Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Kenny Gabriel, this is John Gallen,’ Paula Samson said. ‘John’s a negotiator attached to SCO19. He’s been talking to Connor.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Kenny,’

  Gallen didn’t look much more than thirty, although the Harry Potter-style glasses probably took a few years off him. He removed his black cap and we shook hands.

  ‘Connor sounds reasonably calm,’ he said, ‘although, in light of earlier events, that may not mean much. Can you describe his demeanour tonight, Kenny?’

  I gave Gallen a potted version of events supplemented by Judy’s take on her son’s impressionable nature. Paula Samson added a couple of things she’d heard on the wand.

  ‘Ordinarily we wouldn’t ask someone to do this,’ Gallen said when we’d finished. ‘But a conversation with you is the only thing Connor’s requested.’

  ‘I’m fine with it,’ I said.

  ‘Just a few guidelines before we call him. If he asks for anything, don’t say yes or no. Just ask him to tell you more. That’s your key phrase: tell me more.’

  ‘Got it,’ I said.

  ‘If he makes a yes-or-no demand, say that you’ll refer it to me and keep on talking. It’s important that you don’t sanction anything, Kenny.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Gallen removed a pair of headsets from a rucksack. Paula Samson gave me a reassuring smile from the passenger seat of the car. Gallen plugged both headsets into what looked like a supersized mobile phone.

  Connor Clarke answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hello, Connor, it’s John. Kenny Gabriel’s with us. Before I put him on the line, I need to talk to Judy.’

  ‘She’s still sleeping.’

  ‘Any chance you could wake her up, mate?’

  ‘I need to speak to Kenny first.’

  Gallen grimaced before nodding to me.

  ‘Hello, Connor, it’s Kenny.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened.’

  ‘That’s all in the past, Connor. We need to focus on the future now.’

  Two hours ago I’d been running from a house while someone took potshots at me. Now I was exchanging pleasantries with the man whose finger had been on the trigger. Weirder still was Connor’s voice. He sounded like a frightened six-year-old.

  ‘You were right about Judy taking the medication,’ he said. ‘That’s what was making her better. Porteus tricked me.’

  ‘How about you come down and we sort this out, Connor?’ I said.

  ‘What will happen to Judy when I’m not around?’ he asked.

  ‘She’ll be looked after.’

  ‘Will you make sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  A long silence. So long that I wondered if Connor had cut the call.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m coming out now.’

  ‘That’s the sensible decision, Connor,’ Gallen interjected. ‘Open the door very slowly. Step on to the balcony without your weapon and lie flat on the ground.’

  The three of us stared up at the third floor. The door opened and Connor came out with his hands in the air. An armed officer emerged from the entrance to the walkway. He repeatedly shouted a phrase that I couldn’t make out.

  Connor reached for something. Three rounds discharged from the cop’s gun. Connor slumped to the floor. The officer approached and stood over him.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ John Gallen said.

  Half my age and twice as fit, Gallen and Samson raced up the steps of Drake House. By the time I arrived, the pair of them were standing above the body of Connor Clarke. Three members of the SWAT team looked on, their guns pointing to the cement floor. One had removed his helmet and was taking deep breaths in what seemed to be an effort to calm himself.

  ‘Did he discharge a round?’ Gallen asked the officer holding Connor’s gun.

  The guy shook his head. ‘It was empty.’

  Judy Richards cradled her son’s head while making a feral keening noise that was as old as time and always meant the same thing. Paula Samson offered a comforting arm. It was pushed away almost violently. Judy’s eyes met mine without comprehension. Her disease would carry her off in a few months’ time.

  But in truth she was already dead.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Samson detailed a driver to take me home. It was 5 a.m. and the streets were virtually deserted. Drizzle was falling and the rhythmic sweep of the car’s wipers dispelled the silence that would have necessitated conversation. Just as well as I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Gazing through the rain-spattered passenger window, I reflected on what had taken place in Blimp’s house and on the Carbury Estate.

