Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  ‘Just wondered if you knew about it, that’s all.’

  Stephie pulled out a small velvet box from her bag. ‘Check that out,’ she said.

  The engagement ring must have cost a mint. Just as well Jake had saved himself a few hundred thousand by murdering Pauline Oakley.

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing it?’ I asked.

  ‘Needs resizing.’ Stephie snapped the box closed and placed it on the arm of the sofa. ‘My point is . . . if Jake didn’t love me, then why would he give me a fuck-off rock like that?’

  She knocked back the rest of her drink. I followed suit.

  ‘Were we in love, Steph?’

  ‘What kind of question’s that?’

  ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to . . .’

  Stephie put her empty glass on the floor and took a deep breath.

  ‘I was gutted when you didn’t show up in Manchester,’ she said, slurring her words slightly. ‘You didn’t return my calls and you couldn’t even be arsed to email or even text that you weren’t coming.’

  ‘I did try to call a—’

  ‘Trying isn’t the same as doing, Kenny,’ Stephie interrupted, her face flushed with annoyance and booze. ‘Christ, you’ll stop at virtually nothing when it comes to tracking down someone you’ve never even met, but not when it’s someone you allegedly want to spend the rest of your life with.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no, then?’ I asked.

  Suddenly our mouths were together and tongues intertwined. Our hands were roving over each other like a pair of wrestlers trying to find a competitive hold. It felt like old times. At least it did until Stephie pushed me away.

  ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m pissed!’ She stood up. ‘God knows why I came here. It was a stupid thing to do.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘I’m in love with Jake and we’re getting married.’

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ I said.

  ‘Not jumping into bed with you? I don’t think so, Kenny.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant . . .’

  Stephie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s something you don’t know about Jake Villiers.’

  ‘You told me. He owns the Emporium. So what?’

  ‘Not that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Twenty years ago he was with a woman called Pauline Oakley. He knocked her around a bit and put her into hospital when she refused to commit a tax fraud in order to save the company. She kept the documents and tried to blackmail him last week. I’m pretty sure Jake murdered her and made it look like suicide.’

  Stephie broke a short but intense silence.

  ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’ she asked.

  ‘And I think he also had a business competitor called Arnie Atkinson killed as well,’ I said, to put her fully in the picture. ‘Although I can’t prove that.’

  ‘But the rest you can?’

  ‘Not now Pauline’s dead.’

  Whatever reaction I’d expected from Stephie, it wasn’t that she’d burst into laughter. ‘You seriously thought I’d believe that crock of shit?’

  ‘It’s true, Steph.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Jake’s the kindest man I’ve ever met. And all that other stuff is so ridiculous that I’m not even going to take it seriously.’

  Stephie wasn’t laughing anymore. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  ‘One thing I always admired about you, Kenny, was your honesty. If something didn’t go your way then you took it on the chin. At least, you used to.’

  ‘It’s all true, Stephie.’

  ‘Apart from you can’t prove it?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted.

  Stephie grabbed her bag. In doing so, she knocked the Macallan over. The lid was off and the Scotch began to seep into the carpet.

  ‘You’re pathetic, Kenny,’ she said, making no effort to stop the flow. ‘And quite frankly, if I don’t see you for the rest of my life, it’ll be way too soon.’

  ‘Steph, the only reason I’m telling you this is because—’

  A slamming door interrupted me, followed by the sound of feet descending the stairs. In her haste to leave, Stephie had left the ring behind. I removed the glittering chunk of carbon from the box. Nestled in my palm, it felt like a synthesised version of Jake Villiers.

  Had there been a hammer handy, I’d have smashed the diamond into dust. Instead I slipped it back into its box and drank what remained of the Macallan.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I emerged at 8 a.m. from one of the deepest sleeps I’d known in years. My left eye was unfocused for five minutes, but there was no repeat of the nausea I’d felt the previous day. I took a long shower and examined my tattoo. Perhaps having a target plastered across my arse cheek wasn’t the wisest choice I’d ever made. But what was done was done. I rubbed moisturiser into my buttock as Dog had instructed, after which I brewed a pint of coffee and risked a boiled egg. Then I checked my inbox.

  If you want information as to the fate of Castor Greaves, we can supply this. Choose to take our offer up and we will contact you again at 6.00PM. Respond to this email by sending Accept before 10.00AM GMT. Should you not respond, or respond after this time, we will assume that you have no interest in the matter. Any attempt to trace the source of this message will prove futile.

  It wasn’t the first peculiar email I’d had since finding Emily Ridley. There had been at least half a dozen from people who needed to be admitted into full-time psychiatric care or, at the very least, have their meds adjusted. This was different. For one thing it was coherent and for another it didn’t accuse me of being in league with Satan or to stop medling in things that do not koncern u!!!

