Soho Ghosts (The Soho Series Book 2)

by Greg Keen

  Odeerie’s next question was a bit left-field. ‘What kind of mobile did Gary use?’ he asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘I think it was an iPhone.’

  ‘Got the number?’ I nodded. ‘And an email address?’

  ‘Yeah, but his phone was nicked, remember.’

  ‘Did he have an iCloud account?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘If he did, his mobile might have been set to automatic upload.’

  It took a few moments for Odeerie’s point to register. When it did, I felt a surge of excitement. ‘Which means the photographs would be on it?’

  ‘As long as he had a connection.’

  ‘Brilliant! We’ll at least have one shot of McDonald coming out of Billy’s apartment and there might be loads more.’

  ‘Don’t get too excited, Kenny. Gary might not have had an iCloud account and his phone might not have been set to upload. Plus, Billy Dylan isn’t stupid. He could have thought the same thing and deleted them already.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be hard to hack the account?’ I asked.

  Odeerie nodded. ‘Virtually impossible, unless you’ve got the password.’

  ‘But not completely impossible?’

  ‘No, but the less information I have, the longer it’s going to take. Is there anyone who knew Gary well and might be able to give us a steer?’

  ‘Only Farrelly, and I can’t really ask him.’

  Odeerie appeared lost in thought for a few moments. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll check out his social media profile and see what I can pick up.’

  ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘Go and see Simon Paxton.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’ I got up from my seat and made for the door.

  ‘Why don’t you kip here tonight, Kenny?’ Odeerie suggested. ‘They probably won’t have another shot at you after last night, but you never know.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ I said. ‘You’ll keep me up to speed?’

  ‘Course I will. It’s probably not going to be quick, though. I might have to run a brute-force program. That could take days to work, if it works at all.’

  ‘We don’t have days, Odeerie,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied.

  After leaving Odeerie, I called Simon Paxton and left a message saying that I would be arriving at the same time but a day late, and to contact me if that was a problem. Then I wandered the parish for a while. I wasn’t in the mood for the Vesuvius and Nick’s crap jokes, or the regulars’ hilarious questions about whether I’d tracked down Lord Lucan yet. The rain became heavier and my brolly began to disintegrate. I took it as a sign that I needed the solace of alcohol and drifted towards the French House. Perched on a bar stool, I watched a gloomy afternoon morph into a gloomy evening over a series of moody wagas and al fresco Marlboros.

  In the Standard was a story about how the burial site at the River Heights development had been desecrated and a skeleton destroyed. Blimp Baxter suspected it was the work of Londoners disaffected by a decision to prioritise the capital’s dead over the capital’s living. The Association for British Archaeology was of the opinion that it was mindless vandalism and insisted a twenty-four-hour guard be mounted.

  It seemed as though Blimp would have to suspend activity for a few months at least. This meant that he and his investors would likely lose a significant amount of cash that, according to the paper’s financial pages, could run into tens of millions. If it didn’t wipe Blimp out, questions would certainly be asked about Baxter Construction’s asset base, in addition to those that had been posed already.

  Eventually I broke free of the French’s gravitational pull. Although still fairly early, I walked down Brewer Street like a GI traversing the Mekong Delta. No ambush had taken place by the time I reached the flat, where I heated up a double pepperoni pizza and washed it down with a bottle of Newcastle Brown.

  After eating I rang St Michael’s. There was no change in Gary’s condition. I asked if his father was with him and was told that he was. The temptation to tell Farrelly that I not only knew who his son’s attacker was but also where he lived was a strong one. Specifically how he would respond I had no idea, but it would be swift, violent and definitive. Instead I thanked the nurse and hung up.

  I put a ska compilation on the hi-fi and spent the next twenty minutes flicking through the latest Private Eye. As night properly gathered, Malcolm’s comment about Stephie dominated my thoughts. The train had left the station as far as our relationship was concerned, but what was the harm in giving her a call?

