Moon Over Soho rol-2 Page 8

  I thought that, as a theory, it could explain the “evolution” of many of the creatures detailed in the Exotica. Wolfe had avoided mention in his theory of the genii locorum, the local gods, who most definitely existed. But I could see that if a person were to come under the influence of the vast and subtle magic that seemed to permeate certain localities, then perhaps they could be physically shaped by that magic. For example, Father Thames, Mama Thames, and even Beverley Brook, whom I’d kissed at Seven Dials.

  Inherited by the offspring, I thought. Perhaps it was a good thing that Beverley Brook was safely out of temptation’s reach.

  “Assuming the forensic dentistry confirms that it’s the same ‘creature,’ ” I said, “can we assume that she’s not natural? I mean, she’s got to be magical in some way — right? Which means she must be leaving a trail of vestigium wherever she goes?”

  Nightingale poured more tea. “You haven’t picked up anything so far.”

  “True,” I said. “But if she’s got a gaff, a nest where she spends most of her time, then the vestigia will have had a chance to build up. That should make it easier to spot, and since both attacks were in Soho, the chances are that’s where her lair is.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch,” he said.

  “It’s a start,” I said and flicked a sausage at Toby, who executed a neat standing jump to catch it. “What we need is something that has a proven track record of hunting supernatural things.”

  We both looked at Toby, who swallowed his sausage in a single gulp.

  “Not Toby,” I said. “Someone who owes me a favor.”

  WHEN I brokered a peace between the two halves of the River Thames, part of the deal involved an exchange of hostages. All very medieval, but the best I could come up with at the time. From the court of Mama Thames, the London contingent, I chose Beverley Brook, she of the dark brown eyes and cheeky face, and in exchange I got Ash, all film-star good looks and the greasy blond charisma of a traveling funfair. After a fairly disastrous stay at Mama Thames’s home in Wapping, the eldest daughters had stashed him at the Generator, a student hostel that existed on the boundary where roughneck King’s Cross became affluent Bloomsbury. It also put him just a short dash from the Folly in case of emergencies.

  The hostel was based in a courtyard mews off Tavistock Place. On the outside it was strictly English Heritage vanilla Georgian but inside it was the kind of easy-to-clean primary colors that adorn the sets of children’s TV shows. Staff members were decked out in blue-and-green T-shirts, baseball caps, and mandatory happy smiles that slipped a bit when they saw me.

  “I’m just here to pick him up,” I told them, and their smiles returned to the regulation intensity.

  It wasn’t lost on me that despite the fact that I’d worked all night, had a nap and shower, and caught up on some paperwork, I still managed to arrive at Ash’s room to find him just getting up. He opened the door wrapped in a grubby olive bath towel.

  “Petey,” he said. “Come in.”

  The private rooms at the Generator are furnished with bunk beds in order to retain that crucial youth-hostel ambience. Technically, even when you rent a private room you’re required to share it with at least one other guest. Shortly after moving in, Ash, using an oxyacetylene torch liberated from God knows where, had reconfigured his bunk into a double bed. If anyone was going to be sharing a room with him it was going to be under the same duvet. When the management complained, Mother Thames sent her daughter Tyburn to sort things out. And when Lady Ty puts the fix in, things stay fixed. To be fair to Ash, he rarely spends a night alone. Ty hates him, but because — before Ash came along — I was at the top of her shit list, I regarded that as a bonus.

  Last night’s young woman regarded me cautiously from the safety of the duvet. There wasn’t anywhere else to sit but at the end of the bed, so I perched there and gave her a reassuring smile. She looked nervously after Ash as he headed up the corridor toward the communal showers.

  “Afternoon,” I said and she nodded back.

  She was pretty in a calculated way, delicate cheekbones, olive skin, curly black hair that fell in ringlets on her shoulders. It wasn’t until she relaxed enough to sit up and the duvet fell away to reveal a smooth, hairless, and totally flat chest that I twigged that he wasn’t a she.

  “Are you a guy?” I asked. Just to show that the sensitivity training at Hendon hadn’t been wasted.

  “Only biologically,” he said. “How about you?”

  I was saved from having to answer that by Ash, who swept back into the room and, stark naked, hunted out a pair of faded jeans and a Bra’ Anansi T-shirt that just had to have come from Effra. Pausing only to French-kiss the young man in the bed, he pulled on a pair of DM boots and out we went.

  I waited until we were out of the hostel and heading for the Ford Asbo before asking about the guy in his bed.

  Ash shrugged. “I didn’t know he was a guy until we got back to the room,” he said. “And I was having such a good time I thought, why not?”

  For someone who’d never been in a built-up area larger than Cirencester all his life, Ash was turning out to be surprisingly metro.

  “Where we going?” asked Ash as we got in the car.

  “Your favorite part of town,” I said. “Soho.”

  “You going to buy me breakfast?” he asked.

  “Lunch,” I said. “Late lunch.”

  We ended up eating fish-and-chips alfresco on Berwick Street, which has the offices of TV companies at one end, a street market in the middle, and a little furtive knot of sex shops at the other. It also has some world-famous record stores, strictly vinyl-only, the sort of places my dad would go to sell his collection — as if that were ever going to happen this side of him being dead.

