Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘That’s wonderful news, Farrelly. I’m really pleased.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he ain’t out of the woods yet. That the only reason you called?’

  ‘Actually, there was something else I wanted to discuss . . .’

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  ‘Are you doing anything this evening?’

  ‘Why d’you wanna know?’

  ‘I wondered if you fancied the theatre . . .’

  THIRTY-TWO

  On my way back to the flat I pondered two things. Firstly, how to break the news to Farrelly that I’d played a part in putting Gary into hospital. Secondly, what was the best way to approach my meeting with Blimp Baxter?

  The Blimp dilemma was whether to go straight in and demand money to keep schtum about George Dent, or to extend the conversation in the hope that he might incriminate himself on the wand. As far as Farrelly was concerned, all I could do was cross my fingers and hope for the best.

  Moments after I’d arrived at this conclusion, my phone started vibrating. ‘I was beginning to think you were avoiding me, Kenny,’ Meg Dylan said. ‘You know you’ve only got tomorrow left . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I said.

  ‘I do hope that you aren’t going to bring bad news. Not after I put so much faith in you. Although I’m not sure Billy and Lance are of the same opinion.’

  ‘We haven’t got anything,’ I said. ‘But we’re still working on it.’

  ‘Now, that is a shame,’ Meg Dylan replied. ‘Even if you don’t meet with success, Kenny, it would be a mistake to make me come looking for you.’

  ‘It’ll be sorted by Tuesday,’ I said and cut the call.

  Night had settled over Brewer Street by the time I ordered a cab for my rendezvous with Farrelly. Popular opinion has it that the pubs of Islington are full of human rights lawyers agonising over whether to have the grilled monkfish or the veal casserole with their Château Margaux. That might well be true for some of the borough’s establishments. It isn’t for Ye Olde Mitre on Essex Road.

  All six of the pub’s TVs were tuned to Sky Sports and the closest thing you were likely to get to a wild-rice supersalad was a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch. It was noisy, it was crowded and hopefully three or four of the regulars might pull Farrelly off me should things not go entirely to plan.

  I ordered a waga and tried to distract myself by watching a football match. A penalty had been missed to a chorus of delighted jeers shortly before Farrelly arrived. He joined me at the bar and refused the offer of a drink.

  ‘This isn’t a fucking theatre,’ was his first observation.

  ‘Yeah, the place we’re going to is on City Road,’ I said. ‘I thought we should meet in here to discuss a few things first.’

  ‘What kinda things?’ he asked, looking around. ‘You said that you knew who did Gary. Just show me who they are.’

  ‘Actually, it’s not quite that simple.’

  Farrelly moved his shaven head closer to mine. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I think the people responsible are probably the Dylan family. But the only way I can find out for sure is by talking to someone in the play we’re going to see.’

  ‘You mean Marty Dylan?’ I nodded. ‘Ain’t he in Brixton nick?’

  ‘The business is being looked after by his wife.’

  ‘Why would she have Gary beaten up?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘You’re not going to like this, Farrelly. All I’m asking is that you let me finish the story before you . . . Well, let me just finish the story.’

  It took fifteen minutes to cover off how I’d initially wanted Gary to protect me from Billy Dylan and how events had led to his being in hospital. ‘Basically, it’s all my fault,’ I concluded. ‘And I’m incredibly sorry for what’s happened to Gary. What I want to do now is find out if Billy really was responsible.’

  Farrelly stared at me for what felt like the best part of a fortnight but was probably ten seconds. Someone scored in the match. Judging by the groans and obscenities directed at the screens, it wasn’t the Mitre’s preferred team.

  ‘So, let me get this right,’ he said slowly and deliberately. ‘You come into my gym with some story about a bloke who’s miffed because his missus has done a bunk and he thinks you’re to blame. That bloke is Marty Dylan’s son but you don’t think it’s worthwhile mentioning the fact?’

  ‘Actually I did—’

  ‘And then you let my kid, who has had no experience of this kind of work, walk straight into a shitstorm and get his lamps kicked out. That about right?’

