Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  ‘Go on,’ Odeerie said cautiously, what with ‘favour’ being one of his least favourite words in the English language, third only to ‘cholesterol’ and ‘diet’.

  ‘Would you be able to trace whether someone worked for a company or not?’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘It’s going to be a long shot. Were they a director?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even longer, then.’

  ‘You can’t do it?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Who’s the person and what’s the company?’

  ‘Pauline Oakley. And it’s Jake Villiers Holdings.’

  ‘Isn’t he the guy going out with Stephie?’

  I confirmed this was the case at the same time as the cab pulled up in front of the Emporium club. ‘For Christ’s sake, Kenny,’ Odeerie said. ‘The train’s left the station. Why can’t you accept that?’

  ‘Will you do it or not?’

  ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can turn up.’

  There were issues with the Emporium’s fuse box. Kristos was trying to light a fire under an electrician’s arse so he could still take the afternoon off. He unclipped the roof key, handed it over, and muttered something about being careful. I took the stairs at a sedate pace, pausing on each landing to catch my breath. The key refused to turn and I thought Kris had handed me the wrong one.

  Then I felt the tumblers reluctantly rotate.

  A flock of pigeons bustled into the sky. The last time I’d been on the roof it had been blowing a gale. Now it was perfectly still. Traffic sounds carried up from the streets of Soho, as did the clang of builders erecting scaffolding a couple of blocks away. Stone chippings crunched underfoot as I approached the particular heating duct that had lodged in my memory.

  The other four were the dull grey that galvanised metal adopts when exposed to the elements. This one was streaked brown and green. Where the cap met the top of the box, the joint was black. I took out my Swiss Army knife and tapped the duct. I did the same to its neighbours. The discoloured vent emitted a duller sound.

  I applied the screwdriver to the first screw. It was an effort to shift but eventually I had it out. Within ten minutes all the screws holding the front panel in place were nestled in the back pocket of my jeans. I inserted the tips of my numb fingers into the tiny gap and attempted to pull the panel free. Bastard thing wouldn’t budge.

  I tried with the knife and met with the same result. Only after the blade had snapped did I notice a small catch on either side of the unit. I unhooked each before repeating my efforts. The panel screeched and fell away from its housing.

  The body had been bent over and jammed in the unit. Fronds of blonde hair were clinging to its skull. Mummified skin looked like grey parchment drawn so tightly around the bones that it had given way in places. White teeth were bared in a rictal snarl and the eye sockets had been voided by decomposition.

  Footsteps sounded behind me. ‘Hey, Kenny,’ Kristos said. ‘I’ve got to get going, mate, so if you could—’ Kris looked over my shoulder. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said before crossing himself and muttering something in Greek.

  ‘Call the police,’ I told him.

  NINE

  DCI Tony Shaheen tapped something into his phone and laid it carefully in the space he’d created amongst the mess of envelopes, flyers and invoices in Kristos’s office. His suit was dark blue, the shirt dove grey, and a green tie was knotted tight against the collar. He retuned his attention to my statement. ‘You know it seems odd that after twenty-four hours on a cold case that’s defeated the Met and God knows how many journalists for over two decades, you get a result,’ he said.

  I shrugged and said, ‘Beginner’s luck.’

  ‘Or maybe you knew where the body was.’

  ‘How would I know that?’

  Shaheen screwed the cap back on his fountain pen and placed it next to his phone.

  ‘Someone told you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Maybe the person who put it there.’

  ‘And that would be?’

  ‘Jean-Jacques Freeman?’

  ‘So you’re suggesting that I went to see JJ at his club and after half an hour he tells a total stranger where he stashed Castor Greaves’s body?’

  Shaheen’s head bobbed back.

  ‘Or possibly Emily Ridley’s,’ I added.

  ‘What makes you believe it’s either?’

  I gave the DCI a stare. His hand went to his tie and tightened a knot that didn’t require tightening. ‘We have DNA samples on file, so we should be able to determine whether it’s Castor Greaves or Emily Ridley.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  Shaheen looked at his watch. ‘The lab’s fast-tracked it.’

  ‘Does Emily’s mother know we’ve discovered something?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re keeping a lid on things until we know for sure what we have.’ Shaheen turned a page over. ‘Essentially what you’re telling me is that you noticed that the vent with the remains in it had oxidised in a different way to the others.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you thought that might be because there were human remains inside.’

  ‘I thought it was worth examining.’

  ‘Why not when you first saw the vent?’

  ‘It only occurred to me afterwards. Actually, I’m surprised they weren’t opened up at the time. Although the Met wasn’t too invested in the case, from all accounts.’

  Shaheen’s mouth tightened. ‘So, you asked Mr Barberis if you could take another look and then removed the front panel?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘How is Kristos?’

  ‘He’s been taken to hospital as a precautionary measure.’

  Shortly after calling the police, Kris had become very wheezy. I’d helped him back into the building. The medics had beat the cops to the scene by two minutes. They’d taken Kris down on a gurney and passed the officers on the stairs.

