by Greg Keen
‘Plus she met Castor Greaves,’ I said.
Davina nodded. ‘Cas was doing a shoot with a photographer Emily was booked in for a session with. She arrived early and they got talking in the bar. Em was almost eighteen by then so the age thing didn’t matter, and the agency were positively thrilled that she was seeing an up-and-coming rock star.’
‘But I’m guessing Dean wasn’t quite so happy?’ I asked.
‘Furious. According to Emily, he and Castor were like chalk and cheese, although the one thing they both had in common was gigantic egos.’
‘So he got back in touch with Emily?’
‘Yep. He said that if she didn’t dump Castor then he’d tell him they’d been sleeping together. Emily said that she’d just deny it and tell Cas that he was trying to wind him up. That was when Dean told her about the video.
‘Dean had asked Em whether she’d mind him filming them having sex together and she’d said that she really didn’t want that. He’d said okay but recorded it secretly. No way could Emily tell Castor that she hadn’t been with Dean when he’d seen the pair of them in action.’
‘But wouldn’t Cas have thrown Dean out of the band?’
‘That was on the cards anyway. Dean was a journeyman drummer at best and there were already discussions about replacing him.’
‘Which meant he had nothing to lose.’
‘Exactly.’
‘If Dean was blackmailing Emily, why didn’t she go to the police?’
Davina propped her glasses on her forehead and rubbed her eyes. ‘Castor would almost certainly have got to hear about it one way or another.’
‘Why did she come to you?’
‘Because she trusted me and because she wanted to see if I could help.’
‘Could you?’
‘Yes. At least, I had an idea that I thought might work.’ Davina looked at her watch. ‘Would you mind helping me lay some equipment out?’
In one corner of the studio were two wire baskets. One contained a dozen or so partially deflated rubber balls. Davina instructed me to put one at the top of each mat while she did the same with individual swaths of blue elastic.
‘What was your idea?’ I asked, dropping a ball and toeing it into position.
‘I suggested she tell Dean that she didn’t believe him and ask for a copy of the video. There was no reason he shouldn’t send her one, which is what he did.’
‘What purpose did that serve?’ I asked.
‘Back then, virtually all recordings had the time and date embedded on the tape . . .’
‘So what?’
‘Think about it . . .’
The penny dropped.
‘It would have been proof that Dean was having sex with Emily when she was underage. That meant she could have taken it to the police and brought charges.’
‘That’s right,’ Davina said. ‘It was one thing being thrown out of the band a few months early; another thing entirely to be charged with statutory rape. When she had the tape, all Emily had to do was tell Dean how old she was when he’d made it, and that was the end of that. It was mutually assured destruction.’
‘Which presumably she did?’
‘Just to make sure, I suggested she get one of those gizmos you can use to record calls. That way she could also get proof that he’d filmed her secretly when she didn’t know it was happening.’
I positioned the last semi-inflated ball. What the hell did people do with them? Whatever it was, I had more pressing questions for Davina Jackson.
‘And that was the end of that?’ was the first.
‘Seemed to be. A few weeks later I got a card from Em saying that everything was sorted out and that she was grateful for my help.’
‘What did she do with the recordings?’
‘That was the odd thing. She wrote that she’d given them to Humphrey to look after, as though I knew who Humphrey was.’
‘Which you didn’t?’
Davina shook her head.
‘Didn’t you ask the next time you met?’
‘We didn’t meet again. A week after I received the card, a half-blind pensioner knocked me down on a zebra crossing. I spent six weeks in traction and two months in rehab.’ Davina pulled the band of her leggings down to reveal a thick surgical scar on her hip. ‘Pilates was part of the therapy, so I guess it’s an ill wind . . .’
‘You realise what this means?’ I asked. ‘If Emily had something that could disgrace Dean and send him to jail then it gives him a motive to murder her.’
‘I thought about that when you said that her body was found. But didn’t Dean have a strong alibi when Emily went missing? And what happened to Castor?’
‘Maybe Dean killed him too. If the police knew what you’ve just told me . . .’
Davina’s jaw tightened. ‘I’ve got two young boys and my husband’s just been signed off work with depression,’ she said. ‘The last thing I want is a crowd of reporters camped outside the house.’
‘Won’t happen. The cops would give you anonymity.’
‘You can’t guarantee that. And what proof is there? Without the tapes, everything I say is just anecdotal.’
She had a point. Shaheen would listen to Davina’s story – she was a credible witness, after all – and he might even go so far as to pull Dean Allison in for a chat. Without actual evidence, though, all the sick fuck had to do was deny everything and it was conversation over. Unless the tapes were still around . . .
‘You’ve absolutely no idea who Humphrey was?’ I asked.
‘None whatsoever,’ she replied.
The door opened and Andy the receptionist was with us again. ‘The natives are restless, Dav. Can I send them in yet?’
‘Whenever you like,’ Davina replied.
‘Did Emily ever talk about her relationship with Castor?’ I asked, making the most of the last moments of our interview.
‘Only that she was worried about his health and that touring and writing were putting him under a lot of pressure.’
‘What about Cas and the other band members?’
