by Greg Keen
I lit up a Marlboro and gazed at the citizenry of Muswell Hill. Some were ferrying shopping bags to cars, others staring into estate agent windows. A little girl tripped along holding her mother’s hand and trailing a pink scooter. It was the everyday world of those who had set a steady course early in life and were reaping its rewards.
Could I have been the gent in the tweed jacket supervising a couple of workmen loading a walnut escritoire into a van? In a parallel universe maybe the kid with the scooter was visiting Grampie Kenny and the guy with a tattooed arse didn’t exist. Pauline Oakley hadn’t died mysteriously and Stephie was in the kitchen icing a birthday cake. And Jake Villiers was slopping out in Wormwood Scrubs.
During the cab ride to visit Dean Allison, I called Saskia. Voicemail again. Presumably the exciting ‘discovery’ had been no such thing and she was either too embarrassed to speak to me or too hungover to be able to. I left another message to the effect that I’d be unable to visit until that evening and then called the Junction club. JJ answered immediately.
‘Hi JJ, it’s Kenny.’
‘For fuck’s sake, you’re over an hour late!’
‘Am I?’
A pause, during which the only thing I could hear on the line was the faint sound of Buddy Guy singing ‘Stone Crazy’. ‘You’re not the bloke delivering the mixers?’ JJ asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I came to see you a few days ago. Pam Ridley retained—’
‘Yeah, I remember,’ he said. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Another chat. Obviously things have changed in light of recent events . . .’
‘Congratulations. You found Em’s body. What’s it got to do with me?’
‘I’ve just spent some time with an old colleague of yours . . .’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Sweat Dog.’
Buddy Guy went into a guitar solo that JJ didn’t talk over for a good five seconds. ‘What did Dog have to say?’ he asked eventually.
‘Quite a bit. Some of which I’d like to discuss with you . . .’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Face to face.’
‘When and where?’ JJ asked. The aggression had morphed into truculence, but you’d need a tin ear not to detect an undertone of anxiety.
‘Two o’clock tomorrow at the Vesuvius Club, Greek Street. That work for you?’
‘Whatever,’ he grunted.
The cab had reached the King’s Road when I checked Google for any mention of Pauline Oakley. Her body had been found near the bathing ponds. The police hadn’t issued a statement, but it was assumed the dead woman had committed suicide.
The only hope I had was that the break-in at Flummery’s might seem too much of a coincidence even to an overworked cop. And yet it sounded as though Jake (or more likely an accomplice) had covered his tracks by burgling several rooms rather than just Pauline’s. I was wondering if an anonymous call might at least provoke the constabulary to ask a few questions, when the cabbie pulled up.
Number 9 Chartwell Street was one of several two-up two-down cottages built in Chelsea between the wars. Back then they had been modest purchases; now you would need a couple of million to afford one of the pastel-coloured buildings.
Dean Allison’s was candyfloss pink with a sky-blue front door. The window box had some hardy shrub varietal growing in it and the black curtains had been drawn. Options on the front door were a brass dolphin-shaped knocker in its centre or a bell attached to the side. I brought the dolphin’s tail down firmly, several times.
‘Open up, Dean,’ I said loudly. ‘I’ve a photo you’ll be interested in.’
Dean’s left eye had taken a direct hit. At the centre of a swollen red pouch was a slit that he may or may not have been able to see through. The grazing around his temple was extensive and there was a plaster stretched across the bridge of his nose.
‘What photo?’ he asked, like a rubbish ventriloquist.
The sitting room was small and immaculate. Wallpaper featured a jungle scene from which peeped parrots, monkeys and tigers. A pair of green chesterfield sofas took up a lot of floor space, as did an intricately woven Turkish rug. Above the fireplace hung a large mirror that gave the illusion of depth. The stifling temperature, combined with the exotic wallpaper, made me feel in need of a panama hat and a malaria shot.
‘Take a seat,’ Dean said. On a side table by one sofa lay a box of co-codamol, a bottle of Glenlivet, an empty glass and an iPad. I chose its opposite number, hoping that the booze and the pills were more likely to make him loquacious than leery.
‘Who attacked you?’ I asked after Dean had lowered himself down with a degree of discomfort that suggested the blows he’d taken weren’t exclusively to the head.
‘Take a wild guess,’ he said.
‘Justice for Animals?’
Dean nodded and immediately wished he hadn’t.
‘Have the police arrested anyone?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t involve them.’
‘Why not?’
‘What’s the point?’
‘Did you get a look at whoever did it?’
‘No. They attacked me from behind when I was leaving the shop. One minute I was locking up, the next I was flat-out on the pavement. If someone hadn’t interrupted him, then God knows what would have happened.’
The sound of trumpeting elephants and whooping chimpanzees emerged from the walls. Judging by Dean’s expression, he wasn’t hearing them. I shook them out of my head and continued with the questions.
‘What time was this?’
‘About ten thirty.’
Wikipedia had been right. Dean’s wired jaw allowed his lips to move but his face was immobile, and speaking clearly caused him discomfort.
Shame.
‘Did the witness who intervened get a look at your attacker?’ I asked.
‘Too dark.’
‘But it was just one person?’
