Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  After a cup of tea and a cheese sarnie, I opened Saskia Reeves-Montgomery’s book at the point where Chop Montague replaced Peter Owens, who had been poached by that other fabulous band of hedonists commonly known as the NatWest. The print swam a bit before I could fully focus. Perhaps it was time to invest in reading glasses.

  Chop’s dad owned an engineering company and his mother had been a piano teacher. Their only child had shown musical ability from an early age and been accepted by the Royal College of Music. Gordon, as he was then known, had been prepped for a career as a professional pianist. That was until he entered the Blues Basement in Kentish Town and saw the Mean Red Spiders for the first time.

  Getting to interview him would be tough and then some. Following Chop’s surprise addition to the panel on Moment in Time!, most of Fleet Street was after the same thing. The best I could manage was a brief chat with his agent’s PA’s intern, to whom I gave my contact details. She didn’t actually laugh out loud before saying that she would pass the message on, but I suspected it was an effort not to.

  Next up, I put a call in to Still Life. Again I was disappointed. Dean Allison was busy in the workshop and didn’t like being disturbed. He was scheduled to be in the Notting Hill shop tomorrow afternoon. Could I call back or visit in person?

  I didn’t expect the phone to even be answered at the Junction club, and was preparing for a recording when a gruff voice came on the line.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘JJ Freeman, please.’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel.’

  ‘And what d’you want, Kenny Gabriel?’

  Judging by the level of suspicion, I suspected I was talking to JJ in person.

  ‘I’d like to speak to you about events leading to Emma Ridley’s disappearance.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t you people ever give up? It was twenty-odd years ago. Can’t you find something else to write about?’

  ‘I’m not a journalist, Mr Freeman. I’m working on behalf of Pam Ridley. She’s trying to get some closure around her daughter’s disappearance.’

  ‘You know Em’s dead, don’t you?’

  ‘Nevertheless, would it be possible for us to speak? Even if my conclusion is that Emily is probably deceased, it would be a comfort to her mother.’

  Emotional blackmail doesn’t always play well but, as far as JJ was concerned, it was the only game in town. ‘Come to the club tonight,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid it might be difficult for me to—’

  ‘If you wanna talk, be there. Otherwise forget about it.’

  Fifteen minutes after my conversation with JJ, I received an email from Odeerie that had Pam Ridley’s address and an audio file attached. I slotted my headphones into the jack and prepared to listen to what the People’s Inquisitor was citing as proof that Castor Greaves was alive. There were seven songs in total. Two were half-decent; the other five sounded as though a pissed busker had improvised them.

  The lyrics had been pored over in the hope they contained references to some event that had taken place after Castor’s disappearance. Unfortunately they were mostly about the hard life and sad times of the singer. Living in luxury didn’t sound much fun, although, for my money, it was definitely Castor Greaves behind the mic.

  Of course, the songs had been recorded before Castor disappeared, which meant the real question was: who had sold them to the Inquisitor? They were rough, even for demos. Nevertheless, if someone had owned them legitimately, they could have been released in a 2CD collector’s (also available on download and vinyl) edition that would have been catnip to diehard Mean fans.

  As there was no way of answering this, my mind turned to the other big question of the moment: was there a tumour on my brain? For the last two decades I’d lived by the mantra that, starting tomorrow, everything was going to be completely different. If the scan found something ominous, there may not be many more tomorrows.

  SIX

  When I set off to meet Stephie the pavements of Brewer Street were teeming with office workers on their way to the Tube, confused tourists peering at smartphones, and developers debating which period building to carve into loft-style apartments next. The parish was once a dangerous place. Say the wrong thing to the wrong person and you could wind up stumbling into A&E with your ear wrapped in a handkerchief. The worst thing that’s likely to happen now is that a barista forgets to stamp your loyalty card. The good old days have gone forever.

  Pizza Express had been our preferred restaurant before Stephie decamped to Manchester. They did a competitively priced American Hot and there was usually some decent live jazz on offer in the basement. She was sitting by the window perusing a copy of the Standard, wearing a childlike frown of concentration.

  Prior to seeing Stephie with Jake this morning, I’d run into her once before at the V. A roasting for not going to Manchester or keeping in touch was what I’d expected. What I got was a detached amiability that was far worse.

  ‘Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ I said. Stephie shook her head and folded the paper. I took my place opposite her. ‘How’s your day been?’

  ‘Okay. Tilly called in sick so I’ll have to go back and help Nick, which I could do without. You in tonight?’

  ‘I’ve got to be somewhere.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and where’s that?’

  ‘The Junction club in Dalston. It’s a work thing.’

  ‘When you say work, I take it that you mean what you do for Odeerie, not . . . you know . . . real work.’

  ‘That is real work.’

  ‘If you say so, Kenny.’

  A waiter arrived with a pair of menus. We ordered drinks, after which he departed. ‘Nick said you were looking for Castor Greaves,’ Stephie said.

  ‘He’s wrong. I’m looking for Emily Ridley.’

  She looked up. ‘You’re being paid to do that?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Well, I guess if someone’s mug enough to give you money then you and Odeerie should fill your boots. I’m having a Caesar salad.’