  ‘I told Gary in the Vesuvius who the client was and that he should let you know with a view to getting someone more experienced on the job.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Gary thought he’d be letting you down.’

  Farrelly nodded a couple of times, as though acknowledging a voice in his head that was issuing instructions. Very precise instructions.

  Next Time Round was a comedy about three students who resolved to meet every five years after leaving university. Given that it was one step up from am-dram, I expected it to be dreadful, and yet several times found myself laughing aloud along with the rest of the audience. At least until Farrelly glared at me.

  We were in row eight of the Cock & Bull Theatre pub. Occasionally I could hear the fruit machine paying out in the bar below. The play started at seven thirty to a full house, probably due in part to the poster on the pub’s window featuring a four-starred review from Time Out. There were also black-and-white shots of the actors: Maddie Malone, Tom James and Sean Hicks (aka Martin McDonald, the guy who had absconded with the Dylans’ cash).

  The play’s final line was delivered, after which there was a blackout. When the lights went up, the actors took a curtain call. The audience clapped enthusiastically, with the exception of Farrelly and myself. All three actors cast curious glances in our direction. Sean Hicks gave no sign of recognition.

  The punters headed for the stairs that led to the bar. When they had dispersed, Farrelly and I crossed the stage. We walked down a dimly lit passage towards a room from which came the sound of voices. Farrelly turned the handle and in we went.

  Maddie Malone was sitting in front of a mirror removing her make-up. Tom James was tapping something into his mobile, and Sean Hicks had just taken off the jacket he had been wearing in the final scene.

  ‘You two shut the fuck up,’ Farrelly instructed Malone and James. ‘And you,’ he said, pointing at Hicks, ‘are gonna answer some questions.’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea who you are,’ Hicks said. He was about five-ten with a bit of a gut and skinny legs. I’d have said late thirties, although thick brown hair meant that he could easily pass for ten years younger.

  ‘I’m Gary Farrelly’s old man. Name ring any bells?’

  ‘Absolutely none whatsoever,’ Hicks replied.

  ‘Gary came here the night he was beaten to shit half a mile down the road,’ Farrelly said. ‘My mate reckons you had something to do with it.’

  Hicks frowned. ‘Yes, I think I did hear about that,’ he said slowly. ‘Is your son the poor chap who was mugged?’

  ‘Yeah, except that he weren’t mugged. The bloke you’re working for nicked his phone and almost put him in the bleedin’ morgue.’

  ‘And who am I meant to be working for?’ Hicks asked.

  Farrelly looked in my direction, as did Malone and James.

  ‘Billy Dylan,’ I said. ‘The pair of you scammed a fortune from his mother.’

  ‘What?’ Hicks said.

  ‘You heard,’ Farrelly replied.

  ‘I can assure you that I’ve never heard of Billy Dylan, and as for me scamming anyone’s mother . . . Well, that’s just absurd.’

  Hicks threw his jacket at Farrelly’s head and raced for the open door. I extended a foot and he went down like a sack of spuds. Seconds later, Farrelly had him in a headlock.

  ‘Er, maybe not quite so tight, Farrelly,’ I said.

  Relu
ctantly he decreased the pressure long enough for Hicks to draw breath.

  ‘I can explain everything,’ he used it to gasp.

  An hour after Farrelly and I had finished with Hicks, I was en route to Regent’s Park Road in the back of a cab. Fortunately the traffic was light, as it was going to be a close call to make Blimp Baxter’s house by 11 p.m. I’d tested the wand a couple of times and was fully prepped for my second great coup of the evening.

  When the cabbie dropped me off with five minutes to spare, my heart was beating like a jackhammer. If I didn’t relax then I’d take a coronary before reaching Blimp’s front door. I gave the bloke twenty quid and focused on my breathing.

  The three-storey, white-stucco house had been built in the early nineteenth century. Plain architectural lines leant the place a touch of class that was sadly lacking in its owner. The front door was at the top of a flight of stone steps. I rang the buzzer and gazed up at a security camera. No response, so I rang again. A minute passed and I began to suspect that Blimp either couldn’t hear the buzzer or had forgotten I was coming and hit the sack. I pulled out my phone and called to let him know I was on his doorstep. After half a dozen rings it went to voicemail.

