by Greg Keen
‘It’s Kenny, isn’t it?’ she asked. I admitted it was. ‘Don’t you remember me?’ was her next question.
‘Afraid I can’t quite place the face,’ I said.
‘It’s Sally,’ she said. ‘Sally Thomas. I was George Dent’s constituency secretary. The last time I saw you was in that greasy spoon in Soho. I gave you the photographs of George and the other man taking drugs. You said that you’d try to find out who it was and get back to me. Only that didn’t happen . . .’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Life got a little hectic.’
‘Likewise,’ she replied. ‘Mind if I sit here?’
When we had first met in Mermaid Court, she had looked like a member of the Amish community. Now Sally could have posed on the front of Elle when it was carrying a dress-for-success feature. ‘I’m guessing you got the job?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Trainee account manager for Brass Neck PR. I’m seeing a financial services company in Haywards Heath today. How about you?’
‘Working with a new entertainment client.’
‘Anyone I might have heard of?’
Had my client been Sony, I might have been tempted to break the OC Trace and Find confidentiality commitment. As it was the Klondike Kabin, I wasn’t.
‘Afraid I can’t reveal details,’ I said, and tapped the side of my nose.
Sally nodded her understanding.
‘Well, at least I turned out to be right about George,’ she said, ‘even if it wasn’t a sinister plot and just some random headcase. Weird that he went after Blimp Baxter and Peter Timms as well, though.’
‘Not that weird,’ I said.
Sally frowned. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked.
I’d shown DI Samson the photographs of George snorting coke and told her that Will had confessed to blackmailing him to prevent their release. She’d said that she’d look into the matter. When I added that I thought it had actually been part of a wider conspiracy, including Blimp, to have the River Heights scheme passed, Samson had not unreasonably asked for proof. I’d been forced to admit that it was simply a hunch.
All of which meant that I wasn’t jeopardising an investigation if I told Sally what I was pretty much certain had happened. And that’s precisely what I did.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘The bastard totally screwed him.’
‘Except there’s no evidence.’
‘What about the photographs? And Will’s still alive. Why can’t the police arrest him and get a confession?’
‘Because all he has to do is deny the shots were taken in secret and that he ever used them to extort George. The fact that he hasn’t been charged means that’s probably what he’s done.’
‘How about if I posted the photographs and the story online anonymously?’
‘What good would that do?’
‘George’s reputation would be salvaged.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ I said. ‘Someone might trace the source.’
‘So Will gets off scot-free?’
‘Looks that way,’ I said as the train began to decelerate.
‘Why am I even surprised?’ Sally said, shaking her head. ‘You know, I got into politics so I could change people’s lives. Everything just comes down to money and luck in the end. At least in PR I get to wear decent clothes and don’t have to listen to constituents bitch about immigrants all day.’ She got to her feet and shouldered her bag. ‘Nice seeing you again, Kenny. At least, I think it was.’
‘You too, Sally,’ I replied. ‘Good luck with the job.’
I’d been in the Klondike for a couple of hours when one of the staff members opened up a machine with a key he wasn’t supposed to have. He removed handfuls of coins from the well in full view of his colleague. Tim and Craig were in it together, as the client suspected. I took half a dozen photographs of the pair in action while pretending to text someone on my phone and then emailed them to Odeerie.
Mission accomplished, I walked along the seafront, collar turned up against the chill wind, and mulled over what Sally had said. Did happiness come down to money and luck? Not really. However often you hit the jackpot in life, you’re still obliged to pump your winnings back into the machine. Rich or poor, lucky or unlucky, we’re all fucked in the end.
I’d just finished a punnet of chips and was about to follow up with a stick of candyfloss when my phone rang. I chucked the carton and accepted the call.
‘Is that Mr Gabriel?’ a man asked.
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Clive Palmer from Highgate Cemetery. I took you on the tour a few weeks ago when you were researching the book.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Although I’m afraid now the band’s on tour again, Keith’s gone a bit cold on the idea.’
‘That’s a shame, but it wasn’t why I was calling. You asked if I’d have a word with Maggie, who worked with the Friends of Highgate Cemetery.’
Indeed I had. Maggie was the woman who might, or might not, be able to shed some light on the nocturnal sightings of Alexander Porteus. My heart rate quickened.
‘Did you manage to speak to her?’ I asked.
‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ Clive replied. ‘It took longer than I expected as she’s been in hospital with a touch of pneumonia. Lucky to survive, really. Almost anything can carry you off when you’re in your nineties—’
‘What did Maggie have to say?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Well, it’s quite interesting. Apparently the Friends employed a Turkish labourer called Tolga to clear the more persistent undergrowth. He didn’t speak much English but was devoted to the cemetery, according to Maggie.’
‘Okay,’ I said, feeling a tad disappointed. ‘And does Tolga know something?’
