Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  ‘You know what that place is?’ was the woman’s contribution.

  Behind a metal grille, the window display featured a heron perched on the bleached skull of a bison. In its bill was clamped a dead tarantula.

  ‘Is it a newsagent’s?’

  Skinny snorted, produced a leaflet from his bag and thrust it into my hands. It had been printed on behalf of an outfit called JFA – Justice for Animals – and featured a police picture of a turtle stretched out on a bench flanked by two dead monkeys. A red-lettered headline read: SLAUGHTERED IN THE NAME OF ART.

  It wasn’t pretty, but then it wasn’t meant to be.

  ‘They found those in his freezer,’ the woman said.

  ‘I’m not here to buy anything,’ I said, returning the leaflet. ‘I’m here to interview Dean Allison for professional reasons.’

  A secondary door constructed from the same mesh that covered the window protected the entrance to the shop. I pressed a buzzer located under a tiny camera. Twenty seconds later a voice came out of the box. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Kenny Gabriel. I’d like to talk to Dean Allison.’

  No response.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, mate,’ the woman said. ‘Reporters have been trying all morning. He told them to piss off.’

  I was beginning to think she was right when the intercom crackled again.

  ‘Show me some ID.’

  I held my driving licence up to the camera.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to open the security door. Come inside and close it behind you.’

  An electronic buzzer sounded and I followed instructions. The security door clanged closed. After a few moments, Dean Allison opened up.

  ‘Fucking scumbag!’ the woman screamed.

  ‘Rot in hell, you murdering shit!’ from Skinny.

  ‘Barbarians,’ Dean muttered, closing the door behind me. The whip-thin proprietor of Still Life was about six-one. He was wearing a charcoal-coloured jacket over a black shirt matched with designer jeans and burgundy brogues. His hair was swept back in a Byronic tangle of brown and grey.

  ‘So, you’re the investigator who found Emily Ridley?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why should I speak to you?’

  ‘Because it might help find who killed her.’

  Dean pursed his lips as though mulling this over.

  ‘Very well,’ he decided. ‘Enter the gallery . . .’

  A chandelier on starvation voltage lit the room. The walls had been draped in black material and the floor covered in cork. The only sound was the gentle hum of a humidifier. A white horse’s head stood on a plinth, its mouth slightly open to reveal ivory teeth. A six-foot alligator regarded me balefully from the corner of the room. A marmoset monkey holding a set of reins was busy riding a giant tortoise across the floor. In the bleached branches of a small tree were arranged a dozen parakeets.

  What caught my attention most was a raven perched on a cactus, the bird’s beak slightly open as though cawing abuse at the alligator, daring it to make a lunge.

  ‘Do take a seat,’ Dean said. There were three distressed-leather club chairs to choose from. I opted for the one under the parakeet tree.

  ‘May I offer you a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘A whisky would be good.’

  On a mahogany side table stood a tantalus and half a dozen glasses. Dean removed the cabinet’s bracket, selected the appropriate decanter and poured out a pair of generous Scotches. ‘I’ll join you,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long morning.’

  ‘Are those two outside all the time?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘The JFA work a shift system, each as charming as the last. I can fetch some ice from the kitchen if you’d like . . .’

  ‘Neat is fine,’ I said.

  Dean passed me a glass with a hand as pallid and hairless as an oyster. He sat in the chair nearest my own and crossed his legs. Framed by the horse’s head, he could have been a gent of a certain age posing for an esoteric style magazine.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  I responded in kind and we sipped our drinks. The superlative Scotch made the Monarch taste like turps by comparison.

  ‘Is the light dim to preserve the animals?’ I asked, to get us started.

  ‘No,’ Dean replied, ‘purely to lend a little theatre. The humidifier keeps the pieces in decent shape. There’s a danger of mange without it.’

  ‘How did you get into . . . all this?’