  It’s amazing how many people fit state-of-the-art surveillance cameras but spend a tenner on the front-door lock. Even for a rank amateur, the Yale pin tumbler was a piece of piss. I keep a set of picks in my wallet ‘purely for emergencies, officer’ and had taken several lessons from Professor YouTube on how to use them.

  First I inserted the tension wrench and applied moderate pressure. The diamond reach pick went in next and connected with the first pin in the cylinder. Thirty seconds later, the fifth succumbed and the door opened.

  A security light bathed the entrance hall in a dull amber glow. The alarm panel on the wall to my left looked as though you might need a degree to operate it. I waited for it to howl like a banshee and was (mostly) relieved when it didn’t. The hairs on my neck were standing to attention. My mouth was as dry as a snake’s.

  The hall led directly into a large sitting room. I flicked a switch and a row of ceiling lights came on. So did a pair of smoked-glass standard lamps. The walls were papered in purple silk. Three large sofas faced a wall-mounted screen large enough to be used in a multiplex. On the hearth of a moulded fireplace was parked a vintage pedal car that had probably been some kid’s pride and joy in the fifties.

  No sign of a tubby property developer.

  Off the sitting room was a passage. A series of black-and-white photographs featuring Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, Billie Holiday and John Coltrane ran along both walls. I’d pegged Blimp to be more of a Phil Collins fan than a jazz aficionado. Hopefully I wasn’t creeping the wrong address.

  The first room I checked was an office with enough tech in it to rival Odeerie’s. Pinned to a corkboard were aerial photographs of the River Heights development and an invitation to an investors’ function. I checked the invite in case it was where Blimp was currently kicking back. The gig was in three weeks’ time.

  Next up was a small bathroom, which meant I had only one more door to look behind before I checked out the first floor or cut my losses and buggered off.

  I flicked four switches in quick succession and found myself in a games room. A pinball machine bleeped and rang as the electricity travelled its circuits. Bakelite panels glowed into life on an antique Wurlitzer. The jukebox ground into action and resumed playing ‘Only the Lonely’ by Roy Orbison from the middle eight.

  In one corner was a cocktail bar and on the walls a series of Spy cartoons featuring billiards champions from back in the day. Nearby was a rack of cues. Three were missing. The centrepiece of the room was a snooker table. Its lights must have been operated by the pull next to the rack, as the baize was in relative darkness. Something was in the centre of the table that I couldn’t make out. For a moment I thought it was a crash helmet. Then my eyes accustomed themselves to the light.

  I was looking at the head of Blimp Baxter.

  Blimp’s head listed slightly. One eye was closed; the other pointed upwards as though trying to view something on the ceiling. His tongue protruded slightly, giving the impression that his last act on earth had been to blow a raspberry. Surprisingly there didn’t appear to be a great deal of blood. The only other evidence of recent decapitation was a spatter pattern against the oak-panelled wall.

  ‘Only the Lonely’ finished. The Wurlitzer clicked, whirred and played the next selection. I’ve always found ‘My Boy Lollipop’ a bloody irritating song. My nervous system kicked in and I circumnavigated the snooker table on my way to the jukebox, doing my best to ignore its grisly load. The distraction of Blimp’s head, combined with the meagre light and squelchy carpet, hindered my progress, although it was the corpse that caused me to stumble and fall.

  Adesh, the huge Sikh I’d met at the River Heights development, lay with his legs partly under the snooker table, a dark stain on the front of his turban. Blood and brain matter had seeped over the carpet through the pulpy mess at its rear.

  I scrambled back on to my feet, wiped my hands on my jeans and continued to the jukebox, desperate now to end the fucking song. In the end I pulled the plug from the socket and Millie Small’s voice slowed, deepened and eventually stopped. I leant my head against the cool glass screen and tried to prevent my brain from going into meltdown. It came up with a delightful thought: what if the killer was still in the building?