‘Yes.’
‘Definitely male?’
He pointed to his jaw. ‘You think a woman did this?’
‘You’ve no real proof it was the JFA, then?’ I said, ignoring the sexism. ‘It could easily have been an opportunist mugger or someone with a grudge.’
‘What kind of grudge?’
I slipped my hand into my jacket and produced Emily’s photo.
‘This kind.’
Dean leant forward in order to get a better look at the picture. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked after scrutinising it for a few seconds.
‘Emily’s mother found it. To be fair that’s the only one that’s actually had the eyes burned out. The others had “bastard”, “arsehole” or “shithead” scrawled across them. You know – the kind of thing besotted young women often write.’
‘Just the photographs?’ Dean asked, which was a curious question.
‘What else were you expecting?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing at all.’
Dean laid the photo on the arm of the sofa. He unscrewed the Scotch bottle and poured himself a shot without offering me one. It made me especially delighted that a third of the glass’s contents spilled down his shirt when he tried to drink it.
‘What d’you think this proves?’ he asked, brushing himself down.
‘That you and Emily weren’t star-crossed lovers.’
Had Dean been able to smile, I think he would have. He appeared more relieved than stressed. Odd bearing in mind what I’d just confronted him with.
‘It proves nothing of the sort,’ he said.
‘Really? Convince me.’
‘I don’t have to convince you, but if it gets you out of my bloody hair . . .’ He took a more careful hit on his drink. ‘Emily probably defaced the photos when I finished the relationship. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned . . .’
‘You stopped seeing her?’
‘Didn’t I tell you that?’
I shook my head. ‘I thought you broke up when she met Castor.’
‘God, no. We were w
ell and truly over by then. Emily was physically stunning but mentally vacuous. Eventually I became bored with the tedious conversations and said we should go our different ways.’
‘How did she react?’
He handed the photo back.
‘Badly, as you can see . . .’
Fifteen minutes ago Dean had been visibly anxious. Now he was as relaxed as a man with a busted jaw probably gets. He looked at his watch.
‘Kenny, I’m sorry for what happened to Emily and I hope that you find out who was responsible. But I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you . . .’
‘Thanks for your time,’ I said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
TWENTY-TWO
During my time with Dean it had become properly dark. I felt like ordering a pizza, having a bath and rubbing a tube of Sudocrem into my aching behind. Stereophonic wallpaper was probably a sign that I should down tools for the day, and possibly for good. All that stopped me was that I still hadn’t heard from Saskia.
When my third call of the day to her went to her voicemail, I hailed a cab and instructed its driver to take me to Pegler’s Wharf. The traffic was flowing like cement so I used the time to phone Davina Jackson. The man who answered sounded as though he had just been woken. He asked me to hang on. A minute later the receiver was picked up. ‘Davina speaking.’
‘Hello, Davina, my name’s Kenny Gabriel. I’m calling in connection with an old friend of yours . . . Emily Ridley.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘I’m not from the press,’ I said reassuringly. ‘I’m working on behalf of Pam Ridley. You’re probably aware that her daughter’s body was discovered recently . . .’
Given the amount of media coverage, this was tantamount to saying that she was probably aware the sun rose this morning. It made Davina’s reaction all the more surprising.
‘They found Em?’ she asked after a moment’s silence.
‘Er, yes, it’s been in the news a fair bit.’
‘I’m just back from a yoga retreat. Where was she?’
‘In a heating duct on the roof of the Emporium club.’
‘Someone murdered her?’ Davina’s voice sounded as though it was being transmitted by ancient equipment over a vast distance.
‘The police haven’t confirmed that yet, although it’s hard to draw any other conclusion,’ I said. ‘I’m a private investigator working for Pam Ridley—’
‘I’m not talking to you,’ Davina Jackson said. ‘I’m not talking to anyone.’
‘I fully understand what happened was a long time ago but—’
‘Do not ring this number again,’ she said, and terminated the call.
Not many relish being dragged into a murder inquiry. When it’s as high-profile as Emily Ridley’s, the number approaches zero. And yet the vehemence of Davina Jackson’s refusal was unusual. Was it purely that she didn’t want the publicity, or had some other factor caused her to put the phone down?
Ten minutes before we were scheduled to arrive at Pegler’s Wharf, I called Odeerie. The fat man answered straight away. ‘How are you, Kenny?’ he asked.
‘Not great,’ I said. ‘I’ve just had my arse tattooed.’
Not the answer Odeerie had been expecting. Dead air reflected this. I delivered a digest of my encounter with Sweat Dog followed by a résumé of my interview with Dean Allison, including details of the injuries he’d sustained.
‘Dean thinks the JFA beat him up?’ the fat man asked.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But there was no positive ID, so it could well have been someone else. If the guy hadn’t been interrupted then he would have kept on going.’
‘You don’t think it might have been the Golden Road?’ Odeerie asked.
‘Nope. Dean said there was no specific threat and I believe him.’
‘A mugging?’
‘Muggers don’t go to town like that.’
‘Probably was the JFA then,’ Odeerie said, relief in his voice. ‘The animal rights brigade are a right bunch of nutters.’