  Maybe Connor had been right about Porteus tricking him. Shakespeare contended that ‘The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.’ Had the ‘Master’ perverted a vulnerable mind decades after his death?

  I asked the officer to drop me in Oxford Street. From there I walked down Poland Street, across Broadwick Street and into Lexington Street. The only people I saw were a man sleeping in the doorway of the Star & Garter and an oriental woman in a kimono trundling a huge pink suitcase behind her.

  It was dawn when I got into the flat. I turned on the radio and poured a third of a bottle of Monarch into a tumbler. Blimp Baxter’s death was competing for air space with a profit warning from a supermarket chain and beating it hands down.

  I switched the radio off, sparked up a smoke and drank my Scotch. Farrelly would be picking me up at noon. We were due at the Dylans’ at 2 p.m. Whatever happened there couldn’t compete with the carnage in Blimp’s games room.

  After my Scotch and a couple more fags, I intended to make my way to Bernie’s for a massive fry-up. Then I’d call Odeerie for a debrief session, and would probably have enough time to look in at Porteus Books to see Olivia. Oddly enough, someone was pressing my buzzer repeatedly. Except that it wasn’t odd.

  According to my watch, it was 11.47 a.m.

  Farrelly’s usual expression is that of a man who’s just been told he’s two minutes late registering a significant lottery win. That morning, there appeared to be something slightly more relaxed about him. The muscles around his jaw weren’t as tightly clenched, and his eyes weren’t trying to bore twin holes into my forehead.

  ‘I’ve been ringing that bleedin’ bell five minutes,’ he said, and then sniffed the air around me. ‘You reek of booze and fags’ was the verdict. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten what’s going down today?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, Farrelly,’ I said. ‘Where’s Hicks?’

  ‘In there.’ Farrelly nodded to his ancient Volvo. There appeared to be no one inside. I pointed this out. ‘He’s in the boot with a sock in his gob,’ Farrelly informed me. ‘And you’ll be in there with him if you don’t stop yawning.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Didn’t get to sleep until six.’

  Farrelly shook his head as though words failed him.

  ‘Couldn’t you lay off the sauce just one night?’ he asked.

  ‘It was a work thing. Give me five minutes to freshen up.’

  ‘Freshen up? We’re on our way to a straightener, not dropping in for tea at the Women’s fucking Institute.’

  Despite this, Farrelly appeared to have made a sartorial effort himself. T-shirt and jeans had been forsaken in favour of a black sports jacket over a white shirt and grey slacks. On his feet were a pair of polished loafers.

  ‘I was at the hospital this morning,’ he said to explain the unusual garb. ‘Gary’s mum was there, so I reckoned I’d make a bit of an effort.’

  ‘I hope she appreciated it,’ I said. ‘How is Gary?’

  The corners of Farrelly’s mouth appeared to be twitching. Had I not known better, I would have said he was attempting to smile. Or trying hard not to.

  ‘He’s awake,’ he said. ‘And he’s talking.’

  Farrelly granted me ten minutes to shower and c
hange, after which I’d better be in the bastard motor or he’d slice my fucking ears off. I beat the deadline by thirty seconds. He started the engine and turned into Regent Street.

  ‘Gotta bad headache,’ Farrelly said after I requested more details on Gary’s condition. ‘Apart from that, he’s fine.’

  ‘When will they discharge him?’

  ‘Coupla days, probably.’

  ‘Does he remember anything about what happened?’

  ‘Yeah, he does, as a matter of fact. Says it was two chancers after his phone. One of ’em must have been tooled up.’

  ‘Not Billy Dylan?’

  ‘Don’t look that way.’

  ‘Why didn’t they take his wallet, then?’

  ‘Toerags probably got disturbed.’

  I took a few moments to digest this information. It seemed like a coincidence that Gary had been mugged so soon after tracking Hicks to the theatre. But coincidences do occur, which is why we have a word for them.

  ‘If Billy wasn’t responsible for what happened to Gary, then why are you still coming to the Dylans’?’ I asked Farrelly.

  He shrugged and replied, ‘Said I would.’