  ‘My grandfather was a taxidermist. When he died, Norman left me his workshop and tools, presumably in the hope that I might take it up. Mean had disbanded and I needed another career.’ Dean used the hand not holding the glass to gesture around the gallery. ‘It’s important to do something one’s passionate about,’ he said. ‘Even if your work isn’t universally admired.’

  ‘You’re referring to the prosecution?’

  Dean’s features pinched, as though the sip of Scotch he’d just taken was formaldehyde. ‘That was just absurd,’ he said, and then appeared to reconsider. ‘Actually, “hypocritical” would be the more appropriate term. Society has carte blanche to treat certain animals in any way it wishes. Keep them in cages they can’t turn round in, pump them full of noxious chemicals and slaughter them before they’re out of infancy. But woe betide anyone who picks on the wrong species . . .’

  ‘One that’s endangered?’

  ‘“Doomed” is the better word. You think rhino will be running around Kenya in twenty years? Leatherback turtles dragging themselves up beaches to lay their eggs? No, my friend. The only place that future generations will see these animals are in videos, zoos and museums, which is what makes my work so important.’

  ‘Which museums were the animals in your freezer bound for?’ I asked.

  ‘Touché, Kenny.’ Dean raised his glass in mock salute. ‘Although I’m guessing the reason you wanted to see me wasn’t to discuss the morality of taxidermy.’

  ‘I wanted to talk about Castor and Emily.’

  ‘Specifically, what would you like to know?’

  We’d been pissing around quite a bit and I was beginning to feel creeped out by Dean and his immortal menagerie. Time to get down to it. I sank the rest of my Scotch and asked, ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘I’d have thought in Emily’s case that was obvious.’

  ‘I was thinking more how it happened.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s rather an easy one . . .’

  The answer took me by surprise. ‘You know?’

  ‘Indeed. I know who murdered Emily and why he did it. The question is: why would I be prepared to tell you, and what can you supply in return?’

  It had already crossed my mind that Dean had an ulterior motive for allowing me into the gallery. Usually when people offer you information it’s for cash on the nail. I had the feeling this wasn’t the case in this instance.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  Dean uncrossed his legs and leant forward. ‘I read that you were the person who actually found Emily and that her body was mummified.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Describe her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Why d’you want a description?’

  ‘Let’s say I have a professional interest.’

  I’ve done a few unsavoury things over the years to get at the truth. Conjuring a dead woman for a man who stuffed rare species and sold them to his Eurotrash clients would be top of the list. But if I wanted to know who had murdered Emily . . .

  ‘She’d been bent double. There were strips of her of hair clinging to her scalp. What was left of her skin was shiny like wax paper.’

  ‘And the smell?’

  ‘Damp. Like old books left in a cellar.’

  Dean eased back in his seat. ‘What did the eyes look like?’ he asked.

  ‘One had gone completely. The other looked as though someone had pushed a wad of almond marzipan into the socket.’

 
‘Did you touch?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I fucking didn’t touch. Who killed her?’

  Dean ran a hand through his hair and his eyelids descended lazily.

  ‘What was left of Emily’s exquisite lips?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t lie, Kenny.’

  ‘They were black, like liquorice strips. The top one had shrivelled back against her teeth. The bottom was still quite . . . plump.’

  ‘Were her hands visible?’

  ‘Only one.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The skin had mostly gone but the tendons were still attached to the bones. Her fingers had folded in on themselves as though she was forming a fist.’

  ‘To defend herself with, perhaps?’

  Dean answered his own question by nodding gently as though imagining Emily struggling desperately to preserve her life. The humidifier’s volume seemed to increase. A brackish taste invaded my mouth.

  ‘Who killed Emily?’ I asked.

  ‘Castor Greaves, in a fit of jealous rage.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Emily and I had a thing. It was long over, although I’m assuming she told him. Emily was a stickler for the truth.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’ I asked.

  ‘I did,’ Dean replied. ‘They requested that I didn’t reveal the information.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘When did you begin the relationship?’