  ‘As a starter?’

  ‘Uh-uh. I’m on a diet.’

  ‘Why?’

  Stephie smiled and looked back down at the menu. ‘Oh, you know, spring’s just around the corner. Got to make the effort, haven’t you?’

  Before I could reply, the waiter arrived with our drinks – a whisky and ginger ale for me, and a tonic water for Stephie. He said he’d be back to take our food orders and we clinked glasses.

  ‘Welcome home,’ I said.

  ‘It’s been nearly six months, Kenny.’

  ‘I know, but this is the first time we’ve been alone.’ I knocked back two-thirds of my waga. ‘Actually, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say for a while . . .’

  Stephie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘About Manchester . . . It was a mistake.’

  ‘Tell me about it. You always think that your hometown’s going to be your hometown forever, but things change. Still, I’m back now.’

  ‘What I meant was that I should have gone with you.’

  Stephie looked directly at me. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  A good question, and one for which I didn’t have a definitive answer.

  ‘I called a few times and hung up.’

  ‘Oh, right, that was you, was it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That was me.’

  The chatter of the other diners emphasised the silence between us. From the basement came the faint sound of someone running scales on a sax.

  Stephie took a sip from her glass.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Kenny. There’s absolutely no need to apologise, but if that’s what you’re doing then apology accepted. If you’re trying to say something else, then . . . well, obviously I’m with Jake now.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘How did his thing turn out today?’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘He
said he was going to see the builders on his new project.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Stephie smiled. ‘Apparently it’s really coming on. Why don’t you come to the opening night? Jake would be delighted.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘Does he know about . . . you know.’

  Stephie nodded. ‘I thought I ought to tell him in case anyone else did. Not that he’d have a problem with that, but it’s best to be totally up front.’

  ‘And he didn’t mind?’

  ‘He doesn’t see you as a threat, if that’s what you mean. And Jake isn’t at all possessive. That’s why he suggested we have dinner together.’

  I drained my waga and placed the glass on the table.

  ‘Fantastic. I’m pleased for both of you.’

  The waiter arrived. Stephie specified a low-calorie dressing on her Caesar. What with me not being too concerned about spring being just around the corner, I chose a Sloppy Giuseppe with dough balls on the side and a replacement waga.

  ‘Going to Manchester was too much change for me,’ I said. ‘But if I—’

  Stephie’s raised hand stopped me mid-sentence.

  ‘Water under the bridge, Kenny,’ she said. ‘And sixty-three isn’t ancient these days. You’ve still got enough time to do something with your life.’

  ‘I’m fifty-eight!’

  ‘Even better, then. But you need to get on with it, because one day it really will be too late.’

  The temptation to tell Stephie that I might well not see sixty was a strong one. Then again, my headache was marginally better. Admitting to someone that your brain tumour turned out to be a dust mite allergy isn’t likely to impress.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ I said. Stephie sat back in her chair.

  ‘You’re wasting your time searching for a dead woman, Kenny.’

  ‘Emily Ridley isn’t dead. She’s missing.’

  ‘And she isn’t going be found. Not by you or anyone else.’

  ‘How d’you know?’ I asked.

  Stephie shook her head and treated me to the kind of look that members of the Flat Earth Society probably have to get used to, and then checked her watch.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ she suggested.

  We said goodbye at 7.45, which gave me more than enough time to make it to Dalston and the Junction club. The rest of our time at Pizza Express had been spent discussing what various members of the V were up to now, and Jake’s latest business venture. That Stephie’s eyes lit up when she spoke about him was what made me decide to do the right thing. At least, I thought it was the right thing at the time.

  I asked for Jake’s number, explained that Odeerie had a nephew looking for bar work. If Jake didn’t have anything going then perhaps he would be able to point the fictional nephew in the right direction? Stephie was sure he’d be delighted to help.

  I was standing outside Oxford Circus Tube station in a light drizzle when I made the call. Jake’s phone rang a dozen times before he answered. ‘Hello, Kenny,’ he said after I’d identified myself. ‘Aren’t you meant to be having dinner with Stephie?’

  ‘We’ve just finished,’ I said.

  ‘Great. Erm . . . Is everything all right?’

  In the background I could hear the murmur of public conversation. For all I knew, Jake was back out on the town with Pauline Oakley.

  ‘I was at Flummery’s Hotel today,’ I said. ‘You looked as though you were about to have lunch with someone but the pair of you couldn’t wait to get upstairs.’

  ‘Why were you in Flummery’s?’ Jake said after a brief silence.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Probably not. Have you shared what you saw with Stephie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You wanted to tell me first?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Because it would be better if you broke it to Steph that you’re having an affair rather than she hears it from me.’

  ‘You think I’m having an affair?’

  ‘Unless Pauline Oakley’s a hooker.’

  ‘My God, you even know her name. You’re good, Kenny, but you’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion. Pauline isn’t a hooker and she isn’t my mistress either.’

  ‘Who is she, then?’

  ‘Can we meet tomorrow at my office?’

  A bolt of pain shot from one temple to the other. A tumour giving my frontal lobes a kicking, or primal instinct broadcasting a warning?