‘She said that he’d been arguing with Chop Montague a bit, but that it was just creative differences about the new album.’
‘Nothing about a dust-up with JJ Freeman?’
Davina shook her head, and the class began to enter the studio.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I appreciate you talking to me.’
‘Will you share it with the police?’
‘If I can find the tapes then I won’t need to reveal the source of my information. And if I can’t, then there probably isn’t much point.’
‘Well, good luck. Em was special. Whoever killed her deserves to—’
A woman in a pink tracksuit interrupted Davina with news of a knee ailment. My options were to hang around and see what use the blue balls and the rubber bands were put to, or call the one person who might know who Humphrey was.
Two minutes later, I was on the phone to Pam Ridley.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Humphrey?’ Pam said. ‘Did Em know someone called Humphrey?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Humphrey.’
‘Old-fashioned name, ain’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it was a neighbour . . .’
‘No Humphreys round our way,’ Pam said. ‘Not that I knew of, anyway. There was a Harold who ran the allotment association. Couldn’t have been him, could it?’
‘Did Emily know Harold well?’
‘She might have met Harry when he came round to get the monthly subs off her dad, but why would she be friendly with him?’
Why indeed. Allotments had become trendier, but Naomi Campbell had never appeared on Gardeners’ Question Time. And the idea that an eighteen-year-old model would entrust rape footage to her father’s gardening buddy was risible.
And the guy’s name was Harold.
‘It’s not him,’ I said. ‘Did Emily ever mention anyone at work called Humphrey? A photographer or
a booking agent, perhaps?’
‘Hold on,’ Pam said. ‘We’re going through another tunnel . . .’
The sound of the train doing exactly that came through the speaker for the next ten seconds.
‘Em definitely didn’t mention no Humphrey,’ Pam said when she came back on the line. ‘Who is this bloke and why are you so interested in him?’
‘The name came up in a conversation I had with Davina Jackson. There’s a chance that whoever it might be could have some information.’
‘What kind of information?’
I opted not to relay Davina’s story. There wasn’t much point unless I could contact the mysterious Humphrey. And Pam was impetuous. If she knew what Dean Allison had done to her daughter, who knew how she might react?
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ I said. ‘It might be something and it might be nothing. Davina just said someone called Humphrey was close to Emily at that time.’
‘She’s got it wrong,’ Pam said. ‘I’d have known about it.’
‘Fair enough. But if anything does occur, Pam, do give me a call. How long are you staying with your sister for?’
‘Until they release Em’s body. Then I’ll need to come back and arrange the funeral. They reckon it shouldn’t be much more than a few days.’
‘How are you bearing up?’ I asked.
‘Not too bad. I gave Em’s stuff to the charity. I know it might sound daft, but I got one of my mates to drive it up to Finchley where he lives. I didn’t want to see no one round here wearing her clothes.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable, Pam.’
‘What about you, Kenny? Sorted out the stuff we talked about?’
I recalled Pam’s advice about saying the things you needed to say to the people you needed to say them to, in case you didn’t get the opportunity again.
‘Not yet,’ I admitted. ‘But I’m working on it.’
Two things caught my eye when I entered the Vesuvius: the first was the huge bouquet of roses on the bar; the second was Whispering Nick balancing on a chair while attempting to change a light bulb. Only a quick grab for the fixture saved him from going arse over tit when I made my presence known.
‘For fuck’s sake, don’t you ever knock, Kenny?’ he said.
‘To enter a boozer?’
‘Well, make some kind of noise at least.’
‘Who are the flowers from?’ I asked.
Nick stepped off the chair. ‘Jake sent them. I think he and Stephie had a bit of a—’
The office door opened. Make-up partially concealed the bruise on Stephie’s cheek. It also drew attention to it. On seeing me, her hand went reflexively to her face. The silence was deafening. Nick reacted first. ‘Wrong type of fitting, Steph,’ he said, holding the bulb up. ‘I’ll see if I can borrow one from upstairs . . .’
Connecting Stephie’s injured face and the flowers was a simple enough equation.
‘Now d’you believe me?’ I asked after Nick had left.
She dropped her hand and jutted out her chin.
‘It wasn’t Jake’s fault. I went to see him last night and we had a row. He doesn’t like me drinking and I stank of booze.’
‘And that merits a punch in the eye?’
‘It was a slap.’
‘Oh, well, if it was only a slap . . .’
‘You wouldn’t be so bloody sanctimonious if you knew how upset he was afterwards. And that I’d lost my engagement ring.’
I took the velvet box from my pocket and laid it on a table.
‘Why the hell didn’t you call me?’ Stephie asked, snatching it up.
‘Because you told me that you never wanted to see me again, and because I knew I was coming in here today.’
‘Jake’s got a lot on his plate,’ she said, pushing the box into her jeans pocket. ‘He’s under an incredible amount of pressure.’
‘You’ll be telling me you deserved it next,’ I said. ‘You’re not stupid, Steph, you know that when men hit women it’s never a one-off. This might not happen again for a while, but it will happen again, and it’ll probably be worse.’
