Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  ‘I’m having brunch there with someone,’ Saskia continued. ‘Pitch up around eleven, we should be through by then.’

  I commissioned a taxi from the rank outside Epping station. We drove through roads that had a variety of housing stock, including converted labourers’ cottages, mock-Tudor mansions behind wrought-iron railings, and ‘executive’ estates put up in the last couple of decades to serve the growing army of commuters.

  The houses became less frequent, and the roads bordered by ploughed fields. Eventually the driver pulled up in front of a gate set in a dry-stone wall. There wasn’t much to see, as mature oaks obscured the view. The sign at the side of the gate read Mickleton Lodge. It was 9 a.m. on the nose.

  The house was at the end of a couple of hundred yards of gravel drive that bisected beautifully maintained lawns and flowerbeds. The letters H&D were picked out above the door, along with the date 1853. The building was constructed from red brick and had a pair of chimneys emerging from a slate roof. Ivy festooned the walls. I pressed the bell and, a few seconds later, was greeted by Chop Montague in person. ‘You found the place, then, Kenny?’ he said, extending a hand.

  ‘The taxi driver did,’ I said, and we shook. ‘You have a lovely house.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s been in the family four generations. I have an apartment in town but I rather like the peace and quiet out here. Do come in . . .’

  On the left of the entrance hall was a grandfather clock with an insistent tick. A walnut side table supported a large porcelain bowl decorated with tiny blue flowers. Above it hung an antique mirror on which the silvering had begun to corrode.

  ‘Do let me take your coat,’ Chop said. While he transferred my overcoat to a wardrobe, I examined the clock. A Latin inscription on the dial read ultima latet ut observentur omnes, along with the details Henry Sawston, Bath, 1813.

  ‘It translates as “our last hour is hidden from us, so that we watch them all”,’ Chop said, returning from the wardrobe. ‘Clock mottoes are usually a bit more cheerful. Henry must have been in a sombre mood that year.’

  My host was wearing a pair of corduroy trousers and a denim shirt, over which was a grey woollen tank top. His hair had receded until there was just a smattering of grey around the rim of his scalp. He sported a pair of thick-framed black glasses.

  Not Liam Gallagher exactly.

  ‘Have you had any breakfast, Kenny? Happy to rustle something up if not.’

  ‘A coffee would be nice,’ I said.

  Chop led me down a panelled passage that smelled of beeswax and cinnamon. He pushed open a door. We entered a room that was part kitchen, part conservatory. It extended twenty yards into the back garden. To my left was an old-fashioned Aga range. Under the glass roof stood a large pine table with six chairs.

  ‘How do you take it?’ Chop asked.

  ‘Milk with a couple of sugars,’ I replied.

  Chop dropped a capsule into a gleaming machine that stood on a polished granite work surface. The contraption gurgled, and thirty seconds later a stream of molten liquid descended into the mug he’d positioned under a spout.

  ‘Your back garden’s as impressive as the front,’ I said.

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t take the credit for that,’ Chop said. ‘My gardener does all the real work. I just deadhead a few roses now and then. Have a seat . . .’

  Chop placed the steaming mug before me and sat on the opposite side of the table. An advantage of premature hair loss is that you look the same as you get older. Give or take a few lines, he could have just stepped off the Emporium stage in 1995.

  ‘How’s Moment in Time! going?’ I asked, to make conversation.

  Chop winced. ‘It’s the most abysmal experience.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘I’ve a compilation album out in a couple of months. My agent thought judging a talent show would be an effective way to get me current with the Snapchat generation. God knows why I listened to her.’

  Chop stared morosely at the surface of the table. I took a sip of coffee and asked, ‘Have you had much fallout from the press about Emily’s body being found?’

  ‘A few paparazzi and reporters doorstepped my flat in London. Once they’d got their pound of flesh that was it, though. How about you?’

  ‘Same,’ I said. ‘Although I think Emily’s mum’s having a tougher time.’

