by Greg Keen
‘I can’t reveal anything about the investigation until it’s over,’ I said. ‘It’s completely confidential. I’d be thrown out of the SIA.’
‘Isn’t there anything you can tell me, darling? Feed the buggers a bit of intrigue and my agent might be able to get us each an extra ten grand.’
‘What kind of intrigue?’
‘Sex and violence usually works . . .’
‘Someone tried to kill me yesterday.’
Saskia’s glass froze in mid-air.
‘I didn’t fall into the river. Whoever it was pushed me in the back and walked away. If you hadn’t come along when you did . . .’
‘Have you gone to the police?’
‘No point. All they’ll do is write it up and forget about it.’
‘Probably, but at least we’d have some kind of evidence it happened. Do you think it was connected to the investigation?’
‘Why else would someone attempt to drown me?’
Saskia produced a vape machine the size of a luger and clamped its barrel between her teeth. A steam cloud enveloped her head.
‘If someone was following you then they probably intended to do something,’ she said, impervious to the irritation of an American film director at an adjacent table. ‘If they hadn’t shoved you into the river then they could have nudged you on to a Tube track, or pushed you under a bus, or knifed you down an alley, or—’
‘Yeah, I get the picture, Saskia,’ I said. ‘What you’re saying is I was lucky.’
‘Very lucky, darling. They’ll absolutely lap it up in Grub Street, particularly with the Golden Road connection.’
‘We’re back to that again.’
‘You have to admit it’s a hell of a coincidence, Kenny. You find Em’s body and the next day you damn near wind up in the morgue.’
‘D’you think I should be worried?’ I asked.
‘I’d certainly keep your eyes open, put it that way.’
‘How about telling the police?’
‘That the Golden Road tried to kill you?’
‘That someone tried to kill me.’
‘Can’t you tell that nice man in charge of the investigation? Might be a good opportunity to see how things are going . . .’
I was about to tell Saskia that the DCI Shaheen wasn’t likely to update me on a case in progress simply because I informed him that a person, or persons, unknown had shoved me into the Thames, when the movie director touched her arm.
‘Wanna put that thing out, honey?’ he said. ‘Some of us like to lead healthy lives.’
Saskia blew a column of steam into the air and gave him a radiant smile.
‘Fuck off, cuntie,’ she said. ‘There’s a love.’
Saskia was requested to extinguish her vape by Terrence when he arrived with my sandwich. Charm succeeded where command had failed. She shrugged and stuck the contraption in her bag. By this time a mushroom cloud hung above our table that looked as though we’d successfully detonated a tiny nuclear device.
While I consumed my lunch, Saskia talked me through her plan. She would update the book as much as possible, accenting it towards the mysterious disappearance and the discovery of Emily’s body, and incorporate new material as she went with my assistance. I still had my misgivings, but fifty thousand quid papers over an awful lot of ethical cracks. Pretty much all of them, in fact.
Saskia and I said our goodbyes and I headed for the stairs. On the landing, Stephie was in earnest conversation with a tall dark-haired woman in her late fifties. It was a surprise to see Stephie in Assassins at all – she was generally scathing about any private members’ club that wasn’t subterranean or founded after 1970 – but it was particularly so as she was with Toni Barclay, who owned the place.
‘Anything else I can show you, Steph?’ Toni asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Stephie replied. ‘It’s exactly what we’re looking for.’
‘Okay, well, if you talk it over with Jake and let me know by the end of the week, that should be fine. We can work out the details later.’
‘No need,’ Stephie said. ‘Jake just wanted me to come along to make sure that I was absolutely happy with the place.’
‘And are you?’
‘Of course! It’s every bit as gorgeous as he said it was.’
Just as strange as Stephie being in Assassins was her gushing demeanour. She noticed me for the first time and gave an acknowledging wave.
‘It’s a yes, then?’ Toni asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Stephie said.
The pair embraced. Toni said that she’d be in touch and gave me the briefest of appraising looks before clacking downstairs on three-inch heels.
‘Hey, Kenny,’ Stephie said. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Work,’ I said. ‘What’s your excuse?’
Stephie looked at the floor. It was the first time I’d seen her blush. Maybe the first time anyone had seen her blush. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Jake and I are getting married.’
SIXTEEN
Assassins’ library featured first editions by the world’s great authors. Unfortunately they existed only as images on the wallpaper. At least it eliminated the need for tedious activities like dusting and reading. Mobiles and laptops were banned, which probably accounted for the place being virtually empty.
‘Congratulations,’ I said after Stephie and I sat down. ‘When’s the happy day?’
‘Twenty-seventh of May,’ she said. ‘Jake proposed last month but we wanted to keep it under wraps until the preparations had been made. You’ll get an invitation in the next couple of weeks now we’ve sorted a venue.’
‘You didn’t want to use the Vesuvius?’
‘Are you serious? Anyway, Toni’s a mate of Jake’s, so she was able to fit us in here. Could he help your nephew, by the way?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You said you were trying to get him a job in hospitality . . .’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, recalling the pretext I’d used to get Jake’s phone number. ‘He said that he’d ask around to see if anything was going.’