  I told him what I wanted him to do.

  “You want me to hang out in Soho?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Going to pubs and clubs and meeting new people,” he said.

  “Yep,” I said. “And keeping your eye out for a psychotic, possibly supernatural, killer female.”

  “So, go to clubs and look for dangerous women,” he said. “What does she look like?”

  “She looks like Molly but she may have changed her hair a bit,” I said. “I’m hoping she’ll stand out, you know, to you in particular, in a spiritual way.”

  I saw Ash translate that one in his head. “Oh,” he said. “Got you. What do I do if I spot her?”

  “You call me and you don’t get close,” I said. “This is strictly surveillance, is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” said Ash. “What’s in it for me?”

  “I bought you chips, didn’t I?”

  “Tight arse,” he said. “Beer money?”

  “I’ll reimburse you,” I said.

  “You couldn’t front me?”

  We found an ATM and I pulled a ton and a half for walking-around money and handed it over. “I want receipts,” I said. “Or I’m going to tell Tyburn what really happened that night in Mayfair.”

  “It was just a cat,” said Ash.

  “There are some things that shouldn’t happen to anybody,” I said. “Not even a cat.”

  “It looked good shaved,” said Ash.

  “I don’t think Tyburn saw it that way,” I said.

  “I think I shall start my reconnaissance in the Endurance,” said Ash. “Care to join me?”

  “Can’t, some of us have to work for a living,” I said.

  “So have I,” said Ash. “I’m doing your job.”

  “Just be careful,” I said.

  “As if I were out poaching,” he said. “On a beautiful moonlit night.”

  I watched him pinch an apple off a market stand as he sauntered away.

  The thing about Soho is that that because it’s a bugger to drive through, and has no tube station or bus routes through it, you end up walking everywhere. And because you’re walking you run into people you might normally miss. I’d stashed the Asbo on Bea
k Street and so I turned down Broadwick, but before I could achieve Soho escape velocity I was intercepted on Lexington.

  Despite the traffic I heard the heels before I heard the voice.

  “Constable Grant, you lied to me.”

  I turned to find Simone Fitzwilliam high-heeling down the pavement toward me. A red cardigan was falling off her shoulders like a stole over a peach-colored blouse with its buttons under strain and black leggings to show off all that leg power. As she came close I smelled honeysuckle, rose, and lavender, the scents of an English country garden.

  “Miss Fitzwilliam,” I said trying to keep it formal.

  “You lied to me,” she repeated, and her wide red mouth stretched into a smile. “Your father is Richard ‘Lord’ Grant. I can’t believe I didn’t see it in your face. No wonder you knew what you were talking about. Does he still play?”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked and felt like a daytime TV presenter.

  The smile wavered. “Some days are better than others,” she said. “You know what would cheer me up? Something scrumptious.”

  Scrumptious was not a word that I’d ever heard used by a real person before.

  “Where do want to go?” I asked.

  The English have always brought out a strong missionary streak in the rest of the Continent and from time to time hardy individuals have braved the weather, the plumbing, and the sarcasm to bring the finer things in life to this poor benighted island. One such pioneer, according to Simone, was Madam Valerie who founded her patisserie on Frith Street and, after the Germans bombed it there, moved to Old Compton Street. I’d patrolled past it lots of times but since it didn’t serve alcohol I’d never been called to go in.

  Simone grabbed my hand and practically dragged me inside, where the display cases glowed in the afternoon light. Ranks of confectionary were arrayed on cream-colored doilies, pink and yellow, red and chocolate, as gaudy as any model army.

  Simone had a favorite table, by the stairs just the other side of the cake displays. From there, she pointed out, you could watch people coming and going and keep an eye on the cakes — just in case they tried to make a run for it. She seemed to know what she was doing, so I let her order. Hers was a deceptively compact sandwich of cream, pastry, and icing, mine was essentially a chocolate cake with chocolate flourishes and whipped cream sprinkled with chocolate. I wondered if I was being seduced or driven into a diabetic coma.

  “You must tell me what you’ve discovered,” she said. “I heard you were at the Mysterioso last night with Jimmy and Max. Isn’t it a frightfully wicked place? I’m sure you had to positively restrain yourself from arresting miscreants left, right, and center.”

  I agreed that I had, indeed, visited the club and that it was a den of iniquity but I didn’t tell her about Mickey the Bone who even as we spoke was waiting for Dr. Walid in the mortuary at UCH. Instead I gave her some flannel about ongoing inquiries and watched her eat her cake. She devoured it like an impatient but obedient child with quick dainty bites and still managed to get cream smeared around her lips. I watched as her tongue darted out to lick it off.

  “You know who you should talk to,” she said once all the cream had gone. “You should talk to the Musicians Union. After all, isn’t it their job to look after their members? If anybody should know what’s going on, it should be them. Are you going to eat that?”

  I offered her the rest of my cake and she looked to either side like a guilty schoolgirl before sliding the plate over to her side of the table. “I’ve never been very good curbing my appetite,” she said. “I suppose I’m compensating rather for when I was younger — we were terribly short of all sorts of things back then.”