‘Sorry, I’m not explaining myself properly,’ Clive said. ‘Apparently Tolga was upset by the vandalism. So much so that he took to wearing a cloak and wandering around at night to scare the vandals away. Judging by Maggie’s description, he was the spitting image of Alexander Porteus.’
‘So it was almost certainly Tolga the boys saw . . . I mean the reports were about.’
‘It does sound very likely,’ Clive said. ‘No one had a clue what he was up to until the police saw him coming out of the gates at dawn one morning. Of course, Maggie made sure he stopped . . . Are you still there, Mr Gabriel?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks for calling me back, Clive.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘If and when Keith decides to go ahead with the book, I thought it might make for a rather interesting chapter.’
‘I’ll be sure to mention it to him,’ I said.
I emerged from the Tube at Oxford Circus and entered Soho via Argyll Street. It was getting on for 7 p.m. Points failure on the return journey from Brighton meant that I didn’t have time to go back to the flat before meeting Gary Farrelly in the Vesuvius. With all the excitement of Blimp’s murder, it had been a couple of days before I’d got round to visiting St Mick’s, by which time he had been discharged.
Gary hadn’t responded to my attempts to contact him and I was beginning to think I might not see him again. Then he had texted and suggested meeting in the Vesuvius. Perhaps the blow to his head had caused lasting damage after all.
Early evening, the V isn’t particularly crowded. A couple of the regulars were playing cards, and a thirty-something newbie in a bomber jacket was staring mournfully into an empty glass. Whispering Nick was flicking a duster on a stick around the fixtures and fittings. He looked like a chimpanzee attempting to use a fishing rod. ‘What are you doing, Nick?’ I asked.
‘What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?’ he croaked.
‘Cleaning the place, only it can’t be that.’
Nick inspected one of the lights. Not gleaming, exactly, but at least some of the dust had been redistributed. ‘Antonio’s found a manager,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d better tidy up a bit before they get here. S’pose you want a drink?’
‘Actually, I popped in for some financial advice
.’
‘Really?’
I raised my eyebrows. Nick responded with a sarcastic smile. He mixed me a waga and laid it on the bar.
‘What’s the new manager like?’ I asked.
‘GOT LOTS OF EXPERIENCE,’ Nick said after plugging in his speaker.
‘What, in a place like this?’
‘S’WHAT ANTONIO RECKONS.’
‘Bet they’ll be a pain in the arse.’
‘YOU NEVER KNOW, KENNY. YOU MIGHT BE PLEASANTLY SURPRISED.’
After which elliptical comment, Nick turned his attentions to the guy in the bomber jacket who had realised that his glass wasn’t likely to refresh itself. I decamped from the bar to a table and flicked through a copy of the Metro.
Gary walked in when I was halfway through a piece about how the NHS was on the point of collapsing. His hair was shorter and he looked a touch paler than on his first visit to the V three weeks ago. That apart, there wasn’t much difference. We hugged, which is something I don’t do every day and which certainly caused Nick to perform a double take.
‘Looking good, mate,’ I said. ‘Have you been given the all-clear?’
‘More or less. I’m seeing the consultant tomorrow. Get the nod from him and I can stop taking the meds completely.’
‘Fantastic. Fancy a drink?’
‘No, thanks. I’m meeting a couple of friends at King’s Cross in an hour.’ Gary cleared his throat. ‘I read about what happened to Blimp,’ he said. ‘Were you the bloke who disturbed Connor Clarke in his house?’
‘That was me.’
‘They kept your name out of the papers.’
Which was true. Odeerie had been all for telling the press that Kenny Gabriel of the OC Trace and Find network (network!) was responsible for tracking down Connor Clarke and available for all investigatory work, location no object. Not fancying the hassle, I’d put the kibosh on it and the fat man hadn’t stopped grumbling since.
‘So Clarke was just a nutter, then?’ Gary said.
‘Actually, it was a bit more complicated than that . . .’
I told him about how Connor had been subsumed into Alexander Porteus’s twisted world and how reading The White Tower had deep-fried his mind. I also mentioned how Sebastian Porteus had tried to mow me down in his car.
‘Why did he do that?’ he asked.
‘Olivia was the only person who took his bullshit seriously and he couldn’t bear the idea of losing her. At least, I think that was the reason.’
Gary grunted. ‘Sounds like you had a lucky escape, Kenny.’
‘From Connor or the hit-and-run?’
‘Both.’
‘Actually, I thought it was Billy Dylan who was trying to kill me because I’d told him that we’d found Martin McDonald. Same way that I thought he’d given you a pasting in Islington. Although I wasn’t entirely wrong about that, was I?’
A few moments’ silence concluded with the sound of the lavatory flushing.
‘How did you know?’ Gary asked.
‘That it was Billy? Because Sean Hicks said that he and Lance left the theatre shortly after you did, and because your wallet got left behind. No mugger would have taken your phone and not bothered with the cash and the cards.’