‘That’s Jake for you. Always eager to help.’
Stephie sat back and stretched her long legs out. Her camisole top fitted in all the right places and her cheekbones stood out in delicate relief. She had told me in Pizza Express that she was on a diet. Now I knew the reason why.
‘Oh, and congratulations to you too, Kenny,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘Finding Emily Ridley. I nearly fell over when I heard the news. You must have felt like a dog with two dicks.’
‘Not sure that’s how I’d describe finding the mummified remains of a brutally murdered woman,’ I said.
Stephie’s expression changed abruptly. ‘Sorry, Kenny. All I meant was that it must have been, you know . . . professionally rewarding to get a result so quickly.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That bit was okay.’
A waitress arrived and asked if we’d like anything to drink. Stephie ordered a chamomile tea. I opted for a double espresso.
‘How long have you been with Jake?’ I asked after she left.
‘Only nine months,’ she said. ‘But it feels like a lifetime.’
‘Course it does. Although I guess it’s only when you get to know people better that they really show their true colours.’
Stephie’s shoulders tensed.
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘All I’m saying is that Jake may well be everything you think he is, but what’s the harm delaying the ceremony a few more months? You never know what might come out of the woodwork . . .’
Not the best choice of words, all things considered. Stephie’s forehead creased and her nostrils flared. I prepared myself for a torrent of something toxic.
And then she smiled.
‘Is that what you’d do, Kenny?’
‘Definitely.’
�
�How long? Six months? A year?’ The smile turned into a grimace. ‘No, that would be way too quick. Kenny Gabriel would need to leave it at least ten years before he did anything as rash as taking a chance on someone he loved.’
Stephie got to her feet.
‘Jake and I are getting married in two months’ time, so you’d better get used to the idea,’ she said. ‘Hopefully we’ll spend the rest of our lives together, but even if we split up at least we gave it a try, and at least we’ll know what it was like.’ Her face was a few inches from mine. ‘We’re going to Bermuda for the honeymoon,’ she said. ‘I’ll be sure to send you a postcard.’
It had just gone noon when I left Assassins. Anaemic sunshine was trying to make itself felt and the wind wasn’t quite as ball-freezingly cold. Tourists were making the most of the light to photograph the glories of Greek Street, an idling rickshaw driver was exchanging views with a traffic warden, and a guy outside Maison Bertaux was shouting that we were all fast-tracked for damnation if we didn’t mend our ways.
In a month, the flowerbeds of Soho Square would be in bloom and muscle queens would be tripping down Old Compton Street in Lycra shorts. Customers in Bar Italia could sip their al fresco coffees without the need for fingerless mittens, and the windows would be thrown open at the French House. Autumn would bring down summer with a flying tackle sometime in mid-September, after which the Christmas bunting would go up in Liberty’s and we would all stagger towards 2018 like zombies on Mogadon.
Stephie was right. In twelve months I would probably be standing in the same spot listening to the same nutter tell me that I was about to be cast into the same lake of burning fire and brimstone if I didn’t turn my face to the Lord.
I needed drastic change, and drastic change needed money. My options were selling a body part or accepting the advance on Saskia’s book. And that assumed I’d have the time to spend it.
I dug out DCI Shaheen’s card and called his mobile. He answered on the eighth ring.
‘You said to call if anything important came up.’
‘Has it?’ the DCI asked.
‘Someone tried to murder me yesterday.’
A few moments’ silence.
‘How?’ Shaheen asked.
‘They pushed me into the water at a marina in Southwark.’
It was hardly as dramatic as a shooting in Tottenham or a knifing in Hackney. Shaheen’s tone reflected this. ‘Who pushed you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘It was dark and they walked away.’
‘Were there any witnesses?’
‘No.’
‘How d’you know it wasn’t an accident?’
‘Call it a hunch,’ I said, using what was probably Shaheen’s least favourite term. ‘I think it had something to do with the Emily Ridley case.’
‘Yes, I wanted to have a word with you about that,’ Shaheen said. ‘Pam Ridley was in an emotional state at her press conference. The best people to find her daughter’s killer are the police, and this is an active investigation.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that if you fail to disclose any information that could prove useful in apprehending a suspect, that would be considered a criminal offence.’
‘Isn’t that what I’m doing now?’
Shaheen sighed. ‘It sounds to me as though you haven’t got any real evidence that whatever happened was connected to the Emily Ridley case.’
‘You’re not going to do anything about it, then?’
‘If you feel a genuine attempt was made to harm you, then report it to the local station. Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.’
‘How is the case going?’ I asked.
‘Read the papers,’ Shaheen said, and hung up.
It took a few seconds to check that our conversation had recorded successfully on my phone. Saskia would be pleased I had evidence an attempt had been made on my life, even more so that a senior officer had shown scant interest in pursuing it.
‘Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour,’ the crazy preacher yelled.
Was there a reason he was looking in my direction? One attempt had been made on my life. Who was to say there wouldn’t be more?
