Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  ‘Thanks for returning my call, Billy,’ I said.

  ‘Why are you bothering my mum?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I didn’t have your number and there’s something I needed clearing up.’

  ‘In future you speak to me directly. Got it?’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ I said.

  ‘About this hotel. Why did you think it was the Burbage?’

  ‘You told me it was.’

  ‘Yeah, well I might have got that wrong.’

  ‘Because there’s so many hotels running business seminars?’

  ‘There are, as it goes,’ Billy said. ‘And I visited a shitload before I found someone who was right for us. If it weren’t the Burbage, it must have been some other place.’

  ‘Okay, give me a couple of possibilities and I’ll check them out.’

  ‘It was months ago, for fuck’s sake. I can’t remember where I went.’

  ‘And the pubs you met McDonald in?’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘What about the airport? Are you sure it was Heathrow and not Gatwick? Or are you a bit confused about that one too? I mean, it was only half a million quid.’

  ‘You know, I’m gonna love ruining you,’ Billy said, and cut the call.

  I pushed away my half-eaten burger. It had been satisfying but unwise to tell Billy how I really felt. Fail to locate Martin McDonald now and I was in very deep shit indeed. I took a swig of tea and checked my watch.

  Just enough time to visit a certain esoteric bookshop.

  In the early twentieth century, Cecil Court was home to the British film industry when many of the Victorian-era shops sold film stock and cameras. Since the war it has been colonised by antiquarian bookshops. The majority retain their original frontages. These and the converted gas lamps lend the alley a vaguely Dickensian feel that brings tourists flocking in to purchase first editions that could be bought for half the price around the corner on Charing Cross Road.

  The sign for Porteus Books was picked out in gold lettering. Several volumes arranged in its plate-glass window were vintage, although the majority had been recently published. Titles included Harness the Power of the I Ching and Vishnu Speaks! and Secrets of the Kabbalah. Prayer beads, incense burners, images of Ganesh, and temple bells were also displayed.

  The smell inside the shop combined the sweetness of incense and the pulpy smell of new books. Directly opposite me was a rack with the top-ten bestsellers that month. Number one was something called Angels Watch Over Us. Other volumes were arranged across shelves categorised into the world’s major delusional systems.

  Behind the sales desk was a man in his early thirties. He was wearing a blue corduroy jacket over a polo shirt and jeans. Were it not for a three-inch golden ankh around his neck, he could have been manning the reference section at a local library.

  ‘I’m looking for Olivia Porteus,’ I said.

  ‘Are you the chap collecting the Navajo fertility fetish?’

  ‘Er, no. My name’s Kenny Gabriel.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, she’s downstairs.’

  I thanked the assistant and trotted under an arch with a picture of a garlanded Maharishi Mahesh Yogi attached to it. The atmosphere was different in the basement. Partly this was due to the subdued lighting and the exposed brickwork. Mostly, however, it was the stock and the way it had been laid out.

  Half the floor space was filled with glass cabinets. Items had been arranged as though in a museum. In the nearest, I could make out a black scarab on a chain and a silver disc bearing a pentangular symbol. Bookcases went from floor to ceiling along the wall to my right. Their shelves held leather and cloth volumes. The categories were the same as those on display upstairs with one exception: ALEXANDER PORTEUS.

  A couple of Porteus’s books had elaborate gold tooling on the spines. Others were slim and plain in comparison. Seventy years ago, the author had padded around this cellar in person. It may have been this thought, or the comparative coolness of the room, that caused my skin to stipple.

  I was scanning the old boy’s oeuvre when his granddaughter entered through a propped-open door. Olivia Porteus was wearing a navy-blue dress with dark woollen tights and black boots. Chestnut hair, which had been loose when I met her in Highgate Cemetery, was piled on her head and secured with a pencil.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘You’re the cemetery man, aren’t you?’

  ‘Kenny Gabriel,’ I said.

  ‘Did Rodney send you down?’

  ‘Yes. I hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Olivia deposited the half-dozen books she was carrying on a nearby chair and we shook hands. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said. ‘I was passing and thought I’d pop in.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, and smiled. ‘What d’you think of the place?’

  ‘It’s a lot different down here than up top.’

  ‘We get the more serious collectors and bibliophiles in the basement. Many of them come especially from Europe or the States. Let me get you a seat . . .’

  Olivia removed the books from the chair and fetched a stool from the other side of the basement. Despite my protests, she perched on the stool and I took the chair.

  ‘Is there anything specific I can help you with?’ she asked. ‘Or is this purely a social visit?’

  ‘Actually, there was something. When we met at the cemetery . . . I wasn’t there just for the tour. I had a specific reason for attending.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Research.’

  ‘You’re a writer?’

  ‘I’m an investigator.’

  ‘A psychic investigator?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Olivia’s forehead furrowed. I took a deep breath and plunged in.

  ‘Some boys performed a magic rite when they were at Hibbert & Saviours School forty years ago. A figure materialised and chased them away. They’re concerned he might have returned. They seem to think . . . Well, they seem to think it was your grandfather.’ A Piccadilly Line train rumbled along the track that ran forty feet beneath us. ‘Obviously it’s someone posing as him,’ I added when the noise had abated. ‘At least, I assume it is.’