  ‘But you won’t do anything rash?’ I asked. ‘Best for all concerned that everything passes off nice and easy.’

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ he said as we crossed Oxford Circus.

  ‘How long has Hicks been in the boot?’ I asked.

  Farrelly consulted his watch. ‘Two hours.’

  ‘Have you checked on him?’

  ‘He’ll be fine so long as he don’t panic.’

  ‘What if he does panic?’

  Farrelly made a face as though I’d wondered what might happen if it started raining.

  ‘Where did you keep him overnight?’ I asked.

  ‘At my place, like we agreed.’

  ‘He’s all right, isn’t he, Farrelly?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

  ‘Because you can get a bit carried away sometimes.’

  Farrelly indicated left and turned on to the Marylebone Road.

  ‘I did heat up a screwdriver on the stove,’ he admitted.

  ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve blinded him.’

  ‘Course I ain’t. What d’you take me for?’

  A borderline psychotic with a penchant for torture was the answer. Probably not the best time to mention it, though.

  ‘I wanted to see if there was anything about Billy Dylan that he didn’t mention in the pub last night,’ he continued.

  ‘And was there?’

  Farrelly nodded and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced a memory stick and threw it on to my lap.

  ‘He gave me this,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe what’s on it.’

  Farrelly parked in a lay-by a hundred yards along the road from the Dylans’ farm. He popped the trunk to reveal Sean Hicks lying in a foetal position. His hands and feet were restrained and there was a gag over his mouth. He was wearing the same suit he had worn on stage the previous night. Farrelly unfolded a five-inch lock knife, the sight of which made Hicks’s eyes bulge a bit.

  ‘I’m gonna cut you loose,’ he said. ‘Don’t try nothing because you’re two stone overweight and we’re in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere. Understand?’

  Hicks nodded. Farrelly sliced through the nylon ties.

  ‘The other thing is I don’t want no chat. We’re taking you in to see the Dylans and we’re taking you out again when we’re done. Nothing bad’s gonna happen unless you piss me off by talking too much.’

  Again Hicks signalled his understanding. Farrelly removed the gag and pulled an argyle sock from his mouth. Hicks coughed and spluttered and asked whether we had any water. ‘What did I say about talking?’ Farrelly asked.

  ‘Here,’ I said, and handed him a bottle of Evian. Hicks drank every drop and could probably have downed a gallon more. His circulation was shot, which meant it was four or five minutes before he was able to walk properly. We arrived at the gates to find a man wearing a quilted jacket and a beanie hat standing in front of them.

  ‘We’re here to see Meg and Billy Dylan,’ I said.

  ‘Your name Kenny?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, and this is Sean Hicks, aka Martin McDonald.’

  ‘And who’s this one?’

  ‘Farrelly.’

  ‘Farrelly what?’ the guy asked.

  ‘Just Farrelly,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve gotta search you before you go through.’

  The guy was about six-two and large enough to need his own postcode. Hicks and I raised our arms and submitted to a search. When it came to Farrelly’s turn, he handed over the lock knife.

  ‘That’s all I’m carrying,’ he said.

  ‘Still gotta pat you down,’ the guard replied.

  ‘You ain’t laying a finger on me, son.’

  For a few seconds the men stared at each other in an effort to gauge which way it would go if it came to it. Logic dictated that the younger, heavier, taller man would win hands down. Logic isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  ‘Whatever,’ the guy decided, and pushed the gate open.

  We didn’t have to ring the bell, since Lance opened the front door as we approached. A Hawaiian T-shirt wrapped itself around his momentous shoulders and the stubble on his scalp glistened like blue steel. His eyes fell on Hicks.

  ‘Well, well, if our old friend hasn’t come back to see us. Billy’s gonna love meeting you again, sunshine. Hope you’ve got his money.’

  ‘Can we come in, Lance?’ I asked.

  ‘And Tweedledum and Tweedledee too!’ He opened the door wide. ‘What a fun afternoon we’re all going to have.’