  ‘Why can’t we talk right now?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not a fan of phones, you never know who’s listening,’ Jake said, which was kind of interesting. We agreed a time and ended the call.

  SEVEN

  Kingsland Road runs from Old Street to Dalston, where it morphs into Kingsland High Street. It had been – and to a large extent still is – home to London’s Turkish community. In the last few years artists and hipsters, priced out of Shoreditch, had started to colonise the place. Trendy bars and pop-up restaurants jostled for position with kebab shops and community centres. Half a dozen grizzled geezers were drinking glasses of tea outside the Ankara club, and a Rasta in a porkpie hat asked if I was interested in weed or pills. I wasn’t, but it’s always nice to be asked.

  The Junction club was sandwiched between a pizza parlour and a halal butcher’s. Its window had the club’s name with Open Late stencilled above it in white letters. A chalkboard menu had been positioned to the left promoting blues-themed dishes. The centrepiece was a Flying V guitar rendered in blue and red neon.

  ‘Sweet Home Chicago’ hit me full blast when I opened the door. A bouncer demanded ten quid, in return for which he ink-stamped my hand with an image of Road Runner in full flight. At the far end of the room, an audience several rows deep surrounded a small stage. It was loud in the Junction and it was bloody hot.

  I shouted into a barman’s ear and asked whether JJ Freeman was in the club. The guy pointed towards the stage, indicating that his boss was currently engaged. I ordered a bottle of Lagunitas and began to insinuate my way through the crowd. After two minutes and several irritable looks, I was positioned in the front row.

  The backdrop to the stage bore vintage promo posters for Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Sonny Boy Williamson and other blues luminaries. Above it hung an air-con unit that was either switched off or on the blink. Wall-mounted speakers took the feed from the amps and the mic, stationed behind which was JJ Freeman.

  Now in his mid-forties, JJ had bulked up since his Mean days. I’d have said it was more from serious bench-pressing than consuming too many of the Hoochie Coochie burgers advertised on the Junction’s menu. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to expose powerful forearms and his thighs could have belonged to a rugby prop forward.

  Other members of the Blues Cardinals included a pale-faced drummer, a fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt on double bass, a woman on keyboards who was the spit of Annie Lennox, and a heavily bearded guitarist. They reached the end of ‘Sweet Home’ to enthusiastic applause and appreciative whistles.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ JJ said into the mic. ‘Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of playing that one. Hope you feel the same way about listening to it.’

  Several shouts indicated that that was the case, although half a dozen guys in suits sitting at one of several trestle tables didn’t look too overjoyed.

  ‘Okay, we’re going to give you one more and then, after the break, the Chad Williams Band will be treating you to some very cool West Coast blues. You can order food from the bar, and there’s more than enough time to wet your whistle.’

  The drummer gave an impromptu roll and crashed his hi-hat.

  ‘You looking forward to some whistle-wetting, Eddie?’ JJ’s pallid drummer nodded his head. ‘Okay, I’m gonna let you decide what we finish with, then . . .’

  Before the drummer could respond, there came a shout from the table of suits.

  ‘Play “No Time Like Now”.’

  JJ’s features hardened. ‘You may not have noti
ced, my friend, but you’re in a blues club in 2017, not a rock gig in the long-ago land of 1995.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a fuck,’ came the answer. ‘I wanna hear “No Time Like Now”.’

  Judging by the empty jugs on the table, the suits were on a spree. The bloke doing the shouting was in his mid-thirties. His face was flushed with booze and his hair matted by the humidity. The pugnacious look on his face suggested bother.

  ‘If you came here mistakenly then you can have your money back,’ JJ said. ‘But we don’t do requests and we definitely don’t play Mean songs.’

  The vibey atmosphere in the club had entirely subsided.

  ‘I wanna hear “No Time Like Now”!’ the guy demanded for a third time.

  ‘You tell him, Ollie,’ another suit said. ‘We don’t want to listen to this shit any more.’ The guy began to bang on the table and chant ‘No Time Like Now’. His companions took up the refrain and soon it was echoing around the club.

  The bouncer arrived and looked to JJ for guidance. His boss shook his head, removed his guitar and propped it gently against the back of the stage.

  Eventually the suits’ chanting died down.

  ‘Look, mate, you’re not going to hear that song tonight. Not unless you go home and stick it on your stereo. What I suggest you do is collect your entrance money at the bar before I get seriously annoyed with you.’

  There was a hard quality to JJ’s voice. In my judgement, we weren’t very far away from a dust-up. The tension in the bouncer’s biceps suggested that we were on the same page. Unfortunately the pissed-up suits weren’t even in the same book.

  ‘You were never any fucking good anyway,’ one of them commented. ‘Cas Greaves had all the talent. All you got was a free ride.’

  ‘Yeah, if it wasn’t for him and Chop Montague you’d be sweeping floors for a living,’ Ollie added. It proved to be the final straw as far as JJ was concerned.

  The suits’ table was only yards away from the stage. Ollie hadn’t made it to his feet when he took the right hook that floored him. Another suit received a headbutt. His nose broke with a crack that was audible over the screams of the audience.