  ‘Yes, I saw her press conference. It must be like going through the whole thing again. At least she knows the worst now. That must be a comfort of sorts.’

  ‘Pam wants to find out who was responsible,’ I said. ‘The popular theory is that Castor was the one who killed Emily and hid her body.’

  ‘Is that what the police think?’

  ‘I’d be amazed if they didn’t. It fits the facts perfectly, apart from one detail . . .’

  ‘Why did he do it?’ Chop suggested.

  I nodded. ‘According to Dean Allison it was in a fit of jealous rage because he discovered Emily had once been in a relationship with him.’

  ‘Emily and Dean!’

  ‘So he said yesterday.’

  ‘I’d be amazed if that was the case.’

  ‘Why?’

  Chop looked at his watch. ‘Would you mind if we went to the studio?’ he asked. ‘There’s a program running I need to check on . . .’

  At one corner of the cellar was a computer stack that fed into a large monitor. There were half a dozen speakers of differing sizes and a pair of keyboards arranged one above the other. A rack held three acoustic guitars, and a vintage Les Paul leant nonchalantly against a Marshall speaker. The light from the ceiling spotlights caused the guitar’s burnish to glow, and glinted off the chrome work on a large drum kit.

  A Grammy and three Brit statuettes stood on a shelf above a sofa. Something was flickering on the monitor. Chop sat behind the keyboard and pressed a few buttons. The screen dissolved to black.

  ‘Have a seat, Kenny.’

  The sofa was a bit low-slung for a man whose knees were as flexible as lumps of lignite. I fell into it like a scuba diver off the stern of a boat.

  ‘What were we talking about?’ Chop asked.

  ‘You thought it unlikely Dean and Emily were having an affair . . .’

  He removed his glasses and began polishing them on his sweater. ‘I can certainly imagine Dean making a play for Emily. I just can’t see her falling for it.’

  ‘He’s a handsome man.’

  ‘And a total creep.’

  No disagreeing with Chop on that one. He finished with his specs and replaced them on top of his head.

  ‘Can I ask a few questions about what happened in the Emporium the night Cas and Em went missing?’ I asked.

  ‘If you must,’ he said without enthusiasm.

  ‘Cas had been gone twenty minutes when you checked on him? Is that right?’

  Chop nodded.

  ‘What were you worried about?’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t buy that Cas had cleaned up without any help. I was concerned he might have passed out in one of the stalls.’

  ‘But they were clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do after checking them?’

  ‘Took the stairs down to the auditorium. When I couldn’t find him there, I quickly went through the rest of the building before coming back to tell the others.’

  ‘How long were you away?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes. Twenty at most.’

  ‘Did anyone go on to the roof?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘When you couldn’t find him, everyone assumed that he’d gone home and followed suit?’

  ‘That’s right. Without Cas the party was effectively over. The guy who ran the place locked up and that was that.’

  ‘You personally saw everyone leave the building?’

  Chop looked up at the low ceiling. His head bobbed several times as though he was retrospectively counting out Kristos, JJ and Sweat Dog.

  ‘Yes,’ he
said. ‘They definitely left.’

  All of which had been faithfully reported in dozens of articles and books over the years. I decided to ask something less well known.

  ‘What made the pair of you such a good writing team? JJ said that Castor had never shown any talent in that direction.’

  ‘Only because he didn’t know the basic principles. Once I’d introduced him to a few techniques, Cas took to it like a duck to water.’

  ‘Must have been frustrating for you when he stopped writing.’

  Chop grimaced. ‘I thought it was the end of my career. Cas brought out in me what I brought out in him. We were a team.’

  ‘But you found that you could carry on alone?’

  ‘Yes, although I wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t met Cas. Sometimes I feel guilty about how it turned out for him and how it turned out for me.’

  ‘What do you think happened that night?’ I asked.

  ‘Assuming he isn’t lying then Dean’s theory sounds plausible. Cas killed Emily because he’d found out she’d been seeing Dean. He couldn’t live with the guilt and subsequently took his own life.’

