Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  ‘Who the hell’s Sweat Dog?’ Odeerie asked.

  ‘The roadie who was in the dressing room after the Emporium gig. He’s running a tattoo parlour in Muswell Hill these days.’

  ‘What will happen to the photographs?’

  ‘Pam thinks she should take them to the police. I’ve asked her to hang on for a bit until I’ve had a chance to hear what Dean has to say.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ Odeerie said. ‘You should make as much progress as possible before handing it over to the cops. That way we get maximum publicity for the business. I don’t suppose you’ve had any other thoughts on that, Kenny . . . ?’

  I’d been wondering when the time was right to tell Odeerie that I’d agreed to write a book with Saskia. As a bacon bap and a cup of steaming coffee had just been plonked in front of me, I opted to postpone what might be a tricky conversation.

  ‘Sorry, mate, the signal’s breaking up. I’ll speak to you later . . .’

  The bap tasted sensational. More importantly, it stayed down. After wiping grease and tomato sauce from my lips I called the landline number for Davina Jackson. It went to voicemail. Next up was Still Life. The person who had answered my earlier call did so again.

  ‘Can I speak to Dean Allison?’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

  ‘Is he in the workshop?’ I asked.

  ‘St Bart’s Hospital, actually.’

  Dean had been attacked outside his house just before midnight. He’d suffered a fractured jaw and multiple contusions but was scheduled for discharge later that day. I clucked sympathetically and said that I was a long-standing customer. Robbie supplied his boss’s home address in order that I could send flowers. I terminated the call when he asked which particular pieces I’d bought from the gallery.

  It was a toss-up as to whether Justice for Animals had given Dean a pasting or whether it was a common-or-garden mugging. During the cab ride to Muswell Hill, I googled whether it’s possible to speak with a wired jaw. Apparently Dean’s lips might move but his face probably wouldn’t. Something to look forward to.

  The rest of the journey was spent pondering Pam’s advice. There weren’t many people I needed to square things away with. One benefit of a life unencumbered by commitment is that you don’t have to worry about your emotional legacy.

  Stephie was the exception. Somehow I needed to prevent her from marrying Jake Villiers. Was there any way I could persuade Pauline Oakley to give Stephie the lowdown on her fiancé? It was the only option that had any chance of working. As the cab passed the entrance to Ally Pally, I called Flummery’s and asked to be put through to Pauline’s room. Fleetwood Mac insisted that I made lovin’ fun until interrupted by a ringing phone. I disconnected after a minute and redialled to ask if Pauline was in the hotel, claiming to be her cousin calling about a family emergency.

  The receptionist promised to locate Pauline and have her ring me back. I thanked her and disconnected. The driver pulled up in front of a building sandwiched between a wine bar and a delicatessen. Its window had been blacked out. Above it was a sign in Germanic script: Howl at the Moon – Tattoos and Piercings.

  Time to say hello to Sweat Dog.

  TWENTY

  The wall to my right had been decorated with framed pictures of tattoo designs including flowers, parrots, snakes, roadsters and – for the more traditionally minded – semi-naked women. The left wall had a full-length mirror complemented by a gallery of album covers including On The Spot by Mean.

  The buzzing noise came from the implement held by a forty-something guy in a Motörhead T-shirt. Muscular arms were sleeve-tattooed and a Victorian patriarch would have envied his beard. The young woman in his chair had her right palm face down on a table as Beardy decorated her shoulder. ‘Help you, mate?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m looking for Sweat Dog,’ I said.

  ‘You got an appointment?’ I shook my head. Beardy switched off his ink gun and knocked on a door, above which hung an autographed picture of Slash.

  ‘Someone to see you, Dog.’ No answer. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Beardy muttered. He opened the door and shouted, ‘Dog, there’s someone here to see you . . .’

  ‘Be right there,’ came a transatlantic reply.