  And so what if the sender was a fruitcake? All that would happen was that I’d get something at 6 p.m. that confirmed they were batshit crazy. No harm in that. I stubbed out my smoke and sent Accept at 8.53 a.m., and waited for a response that might confirm receipt. All that had fallen into my inbox fifteen minutes later was a message from Faith Bellow of the FBI, who was writing to advise that the Secretary General of the United Nations had formally sanctioned $44,000,000 be released into my account. All Faith required were the relevant details . . .

  First decent break I’d had in a long while.

  The last time I’d called Chop’s agency, I’d spoken to a lackey; this time it was the woman herself. Maggie Riggs didn’t try to fob me off when I asked for her client’s mobile number. Neither did she oblige me. ‘I’m afraid we’re not authorised to give out personal details,’ was the predictable response.

  ‘Can’t you make an exception?’ I said. ‘It’s a matter of some urgency.’

  ‘What I can do is give Chop a message and ask him to call you back.’

  ‘When’s that likely to be?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Chop is rather busy at the moment . . .’

  ‘Can you tell him it’s regarding Saskia Reeves-Montgomery,’ I said. ‘She was the woman who was murdered at Pegler’s Wharf yesterday.’

  If it was a surprise that her client was being associated with a dead woman then Maggie’s voice didn’t indicate it. ‘I’ll be sure to mention that to him,’ she said.

  ‘Could you also mention there’s a photograph I’d like to show him?’ I added for good measure.

  Curiosity got the better of Maggie this time.

  ‘What kind of photograph?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a photograph,’ I said, and cut the call.

  Shortly before leaving the flat, I forwarded the mystery email to Odeerie, along with the information that I’d had second thoughts about quitting the search for Emily’s killer. Was there any way he could trace the message? My phone rang with his number while I was on the way to the Tube. Not fancying a tricky confab as to why I’d changed my mind, I allowed it to go to voicemail and descended to platform level.

  The commuter herd had lef
t multiple copies of the Metro in its wake. I checked one out to see if there was any mention of Saskia or Pauline Oakley. The first featured on page three; the second on page twelve. Homicide was clearly more newsworthy than suicide.

  A picture of Pegler’s Wharf accompanied the piece about Saskia’s death. All that was known at the time of going to print was that she had been assaulted on her houseboat and that the police were investigating. Biographical information listed her age (61) and that she was a freelance author who had recently completed the co-written biography of Marcie Bell, doyen of popular soap opera Albion Alley.

  The news that a woman had been found hanging on Hampstead Heath only merited three paragraphs. She had been found shortly after dawn by a jogger who had alerted the police. The woman had been identified as Pauline Oakley and her next of kin had been informed. The police were not treating her death as suspicious.

  Relatively close to Central London, the Heath was a favoured spot for suicides. Many of its eight hundred acres were covered in trees and undergrowth. If you wanted to bid the cruel world goodbye, you were unlikely to be disturbed so long as you did so during the hours of darkness. It also provided perfect cover for someone to hand over a huge amount of money to someone blackmailing them.

  During the journey to Crouch End, I imagined how Jake might have arranged matters. Contacting Pauline to say that he had raised the cash would have been the first step. Meeting on Hampstead Heath after dark would have triggered a few alarm bells in Pauline’s mind. Jake had probably countered them by saying that, if she wanted the money, it was the only place he was prepared to hand it over.

  Greed and desperation had won out. It was a potent combination that, while I’d been working for Odeerie, I’d seen bring people low. Pauline and Jake would have met where there was no CCTV coverage. Whether he would have been able to subdue and hang her on his own was a moot point. Jake was in good shape, but it would still have been an effort to single-handedly overpower a woman fighting for her life.

  Jake wouldn’t have chosen an accomplice he couldn’t trust implicitly, but ultimately the only person you can really trust is yourself. If I could find out who his assistant had been there was a chance I could persuade them to talk. But as they would be implicating themselves in murder, it was a slim reed to hang my hopes upon.

  Per square mile, there were probably more yoga studios in Crouch End than in Santa Barbara. It was the favoured method for mummies to stay yummy and retired professional ladies to remain limber in their later years. Also available on the Broadway was an artisanal butcher, a dental spa, an art-house cinema called the Arthouse cinema, and at least one cafe in which you could order a yak-milk latte.

  City Stretch was sandwiched between an estate agency and a florist. Its window featured photos of toned bodies in extended positions. Classes for all levels were available, said the sign on the door. Intermediate Pilates, led by Davina, was scheduled to finish in five minutes, according to the website.

  A tubby guy in his forties was folding towels behind reception. The sleeves of his linen shirt had been rolled up to the elbows to reveal a pair of plaited bracelets on one wrist and an Apple Watch on the other. Ginger hair had been dragged back over his skull and was fastened in a nub resembling a docked poodle’s tail.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked with a faint Geordie accent.

  ‘I’ve an appointment with Davina.’

  ‘And your name is . . . ?’

  ‘Kenny Gabriel.’

  The guy put the towel he was folding on to a shelf and consulted an iPad. ‘You don’t seem to be down here,’ he said. ‘When did you make the appointment?’

  ‘Yesterday evening. Davina and I know each other socially. She said that I should drop by this morning after she finished her first class.’

