thought the police were a bunch of muppets?’

  ‘With regard to freedom of information issues they can be a bit short-sighted,’ Odeerie said. ‘But not when it comes to random acts of violence.’

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence. One minute Gary’s on Martin McDonald’s tail; the next he’s battered to a pulp.’

 
‘Yeah, but if McDonald knew he’d sussed him, why didn’t he just peg it?’

  ‘Because Gary had photographs.’

  ‘Stick a bullet in him, then.’

  ‘This is London, Odeerie. No one carries a gun around just in case. Gary was picked up by Billy’s goons and given a pasting. They made it look like a mugging because they don’t want a murder inquiry on their hands.’

  ‘You can’t be sure it was Billy’s lot.’

  ‘Yeah, and maybe some punter’s hand slipped on the steering wheel last night, and maybe you’ll win Rear of the Year. Theoretically possible but very unlikely.’

  Odeerie looked as though he was about to respond, but didn’t. Instead he began drumming his fingers again. I gazed out of the window into a gunmetal sky and tried not to visualise Gary Farrelly’s bloated face and the machinery keeping him alive. I failed on both counts. The fat man resumed our conversation.

  ‘D’you think Farrelly could take Billy Dylan down?’

  ‘Either that or die trying.’

  ‘Why not tell him?’

  ‘Think about it . . .’

  Odeerie didn’t need long. ‘Because he’ll be after you too?’ I nodded. ‘Can’t you say Gary acted without permission? Even if he comes out of the coma, he’ll probably have significant memory loss. It’s a chance worth taking, Kenny.’

  Having made his suggestion, the fat man removed a bag of onion rings from his desk drawer. He tore it open and began munching the contents. The sound was less irritating than the drumming, although there wasn’t much in it.

  ‘When are you off to Suffolk?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not going. I need to watch Billy’s place in case McDonald goes back.’

  ‘Of course he won’t. They know you’re on to them.’

  ‘Maybe, but I can’t just bugger off to East Anglia while he’s in hospital.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you should do. You’re no good here and it gets you out of harm’s way if they try a repeat performance of last night.

  ‘And you can carry on billing Malc for my time.’

  ‘And it’ll take your mind off things.’

  The chances of me getting within half a mile of Dylan or McDonald without being spotted were nigh on zero. If they made me, I’d probably wind up in the bed next to Gary’s. Visiting Simon Paxton still didn’t seem right, though.