by Greg Keen
This brought a mirthless laugh from JJ.
‘What royalties? A few grand comes through from time to time, but Castor and Chop hold all the writing credits. That was why I laid him out in Manchester. When the Spiders started, the agreement was that all the members would split everything equally. Of course we were a covers band then so it didn’t really matter. But when Chop and Cas started writing, it made a hell of a difference.’
‘Because there was a lot more cash coming in?’
‘Yep. I didn’t have a problem with them having the bigger slice of cake. But Cas was suggesting that he and Chop pretty much take all of it.’
‘And that’s why you decked him?’
‘Not just because of the cash. By then Cas was a complete pain in the arse on just about every front. God knows how Chop put up with it bearing in mind that—’
JJ was interrupted by the fruit machine paying out a jackpot. As the last time this had happened was during the Wars of the Roses, it caused quite a commotion.
‘Did you know much about Cas’s financial situation in general?’ I asked when the excitement had died down. ‘He seems to have put more or less everything into a single numbered account a few months before he disappeared.’
‘He didn’t mention it to me,’ JJ said, ‘but we weren’t talking much by that stage.’
‘Dog said Cas was very close with money.’
JJ laid his empty glass on its side and spun it around.
‘Cas’s old man had a gambling problem. After his wife died he went through cash like no one’s business. One day Cas came home from school to find he’d sold all their furniture. It ain’t surprising he felt insecure about money all his life.’
JJ span the glass again. It came to rest with the rim facing in my direction. I picked it up and put it on another table. ‘Didn’t your manager take care of the money?’
‘We didn’t have one. The label paid us directly.’
‘D’you think you were ripped off?’
‘Chop’s accountant kept on top of the unit sales. The label fucking hated him but at least we were paid our due.’
JJ folded a beer mat in half. Without a guitar to play or someone to throttle he was quite the fidget. Maybe that was why the skin on his knuckles was barked.
‘You must have had an interesting few days,’ he said. ‘It was all over the place when you found Em. How’d you know she was in the air vent?’
‘Lucky guess,’ I said. ‘Have the police interviewed you?’
‘Some guy called Shaheen said he might want to go over my statement from ’95. I told him that I’d be happy to do that, but I couldn’t remember anything else.’
The beer mat was now being systematically torn into pieces.
‘Did you know Emily had been in a relationship with Dean Allison before she met Castor?’ I asked.
‘What?’ JJ said. ‘No way . . .’
‘He told me about it, as did a friend of Emily’s. I take it Cas knew nothing?’
‘Christ, no. He’d have had Dean’s guts . . .’
‘Not Dean’s fault he met her first.’
JJ gathered the beer mat fragments into a small pile. ‘Wouldn’t have made no difference.’
He leant back in his chair and stared at a point a few inches above my head. I’d seen the same body language in interviews before. It meant someone was thinking about disclosing something privileged or marginal. Usually it was simply a matter of waiting. It took less than ten seconds in JJ’s case.
‘The reason I decked Cas in Manchester wasn’t just because he was gypping me on the money,’ he said eventually. ‘He was trying to turn Em on to heroin.’
‘She told you that?’
JJ nodded.
‘Did she try it?’ I asked.
‘Em said not and I believed her, but I could see she was thinking about it. Smackheads are a nightmare. All they do is nod out when they’re using, and all they can think about when they aren’t is their next fix. Only way you can get close to them is by joining them. Which is why I said Em should get out.’
‘But wasn’t Cas clean on the night of the Emporium gig?’
‘Doesn’t mean shit. Contrary to popular belief, addicts can go a day without using and not climb the walls. It’s only after a few days they really start hurting. Anyway, Em made me promise not to say anything to Castor. That’s why I put some extra on the punch in Manchester. Made me feel a whole lot better, if you know what I mean.’
The revelations were coming so thick and fast from JJ that I needed a few moments to collect my thoughts before asking my next question.
