Very Important Corpses

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Call me Ishmael …

  One: Someone Has Already Died

  Two: House Rules

  Three: The Things People Tell You

  Four: Questionable Deaths

  Five: Dangerous Situations

  Six: Questions Without Answers

  Seven: Who’s Really Who

  Eight: Reflections

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green

  The Ishmael Jones Mysteries

  THE DARK SIDE OF THE ROAD *

  DEAD MAN WALKING *

  VERY IMPORTANT CORPSES *

  The Secret History Series

  LIVE AND LET DROOD

  CASINO INFERNALE

  PROPERTY OF A LADY FAIRE

  FROM A DROOD TO A KILL

  The Nightside Series

  JUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNCANNY

  A HARD DAY’S KNIGHT

  THE BRIDE WORE BLACK LEATHER

  * available from Severn House

  VERY IMPORTANT CORPSES

  An Ishmael Jones mystery

  Simon R. Green

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  First published in the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2016 by Simon R. Green.

  The right of Simon R. Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8671-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-774-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-842-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.

  There is a hidden world, of the strange and unnatural. A shadowy world, of aliens and monsters and men who have monsters in them. I operate in the darkest parts of the hidden world, dealing with things that shouldn’t exist but unfortunately do. And if I’ve done my job properly, none of you will ever know I was there.

  I came into this world in 1963. An ordinary-looking man in his mid-twenties, with a face you wouldn’t look at twice. A face that hasn’t aged one bit in all the years since. I live among you, but I’m not one of you. Because back in ’63 a star fell from the heavens and landed in a field in south-west England. Or, to put it another way, an alien starship came howling down out of the upper atmosphere with its superstructure on fire and crashed in the middle of nowhere. Killing all of its crew but one.

  The sole survivor was made over by the ship’s transformation machine, given a human face and form so he could move unnoticed in this hostile new world. But the machine was damaged in the crash, and all the survivor’s previous memories were wiped clean.

  I don’t even remember where my ship is buried.

  It’s become increasingly difficult for me to stay hidden, in this surveillance-heavy society; so these days I work for the Organization. They protect me from the world’s overly inquisitive eyes, and in return I deal with the problems they set me; protecting Humanity from things that don’t officially exist.

  I have a partner now; a delightful young lady called Penny Belcourt. Together we solve mysteries and track down killers. We love each other as best we can, given that one of us isn’t entirely human. She holds me in the night when the bad dreams come, and I catch glimpses of what I used to be before I was me. She believes in me; and I would too, if only I could be certain there’s no one else in my head but me.

  ONE

  Someone Has Already Died

  Most people have at least heard of Loch Ness and its monster. What most people don’t know is that monsters can be real, and in the hidden world there are all kinds of monsters.

  The hired car’s engine roared enthusiastically as I sent it racing along the narrow road that skirted Loch Ness. The dark waters were placid and calm, untroubled by boats or people or wildlife; or anything even a little bit monstrous. But then, Penny and I were probably the only people who’d come to the loch in that late-autumn evening who weren’t interested in its famous creature. The Organization had something else in mind for us.

  They hadn’t told me what, as yet. Just instructed me to get from London to Loch Ness as fast as possible because something bad had happened. And when the Organization says that, it means something really bad has hit the fan; and all sane people should be heading in the opposite direction.

  Gnarled twisted trees crowded together on the opposite side of the road, as though desperate for comfort in the cold, bleak setting. They stood firm and tall, like so many watchmen standing a guard that would never end, keeping a stern eye on whatever lurked in the depths of the loch. No leaves, or colour, or any other sign of life: just a dark heavy presence. The road was thankfully free of other traffic this late in the tourist season. I hadn’t seen another car go by in ages. It was starting to feel like driving through an area that had been evacuated because of some unnatural disaster. I glanced at the loch, half expecting to find something staring back at me, and kept a wary eye on the cloudless iron-grey skies. The weather forecast said serious snow was on its way, and I really hoped I would be done with my business and gone before the storm started. When snow falls in Scotland, it does so with a vengeance. As if to remind people they only live there at the weather’s sufferance.

  I’d booked our passage to Scotland on a sleeper train, all the way up the spine of the country. Several hours crammed into a tiny compartment with Penny; which wasn’t nearly as much fun as you might think. So neither of us was in the best of moods when we picked up the hired car waiting for us at Inverness. A deathtrap on four mismatched tyres, with frankly suspicious mileage on the clock and far more character than was good for it; but it was all I could arrange at such short notice. The accelerator liked to stick, the brakes only responded to brute force, and you had to catch the gears by surprise. The best you could say about the car was that it wasn’t actually trying to crash; it just encouraged you to drive in such a way that some kind of disaster was inevitable. I was having a great time. I like a car that likes to be driven. I goosed the accelerator again, just for the hell of it, and the car jumped forward like I’d found another gear.