‘Jake might kill me – is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying you need to leave him and I think you know it.’
We stared at each other like a pair of gunfighters. Stephie drew first.
‘That’s not happening, Kenny,’ she said. ‘Jake might not be perfect but he wants to spend the rest of his life with me, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. Whether you approve or disapprove is completely irrelevant.’
Before I could respond, Whispering Nick re-entered carrying a small cardboard box. ‘I think this is the right type,’ he said before stopping in his tracks. ‘Er . . . Should I go outside and have a fag or something?’
‘No need for that, Nick,’ Stephie said. ‘Kenny and I have said everything that we need to say to each other and I’m pretty much done here for today.’
Stephie picked up her coat from the rack and walked out without putting it on. Nick stared at me as though he half-expected me to self-combust.
‘D’you want a drink, Kenny?’ he asked when that didn’t happen.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘A drink would be good.’
As most people do on entering the V for the first time, JJ performed a double take. As Stephie had left, Nick had relaxed the no-smoking rule. The nicotine haze could only have added to JJ’s sense that he had somehow left 2017 at pavement level and descended to 1976.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked when he approached my table.
‘No. Let’s get on with it.’ JJ was wearing a biker jacket over a T-shirt featuring Buster Keaton. Bristles studded his jaw like tiny black nails and his eyes looked like chunks of bulletproof glass. I smiled. He didn’t. I got on with it.
‘I met up with Sweat Dog yesterday.’
‘So you said.’
‘He was telling me a bit about the old days.’
No comment from JJ.
‘Including your relationship with Castor. Apparently the pair of you had an argument and you laid him out.’
‘We were in a rock band. Shit happened.’
‘And then you went missing for a few days.’
‘I was pissed off with Cas.’
‘Any particular reason why?’
‘None of your business. Are we done?’
‘Not entirely. Sweat Dog said that Cas stayed at his flat for a while when he was in the States. He left a lot of stuff behind, including some old tapes and books . . .’
The left corner of JJ’s mouth twitched a couple of times.
‘Dog said that he gave the stuff to you when he cleared his place out a few years ago,’ I continued. ‘He felt that you were the closest Cas had to family.’
‘So what?’
Time for my first shot in the dark.
‘On one of the tapes were a few songs Cas had been working on.’
‘Dog told you that?’
My shrug was non-committal. If my theory wasn’t correct then hopefully it left me room to extricate myself. JJ shifted in his seat and ran a hand over his chin.
Encouragement enough for me to try shot number two.
‘You sold the tapes to the People’s Inquisitor,’ I said. ‘They put them up on their website along with the story that Castor had taken the Golden Road.’
JJ’s right hand shot out and fastened itself around my neck. If I hadn’t had my back against the wall, I’d have gone flying over backwards. As it was, I had to gasp for breath.
‘I did not tell that pack of jackals Cas was still alive,’ he said.
‘Urghhhh,’ was all I could manage.
‘And I didn’t tell them that he’d been taken by the Golden Road either . . .’
JJ’s fingers were fastened around my windpipe like a nest of baby pythons. My attempt to pull his wrist away only made things worse.
‘The fuckers just printed all that shit and there was nothing I could do about it,’ JJ said, his voice tightening with
his grip. ‘They made me sign a contract that gave them full licence to do what they wanted to with the tapes.’
The noise in my ears sounded like water gushing through storm drains. In a few seconds’ time I would either pass out or proceed directly to death with Strangled in a drinking club as my unfortunate epitaph.
‘I know Kenny can be a pain in the arse. But he’s got two hundred quid on his slate and I’ll get a bollocking if he doesn’t pay it off.’
Nick was holding a four-pound lump hammer at shoulder height. He kept it behind the till in case things ever got too lively in the Vesuvius. I wasn’t sure that he’d actually hit JJ over the head with it, but then neither was JJ.
The grip loosened and air rushed into my grateful lungs.
TWENTY-EIGHT
JJ downed the Jack in one and looked into the empty glass as though it still held something interesting. Judging by his expression it was a triple shot of regret with a twist of bitterness. I was sipping my waga with greater restraint, not least of all because my bruised trachea was still recovering.
‘D’you want another one?’ I asked.
JJ thought about it and decided against.
‘Why not take me through what happened?’ I suggested.
‘What’s the point? You’ve already worked it out.’
‘Actually, that was a bit of a punt. Sweat Dog had no idea the cassettes had Castor singing on them. He thought they were compilation tapes.’
JJ gave me a sharp look. My head bobbed back reflexively.
‘What made you think I’d sold them to the Inquisitor, then?’
‘Saskia Reeves-Montgomery said that Cas worked his ideas out on tape before bringing them to his sessions with Chop. It made sense that he’d have a few hanging around.’
‘I honestly didn’t know they’d print that he was still alive,’ JJ said.
‘You won’t be the first person the Inquisitor’s had over and you won’t be the last,’ I said. ‘Why did you approach them in the first place?’
‘I needed the money. The Junction was doing badly and I’d been through a tough divorce. It wasn’t a fortune but it was enough to keep us open.’
‘What about the Mean royalties?’