‘What might have happened at the Emporium is that Castor found out about Dean and went completely ballistic. He killed Emily, hid her body in the air vent and then somehow left the club without anyone seeing him. Does that sound possible?’
‘He was sober enough,’ JJ said. ‘And if he’d found out beforehand then he could have prepared. Castor was a druggie but he wasn’t stupid.’
‘I don’t think Dean told him,’ I said. ‘So how could he have found out?’
‘Maybe Em said that she wanted to break up and he lost it.’
‘And where d’you think Castor is now?’ I asked.
‘Like I told you in the Junction. He took a hot shot and killed himself.’
‘Apart from there’s no body.’
‘That’s what they said about Em ’til you found her. Maybe you’ll turn Cas up as well. But if you don’t then what does it matter? Sometimes it’s best to let things in the past stay in the past. Speaking of which . . . you’re not going to tell anyone about the Inquisitor business, are you? It’s the last thing I need in my life right now.’
‘I’ve no reason to,’ I said.
JJ nodded his thanks. ‘I know I’ve badmouthed Cas but that’s only because of what the smack and the fame turned him into. If he’d never met Chop Montague and we’d just kept playing blues in clubs for couple of hundred quid a night . . .’
He stared at the table as though a film of what might have been was flickering across its surface. He wasn’t the first person to do that in the V and he wouldn’t be the last.
‘Sorry again for the way I reacted, Kenny. It’s just that the Inquisitor thing really got to me and, well, you already know I’ve got a bit of a temper.’
‘No problem,’ I said, and we stood up and shook hands.
For a moment I thought JJ was going to add something. Then he turned abruptly and departed the club.
TWENTY-NINE
As the V is pretty much a dead zone for mobile signals it meant resurfacing after my interview with JJ to pick up my messages and emails. There were three voicemails from Odeerie asking me to call, each tetchier than the last. His line was engaged and I turned my attention to my emails. The only thing requiring immediate attention was from a previous client asking whether I was available to go undercover at his amusement arcade in Brighton. I was tapping out an apologetic response when the screen lit up with an incoming call.
‘I’ve had a message from my agent saying that you want to talk to me about a photograph,’ Chop Montague said. ‘Is that correct?’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘When’s a good time?’
‘Now.’
‘Actually, it’d be better if I showed you the photograph. Any chance I could come and see you, Chop? It would only take five minutes . . .’
The opening bars to a Shirley Bassey song began playing. Chop must have put his hand over the phone’s microphone as he shouted something I couldn’t make out. The music ended and he was back with me.
‘At least give me an idea what the thing is.’
‘I found it on Saskia Reeves-Montgomery’s houseboat,’ I said. ‘She was the journalist murdered yesterday. You may have heard about that.’
A few seconds of dead air.
‘Can you be at Encore Studios in an hour?’ Chop said.
‘No problem,’ I replied.
I called Odeerie from a cab on my way to Camden. After le
tting him vent his considerable spleen, I covered off the conversations I’d had that morning with Davina Jackson, Pam Ridley and JJ Freeman.
‘So in summary,’ the fat man finally said, ‘there’s a video of Dean Allison having sex with Emily Ridley when she’s underage and a voice recording in which she confronts him about it. This gives him a motive to murder her but someone called Humphrey was handed both tapes twenty-odd years ago and no one has any idea who the hell he is, including Emily’s best friend and her mother. That about right, Kenny?’
‘Pretty much,’ I said.
‘JJ sold the demo tapes to the Inquisitor because he needed the cash to keep his club open and they invented the story about Cas taking the Golden Road because they’re an immoral set of shits who’d do anything to make a few quid?’
‘Right again.’
‘You seem very excited about all this.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not really. For one thing Dean seems to have a very strong alibi for the night Emily Ridley was murdered, and for another, tracking down the right Humphrey is next door to impossible. At least I think it is.’
‘Can’t you find a list of Humphreys in the Tooting Bec area around that time?’
