Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  Shaheen stared at the ceiling as though considering the point.

  ‘We could go down that route,’ he said. ‘Or you could leave and then I decide that, on refection, I’d like to pull you back in to be interviewed as a suspect in a murder investigation.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Maybe in a couple of hours’ time . . .’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What d’you want to know?’

  ‘You’ve found two bodies in less than a week. That doesn’t happen, Kenny. Not without there being a reason.’ Shaheen held my statement up by its corner as though it had been dusted in anthrax. ‘This doesn’t come close to giving me the reason.’

  He laid the document back on the table and composed himself.

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with Saskia Reeves-Montgomery.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Again.’

  I sighed, to underscore that we’d already been over this three times in the last forty minutes. ‘Saskia wanted me to contribute to a book about Castor Greaves and Emily Ridley. She called to say that she’d found something interesting in her files that she’d like me to take a look at. I called back and said that I’d come round as soon as possible. Check the messages on her phone if you haven’t already.’

  ‘You’ve no idea what the something was?’

  ‘None at all. She said that she’d show me when we met.’

  Shaheen sniffed several times, as though something malodorous had just come to his attention. ‘Let’s move on to the fact that someone attempted to murder you on the last occasion you went to Pegler’s Wharf,’ he said.

  ‘That could have been an accident.’

  ‘Not what you said yesterday.’

  ‘Telling you about that was Saskia’s idea. She thought that I should let you know what had happened in order that we had a record for the book.’

  ‘So it wasn’t an attempt on your life?’

  ‘Actually, I think it might have been.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you follow through, Kenny?’

  ‘What was the point? I didn’t see whoever was responsible and there was no one else around. I thought you’d have told me I was imagining things.’

  ‘We could have examined CCTV in the area or asked the residents if anyone suspicious had been hanging around the marina. All of which might have prevented Saskia Reeves-Montgomery’s death. And if there’s anything else you could be telling me that you’re choosing not to, then I strongly suggest you reconsider your position. Is there anything else you haven’t told me, Kenny?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ I said.

  Shaheen drummed his fingers on the table. It may have been something they taught him to do in Interrogation 101, or just a habit. Either way, it was bloody irritating. I was glad when there was a knock on the door of the interview room. A uniformed officer poked his head around it. ‘Can I have a word, sir?’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Shaheen asked testily.

  ‘Not really, sir.’

  While Shaheen was away, the temptation to whip the newspaper article out of my pocket and take a look was almost overwhelming. Thankfully I managed to resist the urge, as the DCI was back in the room less than a minute later.

  ‘Okay, you’re free to go,’ he said without retaking his seat. ‘I’ll have a copy of your statement made and arrange a lift home for you.’

  ‘You’re not arresting me, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ Shaheen replied.

  Odeerie shoved a mug of coffee in front of me and sat down. The clock in the office showed 12.45 a.m. The fat man is a world-class insomniac, probably because the most exercise he gets during the day is walking to the fridge and back.

  He’d left several messages asking me to call, as reports were already beginning to circulate on social media that there had been an incident at the Pegler’s Wharf marina involving Saskia Reeves-Montgomery. I’d given him an overview as to what had taken place since we last spoke and he had insisted that I come round.

  The only reason I’d agreed was laid on a steel table. The page had been taken from the Essex Courier in June 2001. The headline was BLAZE AT POP STAR’S HOUSE. The picture accompanying the piece showed two fire engines and an ambulance in attendance at Mickleton Lodge. The article read:

  Fire broke out at the country retreat of ex-Mean member and Emmy Award-winning writer Chop Montague shortly before dawn on Tuesday morning. Mr Montague’s gardener raised the alarm and assisted his employer and a guest to safety. The Epping Fire Brigade were called to the scene at 5.15 AM and were successful in saving the building’s superstructure. However, some memorabilia and paintings were thought to have been destroyed. A man in his thirties was treated locally for the effects of smoke inhalation, although not taken to hospital. In a statement released through his management company, Mr Montague thanked the emergency services for their prompt attendance.

  In the photograph, Chop was standing in front of his house wearing a coat over a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. A few feet away from him was a woman wrapped in a blanket and a man – presumably the heroic gardener – clutching an oxygen mask while being attended by a paramedic. It was the kind of moderately significant news event that made it into the local press. Nothing to get excited about.

  Except that the woman was a dead ringer for Emily Ridley.

  ‘It can’t be her, Kenny,’ Odeerie said, biting into a doughnut. ‘She’d been dead over six years by the time that was taken.’

  ‘Assuming the body in the duct was Emily’s.’

  ‘Of course it was. The police might not be geniuses, but they’re hardly likely to get something like that wrong.’

  Odeerie dispatched the second half of the doughnut and wiped the jam off his lips with a tissue. I took a sip of coffee and positioned the magnifying glass over the photograph again. Emily Ridley’s face stared back at me. Except it couldn’t be. It was just someone who happened to look very, very like her.

