MOON OVER SOHO

I WAS MY DAD'S VINYL-WALLAH I CHANGED HIS RECORDS WHILE HE LOUNGED AROUND DRINKING TEA, AND THAT'S HOW I KNOW MY ARGO FROM MY TEMPO. AND IT'S WHY, WHEN DR WALID CALLED ME TO THE MORGUE TO LISTEN TO A CORPSE, I RECOGNISED THE TUNE IT WAS PLAYING. SOMETHING VIOLENTLY SUPERNATURAL HAD HAPPENED TO THE VICTIM, STRONG ENOUGH TO LEAVE ITS IMPRINT LIKE A WAX CYLINDER RECORDING. CYRUS WILKINSON, PART-TIME JAZZ SAXOPHONIST AND FULL-TIME ACCOUNTANT, HAD APPARENTLY DROPPED DEAD OF A HEART ATTACK JUST AFTER FINISHING A GIG IN A SOHO JAZZ CLUB. HE WASN'T THE FIRST. NO ONE WAS GOING TO LET ME EXHUME CORPSES TO SEE IF THEY WERE PLAYING MY TUNE, SO IT WAS BACK TO OLD-FASHIONED LEGWORK, STARTING IN SOHO, THE HEART OF THE SCENE. I DIDN'T TRUST THE LOVELY SIMONE, CYRUS' EX-LOVER, PROFESSIONAL JAZZ KITTEN AND AS INVITING AS A RUBENS' PORTRAIT, BUT I NEEDED HER HELP THERE WERE MONSTERS STALKING SOHO, CREATURES FEEDING OFF THAT SPECIAL GIFT THAT SEPARATES THE GREAT MUSICIAN FROM SOMEONE WHO CAN RAISE A DE