  A constable had recorded my details before installing me in Kris’s office, where Shaheen introduced himself half an hour later. Forty-five minutes after that, he had begun to interview me. It had been two hours since I’d taken the panel off the vent.

  ‘When you said “keeping a lid on things”,’ I said, ‘does that mean you haven’t announced that a body’s been discovered?’

  ‘Correct,’ Shaheen said. ‘If at all possible, we prefer to inform the next of kin before releasing information to the public. And obviously there will be heightened press interest in this case for a number of reasons.’

  Too right there would be. If the remains turned out to be those of either Castor Greaves or Emily Ridley, the media would go into meltdown. Short of the Second Coming, or the Beckhams divorcing, I couldn’t imagine a bigger story.

  ‘On that subject,’ he continued, ‘I would appreciate you not revealing anything until such time as we release a statement.’

  ‘When’s that likely to happen?’

  ‘Later today, hopefully.’

  ‘Can I ask something in return?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would you keep my name out of things?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Shaheen pushed my statement over the table. ‘Read carefully and see that everything’s in order, Mr Gabriel. Then, if you’re happy it’s an accurate reflection of your statement, sign and date the document.’

  I took a quick squinny through five pages of Shaheen’s immaculate writing. It appeared to be in order. ‘Can I borrow a pen?’ I asked.

  Shaheen passed me his fountain pen as though handing a surgeon a scalpel. I’d just removed the cap when his phone began vibrating.

  ‘Tony Shaheen . . . Yes, that’s right . . . And that’s definite, is it? . . . Okay, thanks for letting me know, Jackie . . . I’ll be there as soon as possible.’

  He cut the call and glanced at my autographed statement in cursory fashion. ‘I’m needed at a case briefing. The results are bac
k from the DNA test.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Afraid I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘But you want me to keep schtum about finding something on the roof? Come on, Tony. Only fair that I know what I’m keeping quiet about.’

  Shaheen slipped my statement into a plastic folder and put the pen into his jacket pocket. He stood up. ‘Thanks for your cooperation, Kenny. If we need to speak to you again then we’ll be in touch. You’re free to leave whenever you like.’

  Visiting Pam Ridley was no longer an option. Whether the remains were Emily’s or Castor’s, she would be doorstepped by the press. Ex-members of Mean would receive the same treatment, so Dean Allison would have to wait too.

  I opted to deliver Odeerie’s update in person. After twenty years dealing with human licentiousness and venality, little surprises the fat man. That I’d found Emily Ridley had a stupefying effect. Half a Battenberg cake remained suspended between plate and lips when I made the announcement in his office.

  ‘Holy shit. When?’

  ‘About three hours ago.’

  ‘There’s been nothing on the news.’

  ‘They won’t release anything until Pam’s been told.’

  I spent fifteen minutes answering Odeerie’s questions, during which time his excitement mounted. And then came the final piece of the jigsaw.

  ‘I asked the DCI to keep my name out of things.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘He promised to do his best.’

  ‘Kenny, you’ve just found someone who’s been missing for twenty-two years. We’ll be drowning in clients.’

  ‘Yeah, and who needs that?’

  ‘We do!’ Odeerie took up where he’d left off with the Battenberg. ‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t really matter,’ he said through a mouthful of sponge and marzipan. ‘Because, mark my words, it will definitely get out.’

  ‘You’re going to call the papers?’

  ‘Won’t have to. Even if your DCI doesn’t go back on his word then some hard-up cop is gonna sell the information on the side.’

  While I came to terms with this possibility, Nostradamus finished his cake, licked his chubby fingers and reached into his desk drawer.

  ‘I had a look at Jake Villiers,’ he said, removing a reporter’s pad.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s bloody hard to get this kind of information twenty years after the fact. If you were a client you’d owe me five hundred quid.’

  ‘You found something?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. Pauline Oakley was the financial director at Jake Villiers Holdings between 1994 and November 1996, when she left the company.’

  I experienced the sensation you get when a lift descends a sight more rapidly than you’d anticipated. ‘Jake was telling the truth, then?’

  ‘As far as Oakley leaving he was, but didn’t he also tell you that the company was going through a bad patch around that time?’

  ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘It is and it isn’t.’ Odeerie consulted the pad. ‘The company showed an operating loss, although it had invested in a large site in the Midlands for development. Factor that into the bottom line and they were doing just fine.’

  ‘So why did he lie to me?’

  ‘The same reason anyone lies to anyone,’ Odeerie said. ‘Because he doesn’t want you to find out about something else.’

  He spent another half-hour gloating about how the business could treble its profits. I made token noises while wondering why Jake Villiers had misled me about his company’s true financial status. Certainly it strengthened his story about Pauline Oakley having left the company for finagling its tax returns. And if that wasn’t the reason, there had to be another.

  The only way to find out for sure would be to confront Pauline herself.

  Early evening and business in the Vesuvius wasn’t at its height. Nick was alone behind the bar, watching the TV with three guys perched on high stools. I ordered a waga and was about to head off to one of the tables when the evening news came on. First up was the Emporium story.

