‘I brought you a present.’
‘Like I care.’ I was going to count the seconds, but the pause was too short. ‘What is it?’
My relationship with Nicky is based on several distinct layers of ruthless pragmatism. Being dead, and risen again in the flesh (I’m avoiding the contentious term ‘zombie’, which these days the government is calling hate-speech) Nicky doesn’t get about as much as he used to. He prefers to keep his body chilled to a level where the processes of organic decay can be slowed to a manageable minimum. He still has a subtle aroma of formaldehyde and foie gras, but he takes the edge off it with Old Spice aftershave, and since most other dead-alive people I’ve met smell like a freezer full of spoiled meat, that’s quite impressive.
But his limited mobility means that in some respects now he has to rely on the kindness of strangers – those comparatively rare strangers who don’t find the company of the dead uncongenial. So whenever I want something from him, I bring him a little gift to sweeten the deal. He likes fine French reds of hard-to-find vintages (he just inhales the aroma, like one of Yeats’s ghosts) and hen’s-tooth-rare early jazz recordings: getting hold of that stuff without bankrupting myself in the process is an ongoing challenge. Tonight, though, I had a winner. I handed it over without a word – a vulcanite disc in a stiff cardboard sleeve, one side of the label marked up with postage stamps to the value of three cents. Nicky turned it over in his hands, read the recto side of the label and said nothing for a while. Then he said, ‘Fuck, Castor. How big a favour are you looking for?’
It was something a fair bit rarer than a hen’s tooth: a recording of Buddy Bolden, the tragically unhinged trumpeter who – by some accounts, anyway – single-handedly turned New Orleans ragtime into jazz. The A side was ‘Make Me a Pallet’. There wasn’t any B side, which under the circumstances didn’t really matter. Bolden is popularly supposed to have left no recordings of his work, but I’ve got sources who don’t take no for an answer.
‘It’s two favours.’
‘Go on.’
‘Number one is easy. I want you to get me some background on an accidental death. A girl named Abigail Torrington – time frame somewhere over the summer of last year. She drowned on a school trip. Some other kids died at the same time.’
He sat down at the desk and typed a few of the details down in a notepad programme.
‘Okay. So far, that’s a Ronco Twenty Golden Greats favour. What makes it a Buddy Bolden favour? Shit, I think you did crack one of my wrist bones, you jumpy bastard.’
‘Number two is a bit more open-ended. I’m looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found. A man named Dennis Peace.’
‘How are you spelling “Peace”?’
‘Like the kind you’ve got to give a chance to. Guy’s an exorcist, and from what I know already he’s pretty damn good at it. Anything you can get me will trim the odds a bit more in my favour – and believe me when I say I’m taking all the help I can get here.’
‘Anything else you can give me? Last known address? NHI number? Known associates?’
I gave him the East Sheen address that Steve Torrington had given me over the phone. ‘That’s pretty much all I’ve got. Except that he was in a malpractice case a few years back – on the receiving end.’ I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him about what had happened when I’d tried to locate Peace through Abbie’s toys. But that would have entailed a hell of a lot more explanation than I wanted to get into right then.
‘I’ll stop by tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You can either give me a progress report or stick an assault rifle up my nose. If you get anything juicy before then, call me, okay?’
‘Sure. I’ll call you.’
‘Oh, and one more thing, since we’re on the subject. Where did that crummy retread of the Oriflamme open up?’
‘The exorcist bar?’ Nicky sneered. ‘Like I’d be caught dead there.’ It was a weak joke, and I didn’t do anything to encourage it. ‘Over in the West End,’ Nicky said when he saw I wasn’t rising to the bait. ‘Soho Square.’ He scribbled the address for me on a piece of printout paper and put it into my hand. ‘Didn’t you once describe the Oriflamme as a busman’s holiday?’
‘Yeah, I did. And now I’m trying to catch a bus conductor.’
I left him to it. Under the circumstances, I felt I was ahead of the game just coming away without any freshly minted holes in me.
I went back to Pen’s, where I found a note from her on my bed telling me that Coldwood had called again and asking me to feed the animals: she was going to visit Rafi, she said, and then head on out to Dylan’s flat afterwards to help him unwind after another late shift. Well, I thought resignedly, if you’re going to play doctors and nurses you were onto a winner with an orthopaedic surgeon.
Doling out liver to the ravens and Harlan Teklad to the rats took up about half an hour. When I was done, and cleaned up again, I called Coldwood on the mobile number he’d given me – a much better option than going through the station switchboard.
He picked up immediately, and he didn’t bother with small talk. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you all fucking day,’ he said. ‘Brondesbury Auto Parts: there was blood all over the shop, and it was a match with Sheehan’s.’
Brondesbury Auto Parts? Sheehan? It took me a moment or two to work out what he was talking about: then I remembered the bleak, empty warehouse out on the Edgware Road, and the pathetic ghost with half its head missing.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Right. Well, congratulations.’
‘Premature. We arrested Pauley, but he made bail. That’s why I called. Your name hasn’t been mentioned anywhere, but your statement was what bought us the warrant: Pauley’s got very big ears, and friends in a lot of fucking unlikely places. So watch your back, okay?’
‘Seriously?’ I was surprised, and not pleasantly. It’s been tried a few times, but evidence from spiritual conversations has never been accepted in a court case. Not in England, anyway. I never dreamed this drug lord might have anything to gain by topping me.
‘Seriously. If he can get the warrant invalidated, he can stop the case coming to court. One way of doing that is to put you out of action and then allege conspiracy.’
‘Conspiracy?’
‘To pervert the course of justice. It’s just a form of words. He says you were in our pocket, a judge looks at the warrant submission, they get a verdict. If it goes their way he’s got a get-out-of-jail-free card, because all our sodding evidence is inadmissible.’
‘This is great. You gonna lend me some bodyguards, then?’
‘Yeah, sure, Castor. Out of the same budget that I use for your company car and your health benefits. Look, I’m not saying it’s going to happen. I’m just saying watch yourself. It’s just about possible he’ll try to put the frighteners on you. Are you around tomorrow?’
‘Depends. What for?’
‘At some point I’m gonna want you back at that warehouse. I want to set up a walk-through of how we think Sheehan died, and see if the ghost reacts in any way.’
‘How time-sensitive is it?’ I asked.
‘Right now? Probably not very. We’re still waiting on some of the forensics results. Why? You thinking of staying in and washing your hair?’
‘I’m on another job.’
Coldwood’s laugh was short and explosive. ‘Then we’re truly living in the last days. What case is this?’
‘I’m looking for a girl.’
‘You’re doing missing persons now?’
‘No, she’s a dead girl. Name of Abigail Torrington. It’s a long story.’
‘Then keep it. I hate long stories. Call me when you’re free, okay?’
He cut me off as abruptly as he’d picked up. I fished out Pen’s old London A to Z from the back of a cupboard and opened it up on the kitchen table. I also found a high-lighter pen, which was exactly what I needed. I flicked through to the page that had Harlesden on it, cracking the book’s spine ruthlessly so it would lie flat on the table. It was about five years out of date in any case: I’d buy her a new one when I picked up Steve Torrington’s friendly envelope full of cash and cheques.