  Sean Hicks trailed Lance down the passage as though it led to a scaffold. I wasn’t feeling too sensational either. I was delivering exactly what Meg Dylan had asked me to. How pleased it would make her was another matter.

  When we entered the day room, mother and son were on the sofa. Billy’s jaw dropped a couple of inches when he saw Hicks. Meg squealed with delight.

  ‘You found the bastard!’ she said. ‘Well done, Kenny.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘His real name is Sean Hicks.’

  ‘May I offer you a drink?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Is this your business partner?’ Meg asked.

  ‘More of an associate,’ I replied. ‘Farrelly, this is Meg Dylan.’

  Farrelly grunted a response. The crystal animals seemed to fascinate him. In the car I had told him about my last trip to the farm, although mere description couldn’t do justice to the hundreds of twinkling creatures.

  ‘Are you a Swarovski fan?’ Meg Dylan asked him.

  ‘No,’ Farrelly grunted.

  If the bluntness surprised her, Meg didn’t show it. Lance grimaced and folded his arms as though something he had eaten for lunch was giving him trouble.

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s our business concluded, Kenny,’ his employer said. ‘You’ve fulfilled your side of the bargain and you’re free to go.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know how we found Sean?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sure we can extract that information from him in person.’

  Meg Dylan gave Hicks a glance that could have stripped paint. He looked as though his legs might give way. Mine weren’t rock-steady either. For a second I was tempted to abandon the stupid bastard to his fate.

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ I said. ‘We’ll tell you how and why Sean took your cash, who you can get it back from, and then the three of us are leaving.’

  ‘You’ll do what you’re told,’ Lance said.

  ‘We’ll do what we bleedin’ well like,’ Farrelly snapped back at him.

  ‘Now, now, Lance,’ Meg Dylan said soothingly. ‘Let’s hear what Kenny and his friend have to say before doing anything hasty.’

  Farrelly winked at Lance. It didn’t improve his mood any.

  ‘Billy told you that he and Sean met at an event for small businesses when he
was looking for someone to launder money through,’ I said. ‘But that was a lie.’

  No response from Billy despite a quizzical look from his mum.

  ‘The truth is that he and Hicks met in Longmill Prison,’ I continued. ‘Billy always fancied himself as an actor so he joined one of the classes Sean was teaching. Billy wasn’t the next Al Pacino, but one of the homework exercises was to come up with a scene the group could act out the following day and his wasn’t half bad.’

  ‘He’s talking shit,’ Billy said, although his voice carried zero conviction.

  ‘Sean encourages him to write the entire script. It turns out to be a blinder, so much so that Sean sends it out to a few contacts in the industry. Sure enough, there’s interest from investors, but it’s a high-concept idea, and no one wants to come on board unless there’s already a decent chunk of money in the pot. In theory Billy has access to a fortune, but he won’t get his hands on it if he tells his mum he wants to make a movie. Instead he and his co-producer cook up this fantastic idea. Tell you what, Sean,’ I went on, ‘why don’t you take it from here?’

  Hicks’s cheap suit was less crease-resistant than tinfoil. His dark hair was greasy and his jowls rimed with stubble. He looked like crap but he was still an actor.

  His shoulders straightened and he took a deep breath.

  ‘The first thing I want you to know, Mrs Dylan, is that none of this was my idea. Billy said that he knew how to get the money and that it would just take a minor piece of subterfuge. I insisted that we pay every penny back out of the film’s profits.’

  ‘You lying bastard,’ Billy said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Meg replied.

  ‘But what he said is totally—’

  ‘I said be quiet!’

  ‘Billy suggested I use my acting skills to pose as a businessman eager to launder money,’ Hicks continued after his co-conspirator had sunk back on the sofa with a sullen scowl. ‘He had the documents forged to give the impression things were on the level. Then you gave us the six hundred thousand and . . . well . . . you know what happened after that.’ Hicks’s head inclined in penitential fashion. ‘I realised that we’d made a terrible mistake and wanted to return the cash,’ he said. ‘Although Billy insisted that it wasn’t something that you’d really miss in the grand scheme of things and that we should push ahead with the project.’