  ‘About a year or so before Emily met the rock god.’

  ‘Why did no one know about it?’

  Dean picked something microscopic off his jeans using his thumb and index finger and allowed it to float to the floor. ‘Emily asked me to keep it secret. Her agency frowned on celebrity boyfriends.’

  ‘Then why did—’

  ‘Castor was a different proposition. By this time he was seen as an asset to her career as opposed to someone who could potentially derail it.’

  All of which made sense. Mean had gone from relative obscurity to major players in the space of a single summer.

  Judging by Dean’s body language, our interview was at an end. I tried another question. ‘How did Castor get the body on to the roof?’

  ‘Emily was petite. Or perhaps that’s where he killed her.’ Dean stifled a yawn. ‘Are we done, Kenny? It’s been lovely talking to you but there are a few things I need to be getting on with . . .’ He rose from his seat.

  ‘What do you think happened to Castor?’ I asked.

  Dean shrugged. ‘My money would be on abroad. Castor was far too vain to kill himself, and I can’t see anyone taking him in at such short notice.’

  ‘His passport was still at home.’

  ‘If you have enough cash there are ways and means of leaving the country without one. And once you’re in mainland Europe, it’s reasonably easy to reach Africa as long as you don’t mind primitive transport or it taking a while.’

  Dean looked at his watch. There had only been one reason he’d allowed me into the gallery. Now he was keen for me to leave. He led me to the door.

  ‘Thanks for your time,’ I said.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he replied. ‘Thank you for yours.’

  ‘Just one other thing – who were you meeting after you left the Emporium?’

  I didn’t have much hope that an ambush question would get the truth out of Dean, although it brought a response of sorts. ‘A friend’s wife,’ he said. ‘The police know who she is, although, for obvious reasons, I’ve never gone public with her name. Now, I really will have to insist you leave . . .’

  My exit caught Skinny and colleague off guard. He was checking his phone. She was rolling a cigarette. Dean had the door closed before any abuse could be hurled.

  ‘Did you get what you wanted?’ the woman asked.

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘How does your organisation fund itself?’

  ‘Charitable donations. Wanna make one?’

  There were three tenners in my wallet. I pulled one out and then, after a moment’s hesitation, extracted its companions.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ she said after I’d handed them over. ‘Dean must have really pissed you off.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He did a bit.’

  TWELVE

  Dean Allison may have been lying to me. It’s easy to say that you had a clandestine affair with a woman who’s been dead for more than twenty years when there’s no one around to corroborate the story. And yet his claim had the ring of truth. After years spent listening to people bullshit me from arsehole to breakfast, I’d learned to tell the difference between fact and fiction. At least I liked to think I had. But the person who might be able to verify his story lived at Pegler’s Wharf in Southwark.

  Nowhere in London does the past merge with the present quite as seamlessly as it does on the river. One minute I was walking down a busy thoroughfare of former dock buildings converted into pizza parlours and souvenir shops; the next I was clattering down a gangway supported by stilts rising from alluvial mud.

  Dusk helped sharpen the sense of concurrent rather than linear time. Out on the swirling water, the ghosts of nineteenth-century bargees jostled for position, the bones of suicides were being ground remorselessly on the riverbed and the timbers of ancient landing stages rotted into oblivion.

  The gangway led on to a series of wooden pontoons lashed together with steel cables. Moored to them were twenty or so houseboats in varying states of repair. A couple had gleaming brass portholes and well-tended deck gardens. The paintwork on others was peeling in places, and one barge was little more than a hulk.

  Saskia Reeves-Montgomery’s boat was named the Anna Marie and was moored at the end of the final pontoon. I’d agreed to call on her at 6.30 p.m. and was ten minutes late. There was no buzzer or bell, so I rapped on a varnished wooden door. No answer, and I rapped again. My third attempt produced a response. ‘Whoever you are, for fuck’s sake would you stop banging on my bloody door,’ said a gravelly voice.