  ‘May I ask how you know these people?’

  ‘One of them employed me.’

  ‘Is your client still being bothered by my grandfather?’

  ‘Not any more. He’s dead.’

  A bell tinkled upstairs as someone entered the shop. A cool breeze wafted across the basement. Olivia might have felt it too as she wrapped her arms around herself.

  ‘How did it happen?’ she asked.

  ‘He was crushed under falling scaffolding and one of the other boys committed suicide.’

  ‘Had they both seen Alexander?’

  ‘They seemed to think so.’

  ‘Were they the only boys involved?’

  ‘There were six all told.’

  ‘Have you been in contact with the others?’

  Before I could respond, there came a commotion from upstairs. Something fell to the floor with a loud thump. The sound of raised voices followed.

  ‘You can’t just march in here and do this, Sebastian,’ from Rodney the shop assistant.

  ‘I’ll do whatever I fucking well like,’ from someone with more finely chiselled vowels. ‘Hand the money over, you little shit.’

  Olivia was hurrying across the basement before I was out of my chair. I arrived at the top of the stairs to find that a rail-thin man in his late thirties had joined Rodney behind the counter. Sparse blonde hair had been combed back on the guy’s head. His cheeks were hollow and there was a corona of red spots around his lips. He wore a pinstriped suit jacket over a V-neck T-shirt and faded jeans. Around his neck was a knotted silk scarf.

  The till was open. A slew of notes covered the counter and a couple of tenners were on the floor. Olivia was staring at Blondie and he was staring back at her. He looked surprised; she looked pissed off.
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  ‘What are you doing, Sebastian?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘I wanted to borrow a couple of hundred, that’s all.’

  Sebastian’s adenoidal voice grated on my ears.

  ‘You know the procedure,’ Olivia said patiently. ‘You get your allowance every month. If you need more then you get in touch with me first.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to beg my sister for money?’

  ‘Ask, Sebastian,’ she said. ‘There’s a difference.’

  Sebastian folded his arms. ‘Not when it’s my money, there isn’t.’

  ‘We’ve been over this a thousand times.’ The aggression in Olivia’s voice had been replaced by an emotional catch. ‘Please just leave.’

  ‘Not until I get what I came for.’

  Sebastian began gathering the notes up from the counter. Rodney looked at Olivia for an indication as to what he should do. She seemed close to tears.

  ‘I think you should go,’ I said.

  Sebastian looked up. ‘And you are?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Take the cash, Sebastian,’ Olivia said. ‘We’ll discuss this later.’

  Her brother’s smile revealed two uneven ridges of beige teeth.

  ‘There we are, man who doesn’t matter. Best keep your nose out of family business.’

  Sebastian took seconds to collect the rest of the money. He stuck the notes in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he scooped the pound coins from the till and did the same with them. ‘Sorry to clear you out, sis, but you know how it is.’

  ‘Yes, Sebastian,’ she said. ‘I know exactly how it is.’

  Olivia’s compressed lips suggested disapproval verging on anger. Her eyes communicated a different message. A composite of sadness, pity, shame and despair.

  ‘Right, well, I’d better be off,’ Sebastian said, unable to hold his sister’s gaze. ‘I’ll let you know how much is here, Liv, and you can deduct it from my allowance.’

  The door opened before Sebastian reached it. A bearded fifty-something guy wearing a grey trilby and a black leather coat stood aside and allowed him out. He looked from Olivia to the till and asked, ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Were you looking for anything specific?’

  ‘The name’s Jenks. You said my fertility fetish would be available today.’

  ‘Unfortunately there’s a problem, Mr Jenks,’ Rodney chipped in. ‘The fetish was impounded in customs after a last-minute appeal by the Navajo Nation.’

  ‘Why don’t you come downstairs and we’ll see if we can get to the bottom of this, Mr Jenks,’ Olivia suggested. ‘Rodney, could you put the kettle on?’

  Rodney closed the till and left to do his duty. The disappointed Jenks trudged towards the stairs. Olivia drew a sleeve across her face.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, Kenny,’ she said. ‘Thanks for trying to help.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said.

  ‘I need to sort this fetish business out,’ she said, ‘but if you’re free tonight, why don’t you come round for supper? We can carry on our conversation then?’

  ‘That would be great,’ I said. Olivia smiled.

  ‘Seventy-five Dean Street at seven,’ she said. ‘My name’s on the bell.’

  Olivia’s invitation had lightened my mood. For the first time in months – if not years – the streets of Soho didn’t feel like a rat run. The workmen tearing up the pavement on Old Compton Street seemed a cheery bunch of artisans and I didn’t send a French tourist in entirely the wrong direction for Trafalgar Square.

  Sebastian could do with a slap or three but that was hardly his sister’s fault. You can choose your friends but not your family and all that. I suspected Seb hadn’t raided the till to fund a trip to Holland & Barrett, but it wasn’t any of my business. As long as he didn’t show up at Dean Street that evening, it was good enough for me.