‘Possibly. But let’s say there’s fifty. What do we do then?’
‘See how many are still alive.’
‘And after that?’
‘Get in touch with them.’
‘To say what? Did Emily Ridley happen to give you a couple of tapes for safekeeping that might implicate Dean Allison in her murder?’
‘Something like that.’
‘How long’s all that going to take? And don’t you think that Humphrey might already have given the tapes to the police when he heard that Emily had gone missing? Not to mention her body being recently found.’
‘Maybe he’s forgotten he has them.’
Odeerie’s sigh was more eloquent than words.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘How about you go through the records at the school Emily went to and see if there were any kids called Humphrey attending at the time.’
‘Because it’ll take just as long. And wouldn’t Davina Jackson have remembered him? It’s not the kind of name you’re likely to forget.’
‘At least it’s something to go on.’
The cab turned from Camden High Street into Delancey Street.
‘Look, Kenny,’ Odeerie said, ‘we agreed last night that you were going to quit the Ridley job and focus on your health and going into hospital. Have you been in touch with the consultant to make a date for your operation yet?’
‘It’s on my to-do list.’
‘Between what, picking up a new ballcock valve and getting your curtains dry-cleaned? You’ve got a brain tumour, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I’m getting somewhere with this, Odeerie.’
‘No, you’re not. All this Dean Allison business adds up to is absolutely bugger-all. If you won’t tell Pam Ridley we’re quitting then I will.’
‘Do it tomorrow. I’ll speak to the consultant first thing.’
During the silence I could almost hear the cogs in Odeerie’s mind turning. The cab had just pulled up outside Encore Studios by the time he made his decision.
‘Okay, but you ring the hospital and you get things moving.’
‘Scout’s honour.’
‘What are you doing now?’
‘About to talk to Chop Montague about the photograph.’
‘Anything left to follow up after that?’
‘Only the email I forwarded. Could you trace where it came from?’
‘Nope. Looks like it was sent via an onion router.’
‘A what?’
‘Multiple layers of encryption.’
‘Who would go to the trouble of doing that?’
‘Trolls, criminals and nutters, usually.’
‘But not always?’
Odeerie paused. ‘Something just doesn’t feel right about this, Kenny.’
‘Which bit specifically?’
‘All of it.’
Encore Studios had originally been built in the 1930s as a cigarette factory. What with people lighting up pretty much on exiting the womb back then, Sphinx Tobacco hadn’t needed to skimp on the budget. A pair of the mythical creatures cast in bronze stood either side of a portico decorated in fancy brickwork, and a burnished rising sun had been suspended over a wrought-iron door inlayed with art deco panelling. Its rays warmed my face as I entered the building. At least it felt that way.
A man in a tight suit was eating a Cornish pasty behind reception. He surreptitiously shoved it under the desk and asked if he could help. I told him that I had a meeting with Chop Montague, after which the guy checked a clipboard and seemed surprised that this was indeed the case. I was issued with a visitor’s badge and instructed to go through the double doors and follow the signs to Studio 4.
The corridor had been decorated with pictures of artists who had used the building since it was repurposed in the sixties. I passed black-and-white photos of The Who, Jimmy Tarbuck, Bonnie Langford, the Chuckle Brothers and Lee Evans before arriving at my destination. The recording light was off, although I could hear a James Bond theme blasting through the woodwork.
I knocked and heard no response. I opened the door and entered. A blonde in early middle age was standing on a low stage. Her T-shirt bore the Rolling Stones logo studded with rhinestones and her jeans were tucked into pink cowboy boots.
Chop had his back to me and was stationed beside a pair of speakers connected to an iPhone. A backing track was rattling out and the woman was singing the lyrics into a mic. Neither she nor Chop registered my arrival.
He killed the music.
‘Why’ve we stopped?’ the woman asked plaintively. ‘I did it like you said.’