  ‘No problem,’ the receptionist said. ‘Dav should be through quite soon. Could I offer you a tea or coffee?’

  I declined both in favour of water from the cooler and took a seat. For the next five minutes I listened to low-volume sitar music and watched Tubby graduate from folding towels to arranging multicoloured foam blocks. Then the double doors to the right of his desk opened and a stream of chattering women emerged.

  ‘You can go into the studio now,’ he said.

  Four large windows built into a vaulted roof lit the room with the assistance of half a dozen halogen spots. Each white wall had a large fractal print attached to it. At the furthest end of the studio was a platform that stood six inches proud of the wooden floor. A dozen or so foam mats were spread equidistant from each other. A woman was dragging a pair of them towards a pile in the corner of the room.

  Davina Jackson was wearing grey leggings and a powder-blue top. She had cropped brown hair and a pair of rimless glasses. An athlete’s rangy physique would have been the envy of a woman half her age. She deposited the mats on the pile and registered my presence for the first time.

  ‘Davina Jackson?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  I pulled the doors closed.

  ‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel, Davina. We spoke on the phone yesterday . . .’

  ‘I specifically told you not to get in touch with me again.’

  ‘You did. The only reason I’m here is because I think you might have information that could prove useful.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Davina snapped.

  ‘Girlfriends have a tendency to share secrets, particularly in their teens. And to be honest it seemed when we spoke that you knew something.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. Get out or I’ll have you thrown out.’

  She bent down and grabbed the corner of another mat. I took a few steps towards her. ‘Davina, however Emily died it wasn’t painlessly. For over twenty years Pam’s been hoping against hope that her daughter’s still alive and now she knows the truth. I can only imagine what that must feel like, but then I haven’t got kids.’

  Nothing from Davina.

  ‘Have you?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Who knows, maybe Emily would have too. And yet whoever killed her is almost certainly still out there enjoying life. D’you think that’s fair?’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Davina said, with slightly less conviction.

  There are times to talk and times to shut up. The latter was the right option for me to take as far as Davina Jackson was concerned. She placed the mat in the corner and began to re-space those that remained. Thirty seconds before she looked at me again.

  ‘I just want to live my life in peace.’

  ‘So does Pam Ridley,’ I said. ‘And if she can find out who killed her daughter then she might have the chance to do that. I promise that anything you tell me will be treated with complete confidentiality.’

  The only sound in the studio was the sitar music from reception and the cheeping of a starling perched on the ledge of one of the windows. Davina wrapped her arms around her body as though the temperature had dropped several degrees.

  ‘You swear it stays between you and me?’

  ‘Do you know something that might help?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I might.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  I chose to sit on a moulded plastic chair, Davina cross-legged on the floor. ‘My family moved to London when I was eight,’ she began. ‘I was a shy child and not that great at mixing with other kids. On my first day at school, Emily marched up to me in the playground and introduced herself, which was pretty much typical of her.’

  ‘And you became best friends?’ I asked.

  ‘You could put it that way. Not that we were particularly similar. I was a bit of a swot and Emily wasn’t all that bothered with schoolwork. Not after she was signed by the agency, anyway. That was when things began to change.’

  ‘Different agendas?’ I said.

  ‘Pretty much. Although we’d still meet up from time to time. Even when things really started to take off for Em and I went to uni.’

  The door opened and the
receptionist stuck his head round. ‘People are starting to arrive for your eleven o’clock, Dav,’ he said. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Can you keep them in reception, Andy? We shouldn’t be long.’

  Andy nodded, cast a curious glance in my direction and left.

  ‘Where was I?’ Davina asked.

  ‘Saying about how you saw less and less of Emily after she signed . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, I hadn’t seen Em for about two months when she called and suggested a drink. By this time she was in magazines and on posters, but she was probably most famous for being Castor Greaves’s girlfriend.’

  ‘When was this?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d have been in my first year at UEA, so early ’95.’

  ‘The year they went missing?’

  Davina nodded. ‘When we met, Em said that something was bothering her. I asked what it was and she said she was getting unwanted attention.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘Dean Allison.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Positive. They’d met a couple of years earlier and started seeing each other. Emily told him they had to keep it secret as the agency was dead against the girls on their books having celebrity boyfriends and it could ruin her career.’

  ‘Was Dean a celebrity then?’

  ‘No, but he probably thought he was.’

  ‘Then why did Emily—’

  ‘She had lied to him about her age. Dean thought she was over sixteen, when actually she was a few months younger.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Without make-up on, Em looked like a schoolgirl. When she dolled herself up, you’d have no problem believing she was twenty.’

  ‘So Dean really had no idea?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Who ended the relationship?’ I asked.

  ‘He did, after a few months. Emily might have looked like a sophisticated young woman, but she was only a kid. Dean must have found the conversation tedious and he quickly got sick of them never being seen out together.’

  ‘How did Emily react to being dumped?’

  ‘A bit miffed to begin with, but her career was beginning to take off and there was a lot going on in her life.’