  ‘How d’you know that was what Saskia wanted to show you?’ Odeerie asked. ‘She might have just been copying stuff and left it on there. I do it all the time.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s weird that it just happens to be a photograph of Emily Ridley with Chop Montague standing outside a blazing house?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Kenny, there’s no way it can be—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay. Even if it isn’t her then it’s still interesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it might indicate that Chop was obsessed with Emily Ridley. That’s why he dated someone who looked exactly like her six years after her death.’

  Odeerie’s brow crinkled. ‘And you think that proves he murdered her?’

  ‘He didn’t come back for twenty minutes after leaving the Emporium dressing room. That’s enough time to kill Emily, hide her body in the heating duct and then go back and say that he couldn’t find Castor.’

  Odeerie’s brow became positively corrugated. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Maybe he came on to her and she knocked him back.’

  ‘Chop Montague is a judge on a TV talent show. He’s not some cold-eyed killer on the quiet.’

  ‘If working for you has taught me one thing it’s that people surprise you.’

  Odeerie sat back and placed his hands over his chest.

  ‘Kenny, you’ve just had a traumatic experience and you aren’t in the best shape right now. It’s not surprising your mind’s running wild on this one. And you might have a point that Saskia thought it was odd that Chop Montague was seeing someone who looked a bit like Emily Ridley—’

  ‘A lot like Emily Ridley.’

  ‘Okay, a lot like her. But from what you’ve told me, Saskia Reeves-Montgomery was an eccentric with a penchant for the dramatic. People like that often pump things up beyond their usual significance. Makes them feel important.’

  ‘That doesn’t alter the facts.’

  ‘Right, so you think Chop Montague found out Saskia had this photograph and decided to torture her with an electric
iron and cave her head in?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ I admitted.

  ‘Thank God. Because what’s a lot more likely is that some toerag thought she had money hidden away somewhere. That’s why he took the iron to her face and nicked the laptop. You read about this kind of thing in the papers every week. They ought to bring back capital punishment, there’s far too many bleeding-heart liberals—’

  ‘Can we look online for any more pictures of the fire?’

  ‘What will that prove?’

  ‘It’ll only take a minute . . .’

  Odeerie sighed before switching on one of his desktop computers. While it booted up, my mind chewed over something Shaheen had said at West End Central. Would Saskia still be alive had I reported my dunking at Pegler’s Wharf? Probably not, but it might have made a difference. Should I be continuing with the investigation at all bearing in mind my condition? These weren’t the happiest of thoughts.

  Odeerie’s pudgy fingers flew over the keyboard like a demon pianist’s. Within a few seconds we were looking at the results on the screen.

  ‘Looks like it’s the only picture,’ he said. ‘Hang on . . .’

  The same image of the smouldering house enlarged. The mystery woman still looked like Emily Ridley’s doppelgänger. More so, if anything. Chop’s expression was also better defined.

  ‘Christ,’ I said, ‘it’s like a vampire staring at a crucifix.’

  ‘Or a public figure who hates having his privacy invaded.’

  ‘Okay, but you have to admit that mystery girl looks like Emily.’

  More lightning finger work from Odeerie brought a shot of Emily Ridley up on the screen. He alternated between the fire shot and the studio shot several times.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘she does a bit.’

  ‘Is the photo credited?’

  Odeerie shook his head. ‘Probably a freelance pap listening to the police frequencies or a cop making a few quid on the side.’

  ‘What about the reports?’

  There was only one other article concerning the fire at Mickleton Lodge, written a week after the event. It didn’t say much more than the Courier piece, apart from that the fire had probably been started by a faulty kitchen appliance.

  ‘Can you print a decent copy of the photo?’ I asked.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’ Odeerie said.

  ‘Show Chop Montague.’

  ‘And what d’you think he’s going to say? “You got me bang to rights, Kenny. I killed an anonymous woman and concealed her body in a disused heating duct. Then I imprisoned Emily Ridley and switched the DNA records in the police lab. If only the bastard Moulinex hadn’t blown a fuse, I might have got away with it . . .”’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Or maybe he’ll break down and say that he murdered Emily in a fit of fury because she objected to him goosing her in the corridor. Then he came back to the dressing room in the Emporium and suggested that everyone start looking for Castor Greaves because that’s just the kind of psycho he is.’

  ‘All I want to do is check out his reaction.’

  Odeerie buried his face in his hands. ‘Which way people’s eyes go is cobblers, Kenny. All Chop is likely to do is call the police and tell them that you’ve been harassing him. It won’t get you anywhere.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure.’

  The siren of a passing emergency vehicle cut into the silence of the office and then faded away. The fat man chewed his bottom lip while staring at me thoughtfully.

  ‘Let’s quit the job, Kenny. Pam Ridley asked you to find her daughter and that’s what you’ve done. We’ve both had death threats and you’re in no shape to continue.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘There’ll be other clients. Your health is more important.’

  It may have been the softness in Odeerie’s voice or the gentle squeeze he gave my arm that caused the energy to depart from me like the air from a ruptured balloon. I was a man in late middle age who needed to face up to his own mortality.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Time to call it a day.’