  I set my phone to block ID and dialled Stephie’s number. She answered immediately. ‘Jake, for God’s sake, be patient! I’ll be down in two minutes.’

  My opening line died on my lips.

  ‘Jake, is that you?’ Stephie asked.

  Still nothing from me.

  ‘Who is this?’ she said.

  Whatever I said after a five-second silence would sound weird. Thanking God that I’d had the foresight to withhold my number, I pressed the ‘Disconnect’ button. If Stephie ID’d the call then she’d hopefully think it was a telemarketing bot.

  As usual before retiring to bed, I downed a large Highland Monarch. Unfortunately the cheapest Scotch money can buy didn’t send me straight to the land of nod. The same old existential questions jostled for headspace with those of a more recent vintage, and one in particular held sleep at bay.

  Who the hell was Jake?

  At eight o’clock the next morning, I put a call into Simon Paxton. If the letter Connor had intercepted was to be taken at face value, then I only had a few days to find out who had sent it to Judy and why. Paxton’s line rang for two minutes without me being invited to leave a message. Over an espresso, I debated whether it was worth going at all.

  As there wasn’t a lot to do in town other than serve as a moving target, the answer was yes. I called Odeerie to see if he’d had any luck with Gary’s iCloud account. He told me not to be so bloody impatient. A second call revealed that Gary had remained stable overnight; a third summoned an Uber to ferry me to Liverpool Street station.

  If you’re a bit down in the mouth, my advice is don’t travel through East Anglia. The landscape is pancake-flat and the sky goes on for ever. It’s as though the entire region has been specifically created to give you an existential crisis. If it hadn’t been for the buffet car then I’d probably have called the Samaritans at Hatfield Peverel. Thank God for the consolations of Stella and Pringles.

  I changed at Ipswich and forty minutes later the train pulled into Middlemere, a village about five miles inland from the North Sea. Constructed from yellow brick, the Victorian station had a crenulated wooden canopy that protected a pair of stout oak benches with cast-iron frames. Window boxes held well-tended shrubbery, and Jas. Oliver of Woodbridge had supplied the station clock, probably around the time it first opened.

  Three passengers alighted. A sixty-something gent in a waxed jacket marched through the open barriers as though he owned them. A girl weighed down by a gigantic yellow rucksack followed less stridently. I brought up the rear. A woman in a Prius picked the gent up, and the girl boarded a bus. The only cab on the rank was a twenty-year-old Honda Civic with more filler in her than Joan Collins.

  I put my bag in the back and instructed the driver that my destination was Zetland House. ‘Never heard of it, mate’ was his unsettling response. ‘Got the postcode?’

  ‘It’s a biggish place by the sea,’ I said, after realising I hadn’t.

  My driver’s sunglasses and leather driving gloves made him look like a member of the Stasi. They were augmented by a skinhead haircut. ‘Is it a hotel?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually, it’s a private residence,’ I said. ‘Hang on a minute . . .’

  I reached for my phone, intending to search for a shot of the house. No signal. Fortunately the name appeared to have rung a bell with my driver. ‘Hang on . . . D’you mea
n the place up on Carlton Point?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘It’s owned by a man called Simon Paxton.’

  ‘Ah, right – I know where you’re after,’ he said. ‘Major Gerald used to own it. Bloke who’s got it now’s a bit of a weirdo, ain’t he?’

  ‘I think that might be his reputation.’

  ‘You sure it’s still there?’

  ‘Er, I hope so.’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  At the third time of asking, the Civic’s engine caught and off we went.

  We travelled down a dual carriageway for two miles before Ricky, the driver, turned into a lane barely wide enough to accommodate his car. Being driven ten miles above the speed limit by a man in black glasses wasn’t relaxing. ‘Place has been falling into the sea for ever,’ he said as we swerved in and out of a lay-by to avoid a head-on with a tractor. ‘Used to be a churchyard up there but that went over in the seventies. My old fella reckoned you could find bones on the beach after a storm.’