‘Apart from Dean was lying about something. Or he wasn’t being entirely truthful, which amounts to the same thing.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Eye tracking calibration.’
This brought a sigh from Odeerie. ‘I wish I’d never sent you on that NLP course,’ he said. ‘You can’t spot porkies by the way people blink. It’s psychobabble bullshit.’
‘It worked on you.’
‘That was just luck. What was Dean lying about?’
‘His relationship with Emily. He said that he was the one to finish things. She went nuts and that’s why she defaced his photographs.’
‘Mmm, I dunno, Kenny,’ Odeerie said. ‘None of this adds up to anything concrete, does it? Did this Sweat Dog character give you anything useful at all?’
The fat man’s scepticism put the kibosh on me telling him the one thing Dog had mentioned that might prove significant. I’d check it out personally first.
‘Not specifically, but I just finished chatting to Davina Jackson.’
‘And?’
‘She hadn’t heard that Emily Ridley’s body had been found. When I mentioned it, something spooked her and she told me not to get in touch again.’
‘What d’you think that was?’
‘No idea, but I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow.’
‘Don’t hassle her, Kenny. The last thing we want to do is interest the police.’
The prospect of an unscheduled visit from the law was a constant anxiety for Odeerie. It might lead to an examination of his hard drives, on which there would likely be multiple transgressions of the Data Protection Act. I assured him that I’d be discreet.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asked.
‘On my way to see Saskia Reeves-Montgomery at Pegler’s Wharf.’
‘Okay, well, call me if it’s anything I should know about, and go straight home afterwards. You need your sleep, Kenny.’
‘Tucked up by ten,’ I promised.
I could hear a thumping bassline before I’d walked through the gate at Pegler’s Wharf. A party was taking place on a barge decked out in balloons and bunting. The aroma of barbecuing meat caused my stomach to turn. A woman in a pirate’s hat gestured at me to come aboard. I shook my head and she responded with an exaggerated shrug of disappointment.
Lights were on in the Anna Marie. I rapped on the door and waited for a minute. Then I knocked again. Still nothing. I tapped on a glass porthole and shouted Saskia’s name. Silence. Was she on the party boat? I was about to retrace my steps when I detected a smell considerably less appetising than griddled sausages and chicken.
A mental image of Saskia with a lit Camel in one hand and a glass of Teacher’s in the other came to mind. It was displaced by one of her passed out while the sofa went up in flames. Several bangs on the toughened-glass porthole brought no response.
The lock splintered on the third kick. I descended into the living quarters. The desk had been overturned and there were documents all over the floor. Half the books and vinyl had been swept from the shelves, one of which hung by a single bracket.
Saskia’s face was crimson and lurid. The left eye was blistered over; the other stared sightlessly up at me. Blood and brain matter had congealed around an indentation above her temple. The electric iron had burned through the rug and the rubber underlay. Had the fuse not blown then the entire boat might have gone up in flames. Whoever had killed Saskia had hopefully done so before applying the red-hot element to her face. But what would have been the point in that?
My first instinct was to leg it. Not because the killer might still be on the boat, more that it was the natural reaction to put as much distance between me and something so horrific that it possessed an almost cartoonish quality. I closed my eyes and counted to five before opening them again. Sadly, I wasn’t hallucinating.
After withdrawing a carving knife from a block in the galley, I searched the rest of the Anna Marie. Having drawn
a blank I returned to the cabin, panting as though I’d been on a cross-country run instead of prowling around a deserted boat. Castor Greaves had said that I needed to stop investigating or face the consequences from the Golden Road. Had Saskia received a similar call and chosen to disregard it? If so, what had happened to her might well soon be happening to me. And Odeerie.
After covering Saskia with my jacket, I called the emergency services and explained what I’d found and where I’d found it. I was advised to stay where I was, not to move anything and that help was on its way. I stood by the door and lit a cigarette. The nicotine hit soothed my jangling nerves and allowed me time to take in the chaos more objectively. Saskia’s laptop had gone, although her printer remained on a low pedestal. I noticed there was document under its lid at around the same time as the sound of pounding boots first became audible. I folded the piece of yellowing newsprint and transferred it to the back pocket of my jeans.
Seconds later, the first cop barrelled through the door.
TWENTY-THREE
The last time I’d seen DCI Tony Shaheen he had been immaculately turned out in a dark-blue suit, polished Oxfords and a carefully knotted tie. Sartorial standards had slipped. The man facing me over the table looked as though he hadn’t slept much in the last four days. His suit jacket had been draped over his chair and there wasn’t a tie in sight. The shadows under his eyes looked like they had been stencilled on. If he weren’t being such a pain in the arse, I might even have felt sorry for him.
The DCI flicked through my three-page statement. The frown and occasional shake of the head suggested that he didn’t much care for its style or content.
‘Okay, if you’re happy with that then sign and date it,’ he said, sliding the document over the table. I did so at the place where it said that I believed the statement I had given to be true, and returned the sheets to him.
‘Can I go now?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got a few more questions,’ Shaheen said.
‘I thought I was purely here as a witness. If you want to interview me officially, then shouldn’t I be cautioned and assigned a duty solicitor?’