  Moments later I was looking at its owner. Saskia Reeves-Montgomery’s hair was a bob of tight grey curls that might have been cut with a rusty penknife. Her cheeks featured a series of broken veins that made them look like scarlet road maps. A lit fag was clenched between lips with as much collagen in them as a stone.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked after removing it.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel. We had an appointment . . .’

  Saskia threw her fag into the water, where it extinguished with a brief sizzle. She drew back the inelastic sleeve of an ancient cardigan to consult a battered Timex. She frowned, shook the watch and held it to her ear.

  ‘It’s fucked,’ was the verdict. ‘Welcome aboard.’

  The sitting room of the Anna Marie doubled up as a workspace. At one end were a sofa and a seaside deckchair. A TV of similar vintage to my own was perched on a huge spool that had once contained industrial electrical cable. The rattan rug was heavily stained and a pub ashtray needed emptying. At the bow end was a large desk on which was an open Apple PowerBook. To its left were three dirty coffee cups.

  Saskia booted open the galley doors and entered bearing a tray. I rose from the sofa but was waved down. ‘Yours is on the left.’ I took the red mug; Saskia removed the other. She dumped the tray on the floor and occupied the deckchair.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot you were coming. I’ve got a deadline for the latest piece of crap – sorry . . . masterpiece – I’m penning. If I don’t submit a final draft by next Tuesday, the publisher won’t pay. Not that the bastards are paying much anyway.’

  Saskia reached beside her chair and produced a half-bottle of Teacher’s. She unscrewed the top, poured a shot into her coffee and offered it to me. I nodded, and a similarly sized belt of Scotch went into my mug.

  ‘But that’s not what you’re here to talk about,’ she said, replacing the cap. ‘You want to discuss the mysterious disappearance of Castor and Emily.’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

&nbs
p; ‘Why not, darling? I’ve been speaking to newspapers and radio stations about it all day. You’ve stirred up quite the hornets’ nest.’

  Saskia took a sip of coffee and wrapped her hands around the mug. I followed suit. It wasn’t the warmest on the Anna Marie.

  ‘I read your book,’ I said.

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘And I had a few questions.’

  ‘What do I think happened on the fateful night?’

  ‘That would be one of them.’

  ‘Until you made your grisly discovery, I’d always been in the double-suicide camp. Now I suppose all eyes turn to Castor Greaves.’

  ‘Including yours?’

  Saskia shrugged her considerable shoulders.

  ‘You don’t seem a hundred per cent sure,’ I said.

  ‘It’s just that I can’t see why he would do it. I saw them together when I was writing the book. She adored him and he seemed to adore her.’

  ‘I can maybe shed some light on that . . .’

  While I recounted my meeting with Dean Allison, Saskia pulled a fresh pack of Camels out of her cardie. She split the seal and offered me one. I broke off my story to spark it up. By the time I’d finished, each of us was nearing the filter.

  ‘You’re sure he was telling the truth?’ Saskia asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘How about because he’s an unpleasant little bastard?’

  ‘Maybe, but what he said sounded plausible. And he was very good-looking.’

  Saskia ground out her cigarette with extreme prejudice. ‘Didn’t he know it. Must have stung like hell when Castor took over as the pin-up boy.’

  ‘You think Castor would have been capable of murdering Emily?’

  ‘Hard to say. His drug use and his ego had started to get out of control, by all accounts. Who knows what he could have done in the heat of the moment?’

  ‘If he was off his tits would he have had the presence of mind to dump Emily’s body in the air vent and find a way to beat two security cameras? In fact, I don’t see how he could have managed that in twenty minutes even if he’d been stone-cold sober.’

  A horn sounded on the river while Saskia considered the question.

  ‘Put like that, it does sound a bit far-fetched, darling,’ she said. ‘But who else was likely to do the dirty deed?’