  “Back when?”

  “Back when I was young and foolish,” she said. There was a dab of chocolate on her cheek and without thinking I wiped it off with my thumb. “Thank you,” she said. “You can never have enough cake.”

  You certainly never have enough time. I paid the bill and she walked me back to where I’d parked the Asbo. I asked her what she did for a living.

  “I’m a journalist,” she said.

  “Who with?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m freelance,” she said. “Everybody is these days, apparently.”

  “What do you write about?”

  “Jazz of course,” she said. “The London scene, music, gossip, most of my work goes overseas. To the Japs mainly, very keen on jazz, the Japs are.” She explained that she suspected some sub-editor in Tokyo translated her work into Japanese — her name being one of the things that got lost in translation.

  We reached the corner.

  “I’m staying just up there on Berwick Street,” she said.

  “With your sisters,” I said.

  “You remembered,” she said. “Well of course you did, you’re a policeman. No doubt they train you to do such things. So if I tell you my address you’re sure to remember it.”

  She told me her address and I pretended to memorize it — again.

  “Au revoir,” she said. “Until we meet again.”

  I watched her walk away on her high heels, jaunty hips swaying back and forth.

  Leslie was so going to kill me.

  BACK IN the old days my dad and his mates used to hang out on Archer Street, where the Musicians Union used to be, in the hope of getting work. I’d always imagined it as little knots of musicians dotted along the pavement. Then I saw a photograph that showed the street awash with men in porkpie hats and Burton suits toting their instruments around like unemployed Mafiosi. It got so crowded and competitive, my dad said, that bands would have secret hand gestures to communicate across the crowd, sliding fist for a trombonist, flat hand palm-down for a drummer, fluttering fingers for a cornet or a trumpet. That way you could stay friendly with your mates in the crowd even while undercutting them for a gig at the Savoy or the Café de Paris. My dad said you could have walked down Archer Street and assembled two full orchestras, a big band, and still have enough bodies left for a couple of quartets and a soloist to tinkle the ivories at Lyon’s Corner House.

  These days the musicians text each other and arrange their gigs on the Internet and the Musicians Union has crossed the river to set up shop on the Clapham Road. It was a Sunday but on the basis that music, like crime, never sleeps I gave them a ring. A guy at the main office, once I’d convinced him this was a police matter, gave me the mobile number for Tista Ghosh, the Jazz Section’s welfare officer. I rang her and left a message identifying myself and giving an impression of urgency without actually saying anything concrete. Never record anything you wouldn’t want turning up on YouTube is my motto. Ms. Ghosh rang back just as I was reaching my car. She had the kind of precision-tooled middle-class accent that only comes from being taught English as a Second Language in the cradle. She asked me what I wanted and I told her that I wanted to talk about unexpected deaths among her members.

  “Does it have to be this evening?” she asked. Behind her I could hear a band playing “Red Clay.”

  I told her I’d try and keep the interview as short as possible. I love using the word interview because members of the public see it as the first step up the legal staircase that goes from “helping the police with their inquiries” to spending time at Her Majesty’s pleasure locked in a small cell with a large sweaty man who insists on calling you Susan.

  I asked her where she was currently.

  “At the Hub in Regent’s Park,” she said. “It’s the Jazz in the Open Air Festival.”

  Actually, according to the poster I saw at the gate later, it was the LAST CHANCE FOR JAZZ IN THE OPEN AIR FESTIVAL sponsored by the company formerly known as Cadbury Schweppes.

  Five hundred years ago the notoriously savvy Henry VIII discovered an elegant way to solve both his theological problems and his personal liquidity crisis — he dissolved the monasteries and nicked all their land. Since the principle of any rich person who wants to stay rich is, Never give anything away unless you absolutely have to, the la
nd has stayed with the Crown ever since. Three hundred years later the prince regent hired Nash to build him a big palace on the site with some elegant terraces that could be rented out and thus cover the prince’s heroic attempt to debauch himself to death. The palace was never built but the terraces and debauchery remained — as did the park, which bears the prince regent’s title. One end of the park, the Northern Parklands, is given over to playing fields and sports facilities and at the center of those sits the Hub, a large artificial hillock with a pavilion and changing rooms built into it. It has three main entrances built in the manner of aircraft dispersal pens that make it look like the ground-floor entrance to the lair of a super-villain. On top is a circular café whose Perspex walls give a 360-degree panorama of the whole park where customers can sit, drink tea, and plot world domination.

  It was still sunny but the air was taking on a warning chill. In August the crowd spread out in front of the temporary stage and lounging on the concrete apron that surrounded the café would have been half naked. But by mid-September sweatshirts had been unwrapped from around waists and sleeves pulled down. Still, there was enough golden sunlight to pretend, if only for another day, that London was a city of street cafés and jazz in the park.

  The current band was playing something fusiony that even I wouldn’t classify as jazz, so I wasn’t surprised to find Tista Ghosh nursing a white wine beyond the refreshment tents where the noise would be muffled. I called her mobile and she guided me in.

  “I hope you’re buying,” she said when I found her. “I can’t make this Aussie fizz last much longer.”