  Sweat Dog was at least six foot six, and maybe an inch above that. Grey hair had been tied into a ponytail. He had a goatee beard and untamed eyebrows, and was wearing black jeans, scuffed motorcycle boots, and a leather waistcoat over a collarless shirt. Pale-pink hearing aids protruded from both ears.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel,’ I said, and offered my hand.

  ‘Dog,’ said Dog. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I have a few questions about Emily Ridley and Castor Greaves.’

  ‘Great. Stick ’em in your ass and fuck off.’

  Hardly the cooperative start I’d been hoping for. ‘I’m not from the media, if that’s what you think,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to find out who murdered Emily.’

  Dog’s watery blue eyes narrowed. He looked down at a forty-five-degree angle and examined my face. ‘You’re the guy who found her body, right?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. Now I’m trying to find out who killed her.’

  ‘You think it was me?’

  Dog may have been approaching pension age but he wasn’t the kind of guy you accused of anything face to face. Not that we were face to face, exactly.

  ‘All I’m looking for is any information that might help,’ I said.

  ‘If I knew anything useful I’d have said it by now.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s the case. But what’s inconsequential to you could be significant when connected to something else.’

  Dog fingered his straggly beard while Beardy’s tool hummed like a demented wasp battling a windowpane. ‘You got any ink?’ Dog asked. As there was a steel rack containing bottles of the stuff only six feet away, it was a puzzling question.

  ‘You’re out of ink?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ Dog said. ‘I’m asking if you have any ink.’ He pulled his shirtsleeve back to reveal an electric guitar on his forearm with a plethora of musical notes.

  ‘Oh, you mean am I tattooed? No, I’m not,’ I said, adding, ‘I’ve got a thing about needles’, in case Dog thought I was passing some kind of aesthetic judgement.

  ‘Know what Harvey reckons?’ Dog pointed at Beardy. ‘Never trust anyone who don’t have ink, which kinda leaves you with two options here, Lenny.’

  ‘What are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Get some ink or take a hike,’ Dog said.

  ‘Can’t we just have a chat? I’ll happily pay for your time.’

  Dog lowered his head. I repeated myself into what was presumably the better ear.

  ‘That ain’t the deal,’ he said. ‘And here’s the rider, Lenny. Squeal and it’s game over. Trust me, the best way around this needles issue is to take it like a man.’

  ‘It’s Kenny.’

  ‘Say again . . .’

  ‘It’s Kenny. My name is Kenny.’

  Dog removed a hearing aid that looked as though the NHS had made it in 1973. Holding it under the light, he adjusted something and pushed it back into place.

  Beardy shook his head. ‘You need new aids, Dog,’ he said. ‘You might as well shove a pair of walnuts in your ears.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ was his boss’s opinion. ‘We got a deal?’ he said to me.

  ‘How big does the tattoo have to be?’ I asked.

  ‘Small,’ he said. ‘I got someone in half an hour.’

  ‘Where’s the least painful place to have it?’

  ‘Butt cheek,’ was Dog’s verdict.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We have a deal.’

  Dog handed me a folder. After flicking through half a dozen laminated pages, I pointed out a simple design that had three concentric circles. I tried not to watch while Dog loaded his gun with ink. Instead, I attempted to blot out the mental image of a needle flashing i
n and out of my lilywhite arse.

  ‘Okay, Kenny,’ he said. ‘Assume the position.’

  The dentist’s chair turned out to be more like a massage table that hinged in the middle. A scalloped section afforded space for my head to hang. At least I wouldn’t have to witness the desecration happening. I lowered my jeans and pants a discreet distance, only to have Dog fully expose the target zone.

  ‘First I’ll run a razor over you, then you’ll feel the antiseptic wipe,’ he said. ‘You want to go left or right?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  Something scraped across my left buttock, followed by a chilly sensation.

  ‘I’m gonna start,’ Dog said. ‘Remember I don’t hear too good, so speak up. Whine and you get to walk home with half a tattoo on your ass.’

  I signified my understanding and the gun fired up.