  ‘Why would Cas kill Emily and not Dean?’

  Chop pursed his lips and considered the question.

  ‘Perhaps their affair had nothing to do with it. Em could have said something and he snapped. I know she’d been nagging him about the drugs. I’d said a few things myself and it didn’t go down well, to say the least.’

  Chop’s phone began to ring. He made an apologetic sign and accepted the call.

  ‘Chop Montague . . . Hi, Charlotte . . . No way! We did all that yesterday . . . You’re joking . . . Okay, well, if there’s no other option then I suppose so. Can you send a car? . . . Three o’clock, and I need to be back by six at the absolute latest.’

  He cut the call and swore under his breath.

  ‘Bad news?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s been some sort of continuity problem on the show. I have to go in and record some fills this afternoon.’ He checked his watch. ‘Would you mind if we left things there, Kenny? I hope it’s been useful in some way.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, despite having learned nothing much I didn’t know already. ‘Can I ask what prompted you to return my call? To be honest, I wasn’t expecting it.’

  Chop stood up and arched a crick out of his back. I got out of the sofa as though I’d slipped a disc. ‘As I said, I saw the interview with Emily’s mother and I’d like to do anything I can to help find out what happened to Emily.’

  ‘Even if it helps prove that Castor murdered her?’

  Chop thought about this for a few seconds.

  ‘Yes, even that,’ he said.

  FIFTEEN

  During the cab ride to Epping station, I took stock of my interview with Chop Montague. If it’s true that opposites attract, then it was never more so than with Chop and Castor. Discount the basement studio, and Mickleton Lodge could have been the home of a retired civil servant. Had he not met Castor, Chop would probably have ended up as a music teacher in a private school. Life comes down to a couple of chance encounters and a dollop of good or bad fortune in the final analysis.

  That Emily had been in a clandestine relationship with Dean didn’t surprise me as much as it had him. Looks trump all other things when you’re a teenager. More interesting was that she had kept it from her parents as well as her agency. Perhaps it was an indication as to what they would have made of Dean Allison.

  And would the news that his girlfriend had once been in a relationship with a bandmate before she met him really have sparked Castor into such a murderous fury? Particularly when he was allegedly sober at the time Emily died. Even if it had been the case, how did he manage to disappear into thin air afterwards?

  Assuming that Castor wasn’t dead, the person most likely to lend him logistical and financial support was JJ Freeman. Exactly how I was going to pursue that line of enquiry was another matter, particularly given JJ’s penchant for throwing punches first and asking questions second. By the time I was on the Tube heading back into Central London, I had no strategy in mind.

  Joshua Reynolds and Dr Johnson founded the first Soho club in 1764 above the Turk’s Head pub on Gerrard Street. Nine members, including Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith, met to discuss literary and scientific matters. These days, private members’ clubs comprise D-list celebs who meet to talk bollocks, take selfies and snort coke off lavatory cisterns. Josh and Dr J must be spinning in their graves.

  That said, Assassins wasn’t the worst example. Applicants needed more than the ability to set up a standing order to make it past the committee. CVs from those in the film and TV professions were regarded with a favourable eye; those from bankers and media executives consigned to the bin. It had just turned 11.15 when I pressed the entrance button and announced that I was scheduled to meet Saskia Reeves-Montgomery. The electronic lock buzzed and I entered the building.

  Reception was womanned by a pair of blondes in their thirties. One was on the phone, the other reading a copy of Vogue. She laid the magazine aside and informed me that Saskia was in the small drawing room and how to get there.

  The small drawing room turned out to be the size of a tennis court. Decorated in faux country-house style, it had heavily varnished oil paintings hanging from the walls and a central chandelier with fake candles adorning it. I was trying to locate Saskia when a booming voice saved me the bother. ‘Hey, water baby, over here!’

  Saskia was sitting alone at a table underneath a portrait of a gent in a frock coat and a periwig who peered out of a gilded frame as though he’d always known this was how the world would end. She was wearing a green cable-knit sweater that more or less camouflaged her ample bosom, and clutching a gigantic glass of white wine.