Odeerie called me in the cab on my way to meet Pauline Oakley at Flummery’s. ‘I’ve just seen today’s Post,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking, Kenny?’
‘Actually, I was meaning to talk to you about that.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
‘Everything Danny Abbott wrote was cobblers. The only reason I spoke to him was that I felt a bit sorry for the bloke.’
‘So you don’t think the Golden Road exists?’
I avoided Odeerie’s question by asking one of my own. ‘What’s the word on Davina Jacobs?’
‘Her name wasn’t Davina Jacobs,’ he said. ‘It was Davina Jackson.’
‘Please don’t tell me she lives in Honolulu now . . .’
‘Stamford Hill. She married a dentist and has two kids. Works as a Pilates instructor at a place called City Stretch in Crouch End.’
‘Have you been in touch?’
‘Thought that was your department.’
‘Okay, send me her details,’ I said. ‘Anything else to report?’
‘I have, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘It’s about Castor Greaves’s cash.’
‘Where did it go?’
‘A month before he went missing, Castor set up an account at a bank in Zurich. As far as I can make out, all his assets went into it post-disappearance.’
‘Including his Mean royalties?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who inherits?’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, you can’t see a will before probate and you can only apply to have someone declared dead after they’ve been missing seven years. Any doubt – and there’s quite a bit in Castor’s case – the application can be denied almost indefinitely.’
‘So the money just stays in the account?’
‘Or someone might be drawing on it.’
‘It’s odd that he set it up, isn’t it? Why not leave it in the Nationwide?’
‘Any number of reasons. Tax avoidance would be top of the list, and the Swiss have a very stable currency. Castor might have been concerned there was going to be an economic dip and wanted to find a financial safe haven.’
‘He was a heroin-addicted rock ’n’ roll singer, Odeerie, not Warren Buffett. There’s only one theory that makes any sense . . .’
‘I know. He took the Golden Road.’
A chunk of Shakespeare surfaced in my brain: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Did the Golden Road really exist? More importantly, were they intent on nailing yours truly? If so, then the Post interview wouldn’t have helped matters much. Ordinarily I’d have thought about going to ground for a couple of days until things died down. What with time not being on my side in more ways than one, that wasn’t really an option.
‘Let’s say someone spoke to Castor and suggested he channel all his cash into an anonymous account. Then he could go missing and draw on it from anywhere in the world. That would work, wouldn’t it?’
‘In theory,’ Odeerie said.
‘Then, before he’s due to go AWOL, Castor finds out that Emily hadn’t told him about her relationship with Dean Allison. He thinks it was still going on while they were seeing each other and decides to get his revenge. What if the whole thing at the Emporium was a carefully executed plan and not just some horrible accident that forced Castor to go into hiding or top himself?’
‘Why would he want to go missing?’
‘By all accounts, Cas saw himself as some kind of mystic. Maybe he fancied sitting in a rainforest and communing with nature for the rest of his life.’
‘While occasionally nipping off to an ATM?’
‘Take the piss all you like, Odeerie, but I know what I think
. . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘The bastard’s still alive.’
My phone rang again as the taxi rounded the corner into Wimpole Street. ‘Is that Mr Kenneth Gabriel?’ a woman with a plummy accent asked.
‘Speaking,’ I said.
‘Gaynor Levine here. I’m Dr Arbuthnot’s PA. The doctor would like to schedule a follow-up appointment. I was wondering when you could make it in.’
‘I’m super-busy, Gaynor. Can’t you just give the all-clear over the phone?’
‘Dr Arbuthnot likes to see all patients in person after an MRI scan. He’s suggested tomorrow morning between eight and ten thirty . . .’
As the cab had just passed the building Gaynor was calling from, the obvious solution suggested itself. ‘I’ve a meeting at Flummery’s Hotel at twelve thirty,’ I said. ‘Any chance the doc could see me after that?’
‘Hold the line a moment.’ The cab had pulled up outside Flummery’s before Gaynor came on the line again. ‘Two o’clock would work,’ she said.
No doubt Arbuthnot was being flexible in case I gave my brother a duff report and he retained another quack to minister to his stressed execs. I confirmed that I’d present myself in an hour and a half and mounted the steps to Flummery’s entrance.
‘You again,’ my favourite doorman said.
‘Me again,’ I replied.
‘Found any more wallets?’
‘Not that you’re getting hold of.’
He opened the door by eighteen inches, obliging me to squeeze through it like a burglar insinuating himself through a gap in a chain-link fence.
‘Aren’t you the man from City Strolls?’ the receptionist asked when I approached her desk.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I’m here to see Pauline Oakley.’
‘Haunted Holborn again?’
I shook my head. ‘Seedy Soho.’
She dialled a number and had a brief conversation before disconnecting. ‘Ms Oakley says you’re to go her room. It’s number 34 on the third floor.’
SEVENTEEN
The corridor was richly carpeted and dimly lit. Chamber music played at low volume from concealed speakers. There was a faint citrus aroma in the air. Pauline Oakley answered the door with the security chain on. Green eyes peered through the gap.