  Even the Vesuvius mid-afternoon couldn’t dampen my spirits. A couple of the regulars stared at the racing on the TV with expressions that suggested fortune wasn’t smiling upon them. Whispering Nick was peering at a copy of the Sun as though it were the Rosetta Stone. The smoking ban was being accorded the usual level of respect, and a pall of blue haze hung over the place.

  Gary was waiting at one of the tables. ‘How are things?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve had better mornings,’ he replied. ‘You?’

  I told him about my meetings with Judy Richards and Sally Thomas.

  ‘Who were the photographs of?’ Gary asked. I reached into my pocket and laid them on the table. ‘No way! Will Creighton-Smith blackmailed George Dent?’

  ‘Unless he doesn’t know the camera’s there either.’

  Gary picked up one of the images. ‘Nah, he knows all right,’ he said. ‘You can tell Dent hasn’t got a clue, though. Shouldn’t you go to the police, Kenny?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, and changed the subject. ‘The Burbage was a total wipeout?’

  Gary sank back in his chair and sighed. ‘No one recognised the picture. Billy must have met McDonald in a different hotel.’

  ‘Or he didn’t meet him at all,’ I said. ‘I spoke to him earlier and he reckons he can’t remember any of the pubs they visited either.’

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  A good question, for which I had no answer. Meg Dylan would have given her son pretty much anything he asked for. And while six hundred thousand was a fortune for anyone on the right side of the law, it would hardly break the Dylan bank.

  ‘There’s some kind of scam going on,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know what it is and I don’t know how to prove it.’

  ‘Has Odeerie found anything?’

  I shook my head. ‘He would have been in touch.’

  Joie de vivre began leaking out of me like gas from a ruptured pipe. Supper with Olivia Porteus was all well and good, but if I didn’t find Martin McDonald I’d be food for worms by next weekend. Gary waved his hand above our table in a vain attempt to dispel the cigarette smoke. ‘What d’you want me to do next?’

  ‘How about keeping an eye on Billy’s place in case McDonald shows up?’

  ‘What are you gonna do?’ he asked.

  ‘See a man about a camera,’ I said.

  Of the many things unavailable in the Vesuvius – a full-bodied claret, intelligent conversation, veal carpaccio on a bed of seaweed, change for a fifty – the lack of a mobile signal is the most irritating. The club’s payphone is so shot that you have to bang the handset on the bar a couple of times and scream into the microphone for anyone to hear a word you’re saying. As what I had to discuss with Odeerie was of a confidential nature, I decided to put my call in to him from outside the club.

  It took ten minutes to cover off the morning’s events. Unsurprisingly, the fat man became very excited about the George Dent and Will Creighton-Smith photos.

  ‘Will was blackmailing him, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘And that might have given him a reason to plant the child porn.’

  ‘Apart from it doesn’t make any sense,’ I said. ‘Why tip the police off? He couldn’t make any cash that way. Plus I think Will’s more of an opportunist than a planner. Something like that would take some organising.’

  ‘You’re just going to let it slide, then?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m going to see him this afternoon. Any luck going through the trainer sites for McDonald?’

  ‘No one looks anything like him,’ Odeerie replied. ‘I’ve run his name past a few membership organisations and they’ve got no record of him either.’

  ‘I think there might be a good reason for that.’ I took Odeerie through my theory that Billy was pulling some kind of number on his mother.

  ‘Why bother?’ was his first question.

  ‘Maybe he’s diverting money to another project.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Drugs? Guns? Whores?’

  ‘All he’d have to d
o is ask.’

  ‘Gambling debts?’

  ‘What kind of idiot threatens Billy Dylan?’

  Odeerie had a point. Not many criminal activities would bring a blush to Meg Dylan’s cheek and Billy was at the top of the gangster food chain. A rival might take him out in the street with a MAC-10, but no one would put the squeeze on.

  ‘Well, he was lying through his teeth about not remembering where he met McDonald,’ I said. ‘And Gary didn’t find out a thing at the Burbage.’

  Odeerie sniffed. ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘What have you got against the kid?’ I asked.

  ‘How about you’ve only known him two days and he’s never done this kind of work before? Added to which, he’s only just out of nappies and his old man’s a fruit loop. Apart from that, he’s totally perfect.’

  ‘He’s working for free,’ I reminded him.

  ‘It won’t be free if he spills his guts to the police or the press.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I got a call from a bloke this morning asking if we were investigating George Dent’s suicide, because if we were then he might have some information.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That we might be interested.’

  ‘Which basically confirms we’re on the case.’

  ‘What else could I say, Kenny?’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ I said. ‘What did he give you?’

  ‘Nothing. Just said he’d be in touch.’

  ‘Did he say when?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did he sound like?’

  ‘Middle-aged and posh.’

  ‘And you think he might be a journalist?’

  ‘Soon as he knew I was on the job, he put the phone down.’

  ‘A reporter would have carried on asking questions.’

  ‘Not if he knew I wasn’t going to give him anything.’

  ‘It makes no sense, Odeerie. If Gary had given the guy info, he wouldn’t need to confirm we were working on the case. It must have been something else. Plus we need all the help we can get on this.’