  Imagine someone dragging a broken plastic fork over your sunburned buttock while you’re trying to hold an intelligible Q&A session with them. Then imagine not being able to make any sound of discomfort and having to bellow your questions. That gives you an inkling of what talking to Sweat Dog was like.

  ‘When did you start working for Mean?’ was my opener.

  ‘When they toured to support Charlie Rides Again,’ he replied over the electronic hum of the gun. ‘So that would have been fall of ’93.’

  ‘What were they like?’

  ‘JJ was a shit-hot guitar player, Cas was a decent vocalist, Chop could play pretty much any instrument under the sun, and Dean Allison was a sonofabitch.’

  ‘Were they getting on well?’

  ‘Dean played the gig and then did his own thing. JJ and Cas had known each other since they were kids and they had their own take on shit that left Chop out of the loop. Then Cas and Chop would piss off to write and it would be JJ left holding his dick.’

  ‘Did he resent that?’

  ‘He wasn’t thrilled, put it that way.’

  The needle found a tender spot, forcing me to stifle a cry of pain.

  ‘Were there many arguments?’ I asked.

  ‘Would have been more, apart from Chop was really good at smoothing things down. If the guy hadn’t been a musician, he could have joined the UN.’

  ‘How did he manage it?’

  ‘Whenever they wrote a song, Chop would invite JJ to input. Usually it would just be a couple of ideas about a guitar phrase or something. Not enough to get JJ a credit but enough to stop him feeling completely sidelined.’ Dog switched off the gun. ‘We ain’t done,’ he said. ‘Just gotta make a few adjustments.’

  I made use of the silence to ask a question at normal volume. ‘What did you make of Emily?’

  ‘Sweet kid. On The Spot had just been released when she first came on the scene. She was a looker, that’s for sure. There were a lot of groupies around by then, and most of ’em wanted to fuck Cas’s brains out. Em made him do the running.’

  The gun resumed its buzz.

  ‘I spoke to Dean Allison,’ I said. ‘He claimed that he was seeing Emily before she met Castor.’

  The gun clicked out.

  ‘He said what?’ Sweat Dog asked.

  I repeated myself, adding, ‘His take on things is that she told Castor about the relationship and he killed her in a fit of rage. Does that sound at all likely, Dog?’

  ‘Cas was the jealous type and he was fuckin’ unpredictable.’

  ‘Due to the drugs?’

  ‘Not just that. He was turning into Jim Morrison. Quoting Rimbaud and Nietzsche all the time. Thinking he was some kind of guru communing with the universe. It was getting to the point that Em couldn’t have a regular conversation with him.’

  Dog switched the gun on. Immediately it bit into my arse again.

  ‘Ever heard of the Golden Road?’ I asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You think there’s anything in it?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘A month before he disappeared,’ I continued, ‘Castor amalgamated all his assets and put them into a numbered account. There’s no way I can find out what’s going on with it. Maybe he took the Golden Road.’

  ‘Or it could have been a tax dodge,’ Dog said. ‘Cas didn’t like to throw his cash around. When I went back to the States, he stayed at my place to save on rent. Place looked like a squat when I got back. All kinds of crap lying around.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Mostly books and compilation tapes. I had a clear-out a few years ago and gave ’em to JJ. He was the nearest thing Cas had to family.’

  ‘Did the arguments ever turn physical?’ I asked.

  ‘Only once that I saw. They were in the green room after a gig. Outta the blue, JJ coldcocks Cas, after which JJ goes AWOL for a week and it looks like it’s the end of the band. Then he shows up again and things are back to normal.’

  ‘Any idea what sparked it off?’

  ‘Nope. JJ’s a hothead but that was outta character even for him.’

  Was it? I thought back to the Junction club, when JJ had done much the same thing to the suits. He’d been provoked, but all the same . . .

  ‘What do you think happened the night Em and Cas went missing?’ I asked.