  Odeerie urged me to stay the night at his flat. It was tempting, but the walk from Meard Street to Brewer Street would only take ten minutes and I wanted to wake up in my own bed. Assuming I managed to get any sleep, that was. Saskia’s mutilated face peered out at me from the dull plate glass of each shop window I passed.

  The wind bit and the streets were deserted. The worst is not so long as we can say ‘This is the worst’, Shakespeare had it. I wasn’t convinced that it applied to me.

  Saskia Reeves-Montgomery had died at the hand of a sadist who would probably walk away scot-free. A man who had almost certainly killed someone and faked her suicide would soon be marrying the only person I had ever cared about, and maybe the only person who had ever cared about me.

  In a few days’ time, someone would place a mask over my face and I would descend into oblivion. If I emerged at all then it might be in an altered state that meant having to learn how to wipe my own backside again. Best-case scenario was that, after a few weeks’ convalescence, I returned to what I’d been doing for the last six years.

  I’d just completed this cheerful life-audit when I saw her hovering a foot off the ground at the corner of Lexington Street. The wind ruffled the feathers of her outstretched wings. A dazzling white dress finished mid-thigh. Fishnet stockings stretched over slim legs into a pair of gold patent-leather Doc Marten 1460s.

  In her left hand was a foot-long cigarette holder and in her right was an open bottle of Moët grasped at the neck. Vintage. Her fluorescent smile would have been flawless had an incisor not been missing on the left-hand side.

  Her wings flapped a couple of times to correct a wobble. She took a swig from the bottle. Its contents fizzed and cascaded down her front, causing the material of her dress to become translucent. Her nipples stiffened and she looked at her breasts in apparent shock. Then she stuck out her tongue and winked at me.

  A car alarm went off and my pissed angel – if that’s what she was – disappeared as though she had never been there, which, of course, she hadn’t. Either the tumour or exhaustion, or probably both, was causing me to seriously trip out.

  Whether I was in any fit state to carry on with the case occupied my mind for the remainder of the journey back to the flat. And it would probably have occupied it for the rest of the night had a more familiar figure not been standing on my doorstep.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Stephie crossed her legs and took a drag on the Marlboro. ‘Love what you’ve done to the place, Kenny,’ she said. ‘You’ve emptied the ashtray and that old beer can used to be on the coffee table. It’s so much more effective on the TV.’

  ‘Different can,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Well, you’ve got to spend a few quid to get things right,’ Stephie said. ‘Nice that you’ve left the wallpaper curling by the door, though. Be a shame to destroy original features in a room like this. And the way you’ve resisted putting a shade on that light bulb is a stroke of genius. Not many have your aesthetic vision.’

  ‘Did you come round to take the piss?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope,’ Stephie replied. ‘But now that I’m here . . .’

  During the fifteen minutes we’d been in the flat, I’d poured each of us a large Macallan from the bottle she’d brought and then refreshed our glasses. Stephie gave up smoking years ago, but usually made an exception when I waved a Marlboro packet under her nose.

  We had chatted about this and that, although I still wasn’t entirely sure as to the reason for her visit.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ I said, taking a hit on the whisky. ‘It isn’t every day I get to drink decent malt.’

  ‘It’s certainly better than your usual rubbish.’ Stephie held her empty tumbler out. ‘Go on, pour me another . . .’

  ‘You sure, Steph? You’ve had two biggies already.’

  ‘If I can’t have a few drinks on my day off, when
can I?’

  I sloshed more Macallan into her glass and did the same to mine. Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker, as Ogden Nash so aptly put it.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said. We clinked glasses and leant back on the sofa.

  ‘Any particular reason you’re here?’ I asked. ‘Not that you need one . . .’

  ‘I wanted to apologise for what I said in Assassins. No one said you had to come to Manchester, and it’s stupid that I’ve been so mardy about it since getting back.’

  ‘It wasn’t the right time, Steph. I was feeling like shit and all I wanted to do was hole up in here until I felt better. Then I fully intended to get on the train—’

  ‘Yeah, you said all that,’ Stephie interrupted. ‘And to be fair, if you had turned up then I probably wouldn’t have met Jake.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have wanted to meet Jake.’

  I fully expected Stephie to disagree with this, potentially with extreme prejudice. Instead she stubbed her cigarette out and took a drink.

  ‘What did you mean when you said that you need to know people well before they show their true colours?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been with Jake for nine months. Don’t you think that’s long enough?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. Part of getting married is discovering more about one another as each day passes. That’s how it was with me and Don . . .’

  Stephie’s first husband had died in a car crash. He’d been a kind, intelligent and decent man, as opposed to a psychopathic nutjob.

  ‘You and Don were in a hurry to get married because you were pregnant,’ I said, what with all of the above being unverifiable. ‘Why the rush with Jake?’

  ‘We’re not as young as we used to be and we want to get on with it. And once we’re hitched, he plans to get me involved with the business.’

  ‘Did you know Jake owns the Emporium?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Has done since 2002.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Kenny? That he had something to do with Emily Ridley’s murder? Because if you are—’