  ‘Can’t they take measures to prevent coastal erosion?’ I asked.

  Ricky chuckled. ‘If there’s enough cash they can. Places like Southwold, they put up sea defences. No one gives a toss about Carlton Point.’

  ‘What else is on the cliff?’ I asked.

  ‘Might be few chalets left from the holiday camp, but the Denes went over the edge years ago. Apart from that, it’s just your mate’s house.’

  We passed a small copse at around fifty and took a bend almost on two wheels. Reflexively I grabbed the edges of my seat.

  ‘You all right?’ Ricky asked.

  ‘Yeah, just that we went round that corner a bit sharpish.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Ain’t no speed cameras on this stretch.’

  Ending up in a spinal unit had been more of a concern than three points on Ricky’s licence. As a sign indicated it was only a mile to Carlton Point, I decided to keep this to myself and pumped him for more information.

  ‘You said Simon Paxton was a bit weird.’

  Ricky gave me a sideways glance. ‘I’ve heard people say he’s not the friendliest. Likes to keep himself to himself, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  ‘Course not. Just means you get talked about.’

  For the last few hundred yards, tall hedgerows had bordered the road. These disappeared and suddenly we were in the middle of farmland that stretched to the horizon on either side. A lighter tone in the sky suggested the sea lay ahead.

  ‘And to be fair to the bloke,’ Ricky continued, ‘he is miles away from the nearest village. S’not like he can just nip out for a pint.’

  ‘Does he get many visitors?’ I asked.

  ‘Put it this way, there’s two taxi drivers in Middlemere and you’re the first person I’ve taken to Carlton Point since the Denes closed. So unless they’re all going up there with Bob Yallop, I’d say he don’t get much company.’

  Zetland House was shielded from view by half a dozen mature poplars. Only when we were within a hundred yards of the place could I see three chimneys rising from the roof. Ricky halted outside a pair of tall iron gates.

  ‘That’ll be eight forty.’ I handed a tenner over and told him to keep the change. ‘How long you around for?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Only, if you tell me what time you need to go back to the station, I could come and fetch you. You won’t get a signal out here.’

  ‘Mr Paxton has a landline,’ I said. ‘I can call and let you know.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said before pulling away.

  Zetland House was a two-storey building with a Gothic portico around the front door. Mock turrets rose up from each corner of the roof and a brass sundial had been cemented into the wall above the portico. The stonework beneath the gutters was stained and one of the ground-floor windows had been patched with hardboard.

  Multiple slates were missing from the roof. The sunken garden was so overgrown it now only recessed a few inches. The gate’s hinges were shot and it took an effort to open one of them a couple of feet. I squeezed through the gap and walked down a compacted track. I pushed the bell and then banged on the front door.

  No one answered. Simon Paxton couldn’t hear me, or he wasn’t home. I peered through the downstairs windows. One room had been completely cleared; the other had a random collection of furniture in it, including a chaise longue, a bamboo hatstand, a linen press and a dead yucca plant.

  At the rear of the building the sound of the sea was more pronounced. What had once been a sizeable garden was now a field. Fifty yards from the cliff edge, a sign advised that proceeding further was hazardous. Seagulls wheeled and shrieked in the misty air. I shouted Paxton’s name a couple of times to no avail. It was beautiful and it was cold. After a minute or so, I turned back to the house.

  As Ricky had said, Simon Paxton could hardly nip out to the pub, so he had to be somewhere. A pair of French windows led into a library with scores of books arranged over built-in shelves. The fireplace had a modern convection heater in a marble hearth, and a neatly folded blanket was draped over a leather sofa. The side table bore a coffee cup and an ashtray with a packet of fags beside it.

  The doors were locked but it would have been the work of a moment to flip the latch with my picks. I’d just fished them out when someone spoke. ‘Who are you and what are you doing?’ he asked.