  ‘You’re late, darling,’ she said as I joined her.

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘Chop Montague spilling his guts, was he?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Right, well, you can tell me all about that in a bit. First things first . . .’ Saskia signalled to an aproned waiter who approached our table. ‘I’ll have another one of these, Terrence,’ she said. ‘And my friend here would like a . . .’

  ‘Jameson and ginger ale, please.’

  ‘A large one,’ Saskia answered before Terrence could pose the question. ‘I suppose you’ll want something to eat,’ she asked, as though my need for food was an unfortunate weakness.

  ‘Could I have a chicken club sandwich and fries?’

  Saskia drained her glass in a single gulp and handed it to Terrence, who left to fulfil our order. ‘How were the fleshpots of Knightsbridge?’ she asked.

  ‘I haven’t been to Knightsbridge.’

  ‘Then where did you see Chop?’

  ‘At his place in Epping.’

  Saskia whistled, and her bushy eyebrows rose a millimetre or two.

  ‘Wow, you are truly honoured.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Not many people make it up to . . . what’s it called?’

  ‘Mickleton Lodge.’

  ‘My oasis of tranquillity. The place that I can shut the door, put the cares of the world behind me and be who I truly am in life.’ Saskia’s voice dropped a couple of octaves to its usual register. ‘That’s how Chop described it in the Observer last year,’ she explained. ‘What’s it really like, Kenny? Murals of naked girls on the walls? Albino tiger in the back garden? Sex dungeon . . . ?’

  ‘He’s got a pretty decent coffee machine.’

  Saskia slumped in her chair. ‘Right, well, we may not include that sensational revelation in the book,’ she said.

  ‘What book?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ll get to that,’ Saskia said.

  Terrence arrived and laid our drinks on the table. He said that my club sandwich would be turning up soon and left us to it. Saskia resumed the conversation.

  ‘Did Chop tell you anything juicy about Castor and Em?’
<
br />   ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re pumping me for info?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I am, darling,’ she said.

  ‘He thinks Cas may have killed Em because he knew about her and Dean. Or that she’d been badgering him to stop using smack so much that he lost it and tried to hide the consequences. After which he couldn’t take the guilt and topped himself.’

  Saskia nodded and said, ‘It’s good either way.’

  ‘For what?’ I asked.

  ‘After you left last night, I got a call from the publisher of Play Like You Mean It. To cut a long story short, they’re interested in reissuing the book. When I mentioned that I’d been having a chat with you, they became very interested.’

  She took another sip of wine and fiddled with the paper doily.

  ‘Basically, they’d like us to collaborate on a version that includes you finding Emily’s body and your subsequent search for her killer.’

  ‘I don’t know, Saskia . . .’

  ‘They’d pay an advance.’

  ‘You see, the problem is that—’

  ‘A hundred thousand.’

  My turn to take a drink. A long one.

  ‘What if I don’t find the killer?’

  Saskia shrugged. ‘Obviously they’d prefer it if you did, but it won’t make a hell of a lot of difference if you don’t. Not to the advance, anyway.’

  ‘I’d need to talk it through with my business partner.’

  ‘It would be amazing publicity.’

  True enough, and fifty grand was more than I’d earned in the last two years. Also, it wouldn’t involve six hours hunkering down in a freezing Fiat Punto while trying to photograph a dodgy ticket collector in action.

  ‘They need to know quickly,’ Saskia added. ‘Otherwise the deal’s off the table.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

  She beamed. ‘Wonderful. I’ll give the publishers a call. They’ll probably want a few details up front to salt the mine. Just so you’re aware of that.’

  My eye caught the portrait of the periwigged gent. When I’d arrived, he’d been gazing out of the frame at an imaginary horizon. Now he was staring directly down at me with a look of distinct disapproval on his cracked lips. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. Next time I checked him out, the guy had reverted to his expression of general irritation. All the same . . .