  I laughed out loud, and Penny smiled dazzlingly at me
from the passenger seat. Resplendent in a cute black dress and broad-brimmed hat, she seemed entirely unperturbed by the car or my driving. I was always happy to see her smiling. The hidden world may contain wonders and marvels as well as threats and terrors, but it’s not the kind of place where you stop to smell the daisies. They might bite. Penny was a bright young thing with dramatic features, lots of dark hair and a fine figure, and enough nervous energy to scare off any man with an interest in a quiet life. She beat a happy tattoo on the dashboard with both hands as the car took a bend in the road with more enthusiasm than control, and then shot me a frankly sceptical look.

  ‘You are sure of where you’re going, aren’t you, sweetie? Only I can’t help noticing this car doesn’t come with satnav … or a heater that works … And you haven’t so much as glanced at a map since you got behind the wheel. Have you been this way before?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I memorized a map of the area before we left London.’

  ‘What? All of it?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Alien!’ Penny said cheerfully. She looked out over the loch. ‘You know everything there is to know about the weird and the wonderful. Does something ancient and frightfully monstrous live in Loch Ness?’

  ‘I don’t know everything,’ I said. ‘I’ve just been around for a while and talked with a lot of people experienced in the kind of things most people have the good sense to avoid. I know the original legend, of how a monster rose up in the loch to face off against St Columba, back in AD 565. And I know that modern sightings only started in the 1930s, when the first main road was built alongside the loch. But apart from that, your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘I like to think there’s a monster,’ said Penny. ‘Just because it pleases my romantic soul to believe such things exist. Of course, if there is a creature in the loch, it’s probably better off staying a legend. If it ever stuck its head above the surface during a live television broadcast, how long do you think it would be before hunters started turning up from all over the world, just so they could be the first to kill it and enjoy a lifetime’s bragging rights?’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ I said. ‘Back in the twenties a London museum offered a really good price for the creature’s carcass, just so they could stuff it and put it on display. Until they were shamed into withdrawing the offer.’

  ‘You see, you do know everything! And if it wasn’t hunters it would probably be businessmen, looking to put it in a theme park so they could charge people to see it. No, you stay out of sight, Nessie dear, and stay safe.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I said.

  When we finally reached our destination the last of the light was dropping out of the evening, as if someone had hit a dimmer switch. I eased the car through a series of unlit narrow lanes until a sudden side turning brought us at last to the Purple Heather inn, a squat stone structure with weather-stained walls and an unevenly tiled roof, and a battered satellite dish hanging from the gutter. The inn perched precariously on a promontory looking out over the loch, bright lights shining from its windows and loud music blasting out of the open door. The car park was only half full now the tourist season was almost over, and I brought the hired car to a juddering halt with a definite feeling of relief. Riding a headstrong stallion can be fun, but you know the end result is always going to be a pain in the arse.

  I got out of the car and closed the door carefully, because I had a feeling slamming it could have unfortunate consequences. And I’d had to put down one hell of a deposit before they’d even let me have the damned thing. Penny came bustling round the car to join me, one hand holding her big hat in place despite the determined attentions of the gusting wind. She studied the Purple Heather inn and then gave me a look that clearly said ‘Is that it?’.

  ‘When you work for the Organization, it’s first class all the way,’ I said blithely.

  ‘That’s a laugh!’ said Penny.

  Once we got inside, the bar was crowded and no one paid us any undue attention. The noise level was painfully high, with a whole bunch of shouted conversations trying to make themselves heard over the music (mostly popular Scottish songs written by people who had never lived there). I approved of the general hubbub. A noisy crowd is always the best place to hold a private meeting when you don’t want to be overheard. I elbowed my way to the bar to get the drinks, while Penny laid claim to one of the few remaining empty tables at the back of the bar.