  ‘If what Dean says is true, that’s your answer right there. Cas killed Em and then offed himself in some outta-the-way spot. Jumped into a river or something.’ The gun stopped buzzing. ‘Only thing I know for sure is that you’ve got a minor masterpiece on your ass. Wanna check it out?’

  I got off the chair and pulled my jeans to thigh height. Shuffling across the parlour floor like a convict in a chain gang, I examined my backside in the mirror.

  ‘It’s a bit fuzzy.’

  ‘It’ll sharpen when it heals,’ Dog said.

  There was a knock at the door. Beardy took the latch off and a guy wearing a camouflage jacket and trailing a Yorkshire terrier walked in. Dog selected a plaster and a tube of ointment from the shelf. He signalled for me to turn and lean against the chair.

  ‘What was Chop’s take on Castor’s bust-up with JJ?’ I asked while antiseptic balm was applied to my outraged buttock.

  ‘The guy was really cut up. Chop’s actually a couple of years younger than JJ and Cas, but it was like he was the only adult in the room.’

  Dog eased the plaster into place.

  ‘Okay, you’re done, fella,’ he said. ‘Leave the dressing on for twenty-four hours. After that, moisturise it every day for a week. If it starts lookin’ ugly, see a doctor.’ He removed his latex gloves and dropped them into a swing bin. Then he put the ointment back on the shelf. ‘Any of that help?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Cool. Ninety-five pounds.’

  ‘You’re charging me?’ I asked.

  ‘Everyone pays,’ Dog replied.

  I bargained Dog down by pointing out that the cost of my tattoo would be billed to Pam Ridley. This, combined with the fact that his next client was keen to get going, secured me a twenty per cent discount for cash. The demented Yorkie snapped at my ankles as I left the parlour. On the pavement, I checked my phone to find a message from Sebastian Regis at Flummery’s asking me to call as soon as possible.

  ‘Seb speaking,’ he said, breezily.

  ‘Kenny Gabriel,’ I said. ‘You left a message for me . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ His tone became more downbeat. ‘I believe that you’re related to Ms Pauline Oakley, one of our guests. Is that the case?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Pauline’s my cousin. I’m keen to get in touch with her, as our aunt’s been taken gravely ill. Is it possible to put me through?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. I’m afraid I have bad news, Mr Gabriel.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Pauline was found dead this morning.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Having delivered the information about Pauline Oakley’s death, Sebastian was keen that I contact the police. They were the last people I wanted to speak to
. After his condolences for my loss and my quite genuine expression of shock, I set to extracting as much information as possible. ‘Who found her?’ was my first question.

  ‘I believe an early-morning jogger,’ he replied, ‘Pauline was discovered on Hampstead Heath. It appears she may have committed suicide.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s her?’

  ‘She was carrying ID, according to the police.’

  ‘How did she do it?’ I asked.

  ‘It would be so much easier if you spoke to the officer in charge of the case,’ Sebastian said, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. ‘I have the name and number if you could just bear with me . . .’

  ‘Seb, all I want to know is how my cousin died. I think that’s reasonable, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, and cleared his throat. ‘Pauline hanged herself.’

  ‘Did she leave a note?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Was her room disturbed?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes. We had a burglary last night. An intruder went through a couple of suites.’

  ‘Had anything been taken? From Pauline’s room specifically, I mean.’

  ‘Difficult to say,’ Seb replied. ‘Why do you ask?’ His suspicion indicated we were nearing the end of the conversation. I answered his question with one of my own.

  ‘Was her laptop missing?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss this matter any further.’

  Seb terminated the call.

  What were the chances Pauline Oakley had decided to end it all on Hampstead Heath at the same time an intruder broke her room? Probably about the same as the CCTV cameras in Flummery’s getting a decent shot of the intruder’s face or her laptop still being around.

  There was no longer any way to bring Jake to book for murdering Arnie Atkinson, or prevent him marrying Stephie, at least not one that I could think of. But then what had I expected? The ruthless and the rich get away with pretty much anything they want to in life, unless they’re careless or unlucky, that is. Jake Villiers was neither.