  Almost immediately we went live to a press conference with the Met and Emily’s mother. Pam Ridley was sat behind a trestle table. To her left was DCI Shaheen; to her right the deputy commissioner, in full uniform. Pam looked deathly white, but then I guess that was understandable. The DC was first to speak.

  ‘Thank you for coming along to this evening’s briefing,’ he said to the assembled reporters. ‘Before we get going, I’d like to introduce DCI Tony Shaheen, who is in charge of this investigation and will be able to answer some of your questions. Also taking part will be Mrs Pamela Ridley.’

  Pam’s name was the trigger for multiple camera motor drives to go into action. She stared ahead with a blank expression. The DC continued.

  ‘First of all, I can confirm that remains discovered in the Emporium on Archer Street this afternoon are those of Ms Emily Ridley.’

  Hubbub in the room. Competing questions were thrown out by journalists, to the senior officer’s undisguised irritation.

  ‘Please can we have some order?’ he barked. ‘There will be time for questions at the end of the briefing.’

  The noise gradually abated.

  ‘After an extensive search of the premises, no further remains have been found. We are currently conducting a post-mortem that will hopefully reveal the cause of Emily’s death in what is being treated as a murder inquiry.’

  The deputy commissioner fixed the room with a gimlet eye, presumably to quell any journalists unable to restrain themselves at the mention of the M-word.

  ‘Mrs Ridley has asked to make a brief statement,’ he said, ‘after which DCI Shaheen will be able to update you on the inquiry.’

  Pam thanked the DC and leaned into her microphone.

  ‘Twenty-two years ago, someone killed my beautiful daughter,’ she said. ‘Afterwards, they dumped her body like it was garbage. And if it hadn’t been for the work of a private investigator, Emily might have been there another twenty years.’

  Pam paused and looked directly into the camera lens.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel, if you’re watching, then I want to thank you for what you did. The other thing I want to say is that the job isn’t finished. Now that you’ve found Em, I want to find the bastard who killed her and bring him to justice. That’s it.’

  Nothing the DC could do to stop the room from erupting this time . . . Several journalists shouted out versions of the same question: Who’s Kenny Gabriel?

  TEN

  The intercom in the flat started buzzing at first light. I took the batteries out but the reporters began shouting up from the street. All they wanted was a few words. The few words I’d like to have given them were ‘piss off’ and ‘leave me alone’. Unable to get back to sleep, I went online to see what the reaction had been to yesterday’s events.

  The Emily Ridley story was front page for most papers and news sites. The information was accurate regarding the discovery, and most had worked out who I was and what I did. The Huffington Post described me as a ‘budget private eye’, the Guardian as a ‘skip-tracer operating in the twilight world of insurance fraud’.

  A few mentioned the two other high-profile cases I’d been involved in, and pointed out that they had ended badly for virtually all involved. Thank you, the Telegraph and BuzzFeed. The Mail had pretty much the same information, and I was about to exit its site when a paragraph towards the bottom of the piece caught my attention.

  The owner of the Emporium, Jake Villiers, commented that the club would be closed until further notice while police conduct their inquiries. Ticket holders for forthcoming events should consult the venue’s website for more information.

  Odeerie answered the phone almost before it had started to ring.

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Told you we wouldn’t be able to keep a lid on it. Are you calling to say you’ve changed your mind about going public? You’re probably right. Be
tter we control the situation than the other way round.’

  ‘No, I’m not calling about that.’

  ‘What, then?’ Odeerie asked, disappointment creeping into his voice.

  ‘Jake Villiers owns the Emporium.’

  ‘I know. He bought a controlling interest in 2002.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell me . . .’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  The fat man’s mind does have a literal cast to it. All the same . . .

  ‘It’s the case we’re working on, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘What does it matter who owns the Emporium, Kenny? And Jake had nothing to do with the place when Emily and Castor went missing.’

  ‘It matters because . . . because . . .’

  ‘You’re obsessed with the guy.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Okay, then why’s it so important?’

  ‘Isn’t it unusual that a man who usually buys up properties and guts them decides to buy a venue in the West End and not do anything at all with it?’

  ‘Not really. The Emporium makes a tidy profit.’

  ‘He’s a property developer, not a club owner. It’s out of character.’

  Odeerie took a deep breath. ‘If Jake Villiers bought an aquarium or a sausage factory, that might be unusual,’ he said. ‘All he’s done is see a place that’s going cheap and looks like a decent investment. It’s what entrepreneurs do, Kenny.’

  ‘I’m telling you there’s something dodgy going on.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you need to take another look at it.’

  I spent the next ten minutes trying to answer Odeerie’s question. At least, it felt like ten minutes. When I looked at the clock, almost an hour had passed. The fat man was right: ‘property investor invests in property’ wasn’t hugely suspicious. And yet . . . Eventually I gave up the effort and called Pam Ridley.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in a tired voice.

  ‘Mrs Ridley, it’s Kenny Gabriel. I’m sorry not to have called yesterday but the police wouldn’t tell me whose the remains were.’