  At the opposite end of the room was a set of double doors. My hands refused to purchase on the doorknobs. I gave them an extra wipe and a low click rewarded my second effort. I’d been hoping for a fire exit. Instead I found myself in a small antechamber with a glass roof. A white telescope was inclined upwards at a forty-five-degree angle. Had anyone been peering through it, they would probably have been able to see every crater on the full moon that provided my only source of light.

  Occupying an armchair was Blimp’s torso. This was where he had been decapitated. The carpet and chair were sodden and his shirt glistened in the moonlight. Protruding through a tangle of flesh at his neck was a nub of crimson-specked ivory. During the process his bowels had evacuated. The stench of shit and blood was overwhelming. I bent double and heaved my guts up.

  Several deep breaths cleared my head. On the cream wall above Blimp’s body had been daubed words in what looked like Cyrillic script and, I was pretty certain, his blood. Accompanying them was a symbol of a crudely drawn fish in a circle.

  ‘Oh, Kenny,’ someone said. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Connor Clarke was wearing a pair of spattered yellow overalls. In his right hand was a glistening brush. His face was streaked and his blonde hair matted with blood. Asking whether he was responsible for Blimp’s death seemed a tad unnecessary.

  ‘The words mean death to those who cross us and the fish symbol is the calling card of a notorious Ukrainian crime syndicate,’ he said. ‘The Krev also like beheading their victims to send a message.’ Connor assessed the graffiti like an artist taking stock of a work in progress. ‘It’s not really finished, but it’s good enough,’ he decided. ‘With a bit of luck, the police will conclude that you disturbed the killer.’

  The vintage revolver he drew from his overall pocket had a metal belt loop dangling from the grip. Its steel barrel seemed almost comically long. Above the muzzle was a ridge to aid the shooter’s aim. From ten feet it would scarcely be necessary.

  ‘Sorry, Kenny. I really did try to keep you out of this.’

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  ‘The threatening letter to Judy, for one thing. I called your business partner and asked if he’d be interested in hearing some information about George Dent. He said he would, which indicated you were investigating his death. That meant you and your partner needed misdirecting. At least for a while.’

  And, of course, he was right. I had seen the letters SP and immediately thought of Simon Paxton.

  ‘Wh
y would I be suspicious of you?’ I asked.

  ‘Judy saw me in the garden after I’d returned from Peter’s house. Did she tell you about that?’ My silence provided the answer. Connor smiled. ‘But you didn’t connect it to me? Perhaps I overestimated you, Kenny.’ He looked at the wall clock.

  ‘What you’ve achieved is amazing,’ I said quickly. ‘I’d be fascinated to hear how you managed it . . .’ Nothing works every time in life, but flattery comes close. Most normal people fall for it. Hopefully the deranged would be no exception.

  ‘Why not?’ Connor said after mulling it over. ‘If anyone was coming, they’d be here by now, and another half-hour won’t make much difference.’

  Back in the games room, Connor flicked a couple of switches that activated a set of extra spotlights. The drinks bar was ten foot long with four high stools against it. On two shelves were a dozen bottles and as many glasses. I poured a large shot of Jim Beam into a tumbler. My hand was shaking so much that almost as much booze went over the side as went into the glass. I held the bottle up. Connor shook his head.

  He sat on the edge of the snooker table while I occupied one of the bar stools. I intended to make my drink last as long as possible in the hope that providence might somehow save the day. Blimp’s head with its waxy grey skin and protruding tongue suggested that providence had left the building.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ I asked.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Connor replied.

  He laid the revolver on the wooden rail of the snooker table. I reached into my inside pocket and pressed the button on the wand. No matter how the next few minutes played out, at least there would be a record of our conversation.

  I pulled out a packet of Marlboros and lit one up.

  ‘Where shall I start?’ Connor asked.

  ‘The absolute beginning,’ I said.

  ‘That would be almost a year ago, when I discovered a dozen photographs tucked away at the back of a drawer in Judy’s flat. They were of the same three boys wearing school uniform. One was of Judy but there was no clue as to who the other two were. The blazers all had “H&S” embroidered on the pocket. It didn’t take long to discover which school they’d been taken at.’