‘Are you gonna tell my old man?’ he asked.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because he’d probably have taken Billy Dylan out.’
‘I think that’s a fair assumption,’ I said.
‘And what would have happened then?’ Gary asked.
‘Marty Dylan would have gone after Farrelly big time.’
‘Which is why I told Dad that it was a pair of chancers who got lucky.’
‘Although it was definitely Billy?’
‘Yeah, it was him all right,’ Gary said. ‘I don’t know who the other guy was because he got me from behind.’
‘You did the right thing,’ I said. ‘Even if it does mean that Billy gets away without being punished.’
Although he bore a strong resemblance to his old man at the same age, I had never felt the same level of menace emanating from Gary. Until now, that was. Something hard in his pale-blue eyes made the atmosphere in the V feel distinctly chilly.
‘I don’t know about that, Kenny,’ he said.
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I’m taking a few months off to go travelling.’ He leaned across the table and all but whispered in my ear. ‘But when I get back, I’ve gotta feeling that something tragic might happen to Billy Dylan.’
Gary held my gaze for a few seconds before breaking into a shit-eating grin. It was as though a hypnotist had clicked their fingers in his face.
‘You know, I’d still be interested in working with you and Odeerie,’ he said. ‘Maybe I could look you up and see how you’re fixed.’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Odeerie sends his regards.’
‘Yeah? I got the feeling he didn’t like me much.’
‘The fat man doesn’t like anyone.’
Gary chuckled and checked his phone. ‘I really need to make a move,’ he said, and got up from his chair. ‘Look after yourself, Kenny.’
After he left, I spent a few minutes trying to recall an elusive proverb about fathers and sons. Eventually my memory served it up.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The problem with drinking in the same place for forty years is that you become nostalgic. Every nook and cranny of the Vesuvius holds a memory. Since I first walked into the place, there have been all manner of riotous nights and milestone celebrations with people who are now dead or as near to it as makes no difference.
Back in ’85, the V’s oldest member was Harry Cosgrove. A surly old geezer, he sat at the bar and knocked back vodka and tonics and didn’t have a good word to say for anyone, including himself. When he didn’t come in for a week, Jack Rig visited his bedsit in Stepney to see how he was. Unable to get a response, he and the landlord had entered the flat. Harry was hanging from the sitting-room door with an empty bottle of Stoli at his feet and a squadron of flies buzzing around his head.
What I ought to have done was warn the guy in the bomber jacket to get the hell out while the going was good. But what was the point? I wouldn’t have taken a blind bit of notice had Harry C. offered me the same advice. If you’re bound for the land of the lost then nothing stops you getting there. And if your name isn’t on the ticket, it isn’t on the ticket.
I asked Nick for a supersized waga and prepared to get pissed.
I was halfway down my fifth of the night when the intercom buzzer went. Nick pressed the release and twenty seconds later someone walked into the Vesuvius who I hadn’t seen in twelve months, one week and two days.
‘Hello, Kenny,’ Stephie said. ‘How’ve you been?’
EPILOGUE
Highgate Cemetery, 1979
Tolga leans against the wall and catches his breath. What would have happened if the last boy had fallen back down? Ever since he’s started scaring the crazies out of the place, Tolga has wondered what he would do if they didn’t run away from him. But that didn’t happen tonight. The kids were terrified.
Of course, the team fixing the cemetery wouldn’t approve. They’re nice people, particularly the tall one, Maggie, who’s in charge. But the trouble with nice people is that they don’t like to cut corners. In Britain everything has to be done by the book.
He begins walking back to the hut where his tools are stored. The first time he wore the cloak was three months ago. Two crazies were trying to force one of the doors of the catacombs. Tolga made a growling noise like a dog. He had never seen grown men run so fast in his life.
He stops by the grave that is like a small house with a peculiar roof on top. It’s the place the crazies seem to be attracted to most. He’d once looked through the slit in the door during the day. Stained glass bathed the inside in beautiful light, although the tomb in the corner had a glow all of its own that Tolga found unsettling.
He collects th
e candles the kids dropped. They probably just came into the cemetery for a dare. You don’t care about much apart from girls and having fun at their age. The boys will soon forget what happened tonight. That’s the way it is when you are young.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank:
Deborah Manship, Melanie Newman, and Kiare Ladner for being fantastic first readers.
The Thomas & Mercer team, particularly Jane Snelgrove, Jack Butler and Russel D. McLean, for all their hard work and invaluable editorial input.
Veronique Baxter at David Higham Associates.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Kiare Ladner
Born in Liverpool, Greg Keen got his first job in London’s Soho over twenty years ago and has worked there ever since; his fascination with the area made it a natural setting for his books. Soho Dead, the first in the Soho Series of urban-noir crime novels, won the CWA Debut Dagger in 2015. Greg lives in London.