‘No, you didn’t, Yvonne,’ he replied. ‘You need to put more emphasis on the lines as they reach the climax. They still sound flat.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘I’m sure,’ Chop said. ‘Let’s go again. I’ll rewind and you come in on cue. Try to remember the song is about seduction and excitement.’
If Chop had wanted more emphasis, he got it. Yvonne screamed into the mic and the mic screamed back. When the feedback had stopped reverberating around the studio, Chop killed the music again.
‘Why did you choose me to be your mentor, Yvonne?’ he asked.
‘Cos I’m a big fan of your work, Chop.’
‘Are you also a fan of the work of Shirley Bassey?’
‘Yeah. I love her?’
‘Well then, let’s hope Shirley doesn’t tune in for the final.’
‘Why not, Chop?’ Yvonne asked.
‘BECAUSE THEN SHE WON’T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU MURDER THE SONG SHE MADE FAMOUS, LIVE ON NATIONAL TV.’
Yvonne dropped the mic and exploded into tears. Ten seconds later she was clacking past me on Cuban heels with her considerable bosom heaving.
While Chop consoled his distraught mentee, I booted up my tablet and brought Saskia’s photo up on the screen. My plan had been to shove it under Chop’s nose and ask about the extraordinary resemblance his onetime girlfriend bore to Emily Ridley. But in light of recent events, I was wondering if confrontation was the ideal strategy.
My phone rang. Given that Chop was likely to be a while, I opted to answer it.
‘Is this Kenneth Gabriel,’ a man who sounded like a minor member of the royal family asked, ‘the private investigator?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘My name’s Angus Glazier, I’m the MD of Billingsgate Publishing. We were talking to Saskia Reeves-Montgomery about the republication of Play Like You Mean It. I believe she discussed a collaboration with you . . .’
‘She might have done,’ I said. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’
‘Why not google the switchboard number and call me back?’
‘No need,’ I replied. ‘How can I help?’
‘Did you receive our offer of a contract
to work on the book? We sent it yesterday to the email address Saskia gave us.’
‘Yeah, I got it. Sorry not to reply, but I’ve had quite a bit on my plate.’
‘You’re still engaged on the Emily Ridley murder . . . ?’
‘Only until the end of today.’
‘Ah, right,’ Glazier said. ‘How is it progressing?’
‘Confidentially.’
‘Yes, of course, but if things are drawing to a close today then presumably you’d be able to start on the book immediately afterwards.’
‘Apart from Saskia’s dead,’ I pointed out.
‘Absolutely, and we’re all terribly upset about that at Billingsgate.’ Glazier’s tone adjusted to reflect the shift in subject matter. ‘Sas was a very well-regarded friend and colleague who had the respect and admiration of —’
‘You must be completely devastated,’ I interrupted, ‘because you don’t seem to have worked out that I can’t collaborate with a corpse.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Glazier said, his manner flipping again. ‘However, the copyright now resides with us and a co-author can revise the original text.’
‘But you still need my input?’
‘You would be integral to the project. So much so that we’d be prepared to pay you the bulk of the advance. Fifty thousand on signing and thirty thousand on publication. I appreciate the hastiness might appear unseemly,’ Glazier said as Chop re-entered the studio, ‘but if the book is to be a success it would need to be on the shelves as soon as possible. Time and tide wait for no man, I’m afraid . . .’
I made a signal to Chop that I wouldn’t be long.
‘What d’you say, Kenny?’ Glazier asked. ‘Do we have a deal?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, and cut the call.
Chop looked more fried than when I’d interviewed him at Mickleton Lodge. You could take your weekly shop home in the bags under his eyes, and his complexion had the consistency of putty. He replaced the mic in its stand and tapped it a couple of times. Miraculously it was still operational.
‘How’s Yvonne doing?’ I asked.
‘In the ladies putting her face back on.’
‘D’you think she’ll be back?’
‘Sadly, yes. So whatever it is that you couldn’t wait to show me, Kenny, you’d better show me now.’