  As the barman sorted out my large brandy and Penny’s g & t, I took in the many monster-themed drinks on offer. Including the Nessie cocktail (‘It’s big and green with one hell of a bite!’) and Nessie Whisky (‘Made with our loch’s very own peat-rich waters. Guaranteed to have almost no distressing side effects!’), neither of which appealed to me. Neither did the Nessie burger (‘For those with a monstrous appetite!’) or the Nessie Vegetarian Surprise (the surprise in question almost certainly being that it didn’t contain anything a vegetarian would want to eat). I paid the barman rather more than I’d expected, and carried the drinks over to the table Penny had bagged. A middle-aged couple tried to sit down with us, complaining loudly about how packed the place was, only to change their mind when I gave them a cold stare. I do a good cold stare. Not far away, some local youths were playing an electronic game that seemed to involve many different ways of catching and killing the monster. Penny gave me a significant look, and took a solid gulp of her g & t.

  ‘Have you seen the overpriced rubbish they’re trying to palm off on the tourists?’ she said. ‘Fluffy Nessie toys and cartoony T-shirts, mugs with the legend WORLD’S BEST MONSTER, and sealed cans claiming to contain fresh air from the loch … They’re selling people empty cans!’

  ‘Like all souvenirs, it’s not what you buy it’s where you buy it,’ I said wisely. ‘It’s just memories, like postcards.’

  Penny sniffed, and looked disdainfully around the crowded bar, as though just by being there she was lowering her standards to a dangerous level. ‘No sign of our contact. Why do you always come running when the Colonel calls?’

  ‘Because that’s the deal I made with the Organization,’ I said. ‘The Colonel is our only point of contact, and both sides prefer it that way. I take care of business for them, and they help me remain invisible. And of course both of us think we’re getting the better end of the deal.’

  ‘They do work you hard, Ishmael.’

  ‘It’s work that needs doing,’ I said. ‘Which comes as something of a relief after some of the things I’ve had to do down the years.’

  She considered me thoughtfully, then put her drink down so she could place one gentle hand on mine. ‘You don’t like to talk about the other groups you’ve worked for.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘The price of my survival has sometimes been higher than I’m comfortable remembering.’

  ‘How does the Organization stand up, compared with the other groups you’ve worked for?’

  ‘More consistent than most,’ I said. ‘And they’ve never asked me to do anything that troubled my conscience. So far …’

  ‘You think they might?’

  ‘Secret organizations often have good reasons for being secretive.’

  ‘You don’t trust anyone, do you, Ishmael?’

  ‘No. Apart from you, of course.’

  ‘Nice save, darling. I barely had time to raise an eyebrow. How many secret groups are there?’

  ‘I’ve at least heard of most of them,’ I said carefully. ‘The subterranean societies and the ancient conspiracies, all with their own special areas of interest. The secret agents and the private contractors, the shadow people and the press-ganged heroes. Trading in under-the-counter information, obscure objects of power and second-hand souls. All of them a bit tainted, a bit shopworn, but still valuable merchandise. It’s not always about good and evil. Or at least not as often as it should be. Whoever we work for, we all go our own way; and our various patrons are careful not to look too closely at how we get things done. Just like
you with Nessie, there are things I choose to believe in and others I hope are just legends. Down the years I have bumped into odd individuals – some of them very odd – who have told me things … But people in my line of work lie like they breathe. It’s part of the job.’

  ‘You don’t talk much about your past,’ said Penny. Not making any particular point, just letting the comment lie there in plain sight. ‘I know you used to work for Black Heir, cleaning up after alien contacts and salvaging whatever tech they left behind. But I only know about them because my family was involved.’

  ‘A lot of my past I don’t care to remember,’ I said. ‘Sometimes … a man on the run doesn’t have much choice when it comes to finding shelter.’

  And then I looked round sharply as the Colonel came striding through the crowd to join us. A tall, upright figure with an ex-military bearing and a general air of disdain, shoulders back to show off his classic tweed suit. The crowd seemed to naturally part before him without even realizing it was doing so, responding unconsciously to his air of innate authority. It made me feel like throwing things at him. The Colonel was handsome enough in an inbred aristocratic sort of way. The second son who goes into the army because he knows he’s never going to inherit, and ends up in security because the army hasn’t given him enough opportunities to be ruthless and underhanded. He slammed to a halt before our table, nodded briefly to Penny and just barely to me. Up close, I could smell the Turkish tobacco he’d been smoking earlier, the aftershave that isn’t nearly as distinctive as he likes to think it is, and traces of the urine the crofters had used to fix the colours in his tweeds. He sat down opposite me without waiting to be asked.

  ‘Mister Jones, Miss Belcourt. On time, for once. I trust you had a pleasant journey.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘But that’s what happens when you’re called from one end of the country to the other at a moment’s notice. From your calm, relaxed and almost unbearably smug manner, I deduce the Organization flew you up here. Why do I always have to make my own way everywhere?’