  I slipped the picks into my pocket and turned. The man was about five foot ten. He was wearing a blue Parka over a Fair Isle sweater and a pair of brown corduroy trousers. The breeze tousled his thick grey hair.

  Oh, and he was pointing a shotgun at me.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Simon Paxton held the weapon at waist height. No doubt he could still hit the target should he wish to. Bearing in mind that he’d invited me to see him, it was quite a welcome. I decided to introduce myself and remind him of his obligations as a host.

  ‘Simon Paxton?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Kenny Gabriel. I called to say that I’d be a day late.’

  I was relieved to see the gun lower a few inches. Paxton looked thoughtful. ‘The private detective?’ he asked. ‘Looking into George’s death?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I took you for a vagrant trying to snatch some cash or find a place to sleep.’

  Perhaps I needed to refresh my wardrobe. The opportunist-thief look wasn’t in that season. It was more high waists and primary colours.

  ‘How about I show you a card?’ I said.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  Paxton broke the barrel and laid the gun over his arm. He approached me and held a hand out. ‘I was after rabbits,’ he said. ‘Place is overrun with the bloody things and they make good eating. To be honest, I’d forgotten you were coming.’

  ‘I did call this morning but there was no reply.’

  ‘Must have been out. Let’s go inside.’

  Simon led me through a door at the side of the building into a passageway that smelled of damp. Fleur-de-lis wallpaper was peeling and the runner was down to the threads in places. After removing cartridges from the barrels, he opened a gun cupboard and placed the shotgun into the rack.

  ‘Used to belong to my uncle,’ he said, as though responding to my unanswered question. ‘Must get round to applying for a licence.’ He locked the cupboard and put the key ring into his pocket. ‘Did you drive down?’

  ‘I took the train.’

  Simon nodded, pulled off his Parka and hung it on a peg. ‘You’d better come through to the library,’ he said.

  We continued down the passage to a door that opened into the room I’d been about to slip the latch on five minutes earlier. Simon ushered me through.

  ‘Coffee or tea?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘I’d offer you something stronger but I keep no alcohol in the house.’

  Shame. After the incident with the gun – not t
o mention the fact that Zetland House was refrigerator-cold – a treble malt would have gone down nicely. Simon crossed the room to switch the convection heater on. Then he sat on the sofa and took a cigarette from the pack. I followed suit with my Marlboros. He lit them both.

  Where to sit was a dilemma. The only alternative to the sofa was a wing chair twenty feet away. It was a bit distant for the confidential chat I’d been hoping for. In the end, I occupied the opposite end of the Chesterfield.

  ‘I take it you know the circumstances of George’s death?’ I asked.

  Simon nodded. ‘How did Peter die?’

  ‘Crushed under some falling scaffolding after a night out.’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Peter reported seeing the ghost of Alexander Porteus not long before it happened, as did George.’

  At the mention of Porteus’s name, Simon’s lips pursed as though he’d experienced some acid reflux. ‘You know what happened in the cemetery?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve had reports from Peter, Ray, Will and Blimp. I also know that Ray was expelled afterwards and you . . . erm . . . went off the rails a bit.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Mostly Will, or at least he supplied the detail.’

  Simon took a long drag on his cigarette, tilted his head back and expelled the smoke in the general direction of a dusty chandelier.

  ‘What’s Ray Clarke up to?’

  ‘He’s had a sex change and goes by the name of Judy Richards.’ Simon gave me a sharp look. ‘You really didn’t know about that?’ I said.

  ‘Why would I? When did you speak to Blimp?’

  ‘A couple of days ago.’

  ‘That must have taken some doing. What did he say about George?’

  ‘He’d bumped into him a couple of times through work, but that was it.’

  ‘And was Will any more illuminating?’

  ‘Not particularly. He didn’t keep up with him.’

  ‘Yes, well, hardly birds of a feather, were they?’ Simon stubbed his cigarette out in the glass ashtray. ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked.