Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  Outside St Mick’s, I picked up the Standard. There were a couple of columns about Emily Ridley’s murder on page seven. DCI Shaheen claimed to be following a ‘number of potential leads’, which was police-speak for I haven’t got a clue.

  I left the paper on the back seat when I got out of the taxi. My plan was to take a nap for a couple of hours, by which time Odeerie would hopefully have some information for me to begin to work with. As I was putting the key into the front door, a man emerged from the entrance to the Parminto Deli.

  ‘Your name Kenny Gabriel?’ he asked.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ I replied.

  Fiftyish, my height and build and wearing a burgundy V-neck and a pair of grey chinos, the guy didn’t look like a contract killer.

  ‘My boss wants a word with you.’

  ‘Who’s your boss?’ I replied.

  ‘Jake Villiers,’ he said.

  The traffic was relatively light. While the driver concentrated on getting us to Fulham, I sat in the back seat and wondered what his boss wanted to speak to me about. I also wondered what I wanted to speak to him about. Since he’d lied through his teeth to me in his office, I’d heard about how Jake Villiers had compelled Pauline Oakley to commit fraud. He was almost certainly responsible for the deaths of Arnie Atkinson and Pauline, and I’d seen what he’d done to Stephie. She still thought the sun shone out of his arse and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop the pair of them getting married. Safe to say that we wouldn’t be discussing QPR’s back four, or how best to combat climate change.

  We pulled up outside the Duck & Unicorn. If you can count on a murderer to have a fancy prose style, then you can also rely on him to come up with a bloody stupid name for a pub. Not that the D&U was a pub in the strictest sense.

  A plate-glass window had both creatures stencilled across it. Inside were several rows of tables covered with pristine white tablecloths and shining cutlery. A large notice on the door indicated the place would be opening for business in two days’ time. Jake’s chauffeur opened up and ushered me inside.

  Whitewashed brick walls had huge photos of cityscapes hanging on them. The floorboards had been stripped, and distressed industrial lights were suspended from the ceiling. Jake was sitting at a table at the furthest end of the room, by a picture of the Ponte Vecchio.

  ‘Kenny,’ he said, looking up from his laptop. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  He offered me his hand. I didn’t reciprocate.

  ‘Would you mind handing your phone to Lucien?’ Jake said, with no apparent change in demeanour. ‘He’ll return it when we’re finished.’

  I gave my mobile to the driver, who looked questioningly at his boss. Jake nodded. Lucien patted me down and found nothing of interest.

  ‘I’m thinking of banning phones in here,’ Jake said after he had left. ‘Make people actually talk to one another.’

  ‘Will your customers get a body search too?’

  He smiled. ‘I might not go quite that far.’

  A navy polo shirt emphasised Jake’s lean torso and toned biceps. It also contrasted nicely with his lightly tanned features. A lack of conscience might send him straight to hell one day but it hadn’t affected his complexion. He closed his laptop and indicated that I should occupy the chair opposite his.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’

  I shook my head and said, ‘You’ve got two minutes.’

  ‘Are you usually this direct, Kenny?’

  ‘Pauline Oakley told me about how you forced her to falsify your tax return twenty years ago. But you must know that, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’

  A muscle twitched in Jake’s jaw. He put his hands behind his head and sat back in his seat.

  ‘Actually, I wanted to offer you a job.’

  ‘A job?’

  ‘Apparently you used to run a members’ club in Soho.’

  ‘Half a lifetime ago.’

  ‘I’d be employing you for your personality rather than your experience. What somewhere like this requires is a manager who can get on with the clientele and make sure the crew are well motivated. It pays sixty grand a year.’

  ‘I’ve already got a job.’

  Jake frowned. ‘Shame. It would have made all of this an awful lot easier . . .’

  ‘All of what?’

  ‘I’m aware that Pauline was indiscreet about my tax affairs, Kenny. I also know that you don’t have a copy of the papers she was using to blackmail me. You could go to the police, but without evidence what would be the point?’

  ‘If you’re not worried then why are we talking about it?’

  ‘Because there’s an outside chance they might follow up, which could be a little inconvenient for me, not to mention bad for business.’

  ‘Speaking of which, how are things going at the Emporium?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You own the place.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why did you buy it?’

  ‘Because the lease came up for sale and it makes money. And thanks to you, Kenny, it’ll make even more money now. Nothing like an unsolved murder to create a bit of notoriety.’

  ‘Especially when it’s a body on the roof that no one’s noticed for twenty years because the new owner doesn’t like people nosing around.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Ever heard of the Golden Road?’

  Judging by Jake’s blank expression the answer was no. I leaned forward and accidently-on-purpose knocked the Mac off the table. It landed with a clatter that echoed around the room. He didn’t so much as blink.

  ‘Is that how you sleep at night?’ I asked. ‘Put the murders of three people into the box marked “Business” and get yourself a solid eight hours? Because if it is then you’d better keep the lights on. What goes around comes around.’

  ‘I didn’t murder anyone.’

  ‘Bullshit. You faked Pauline’s suicide and you either got rid of Arnie Atkinson personally or had someone do it on your behalf. And what you did to Stephie was disgusting. If you ever do anything like that to her again . . .’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Kenny?’

  We stared at each other for a few moments. Jake chuckled softly. ‘Of course you aren’t,’ he said. ‘Not the type for threats, are you?’ He shook his head as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d taken me seriously. ‘Arnie Atkinson needed stopping and I stopped him. Other way round and he’d have done the same.’

  ‘What about Pauline Oakley?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Did she have to be stopped too?’

  ‘Pauline put everything I’ve created at risk.’

  ‘So you hanged her and made it look like suicide?’

  ‘I did what had to be done. That’s the difference between you and me. It’s also why I’ve got thirty million in the bank and I’m engaged to your ex-girlfriend.’

  Jake leant further forward.

  ‘The reason Stephie’s with me is because I’m strong, Kenny. If she steps out of line then she needs to know about it. All the hearts-and-flowers stuff is great in the early stages, and it pays to sound unconcerned about ex-boyfriends. Be advised that’s all going to change, though.’

  ‘What if she steps out of line again?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘Women are like animals. They can usually be controlled if you apply sufficient force in the correct manner.’

  He checked his watch and made a disappointed face.

  ‘Looks like my two minutes are up,’ he said. ‘Thanks for your time, Kenny. Lucien will take you wherever you want to go.’

  A solid ball of anger ricocheted around my nervous system like a pinball machine. Buzzers buzzed, bells rang and digit counters multiplied. And then everything became serene, as though the plug had been yanked from the wall.

  ‘Thank you, Jake,’ I said. ‘And good luck with the opening.’

  A V-shape formed on Jake’s forehead as he looked at my outstretched hand. He accepted it, thoug
h with a grip that was less pneumatic than usual.

  Thirty seconds later, I departed the Duck & Unicorn.

  Traffic had thickened in London’s arterial system. It took Lucien twice as long to drive back to Soho as it had to travel in the opposite direction. By the time he dropped me off on Brewer Street, the guys in the Parminto Deli were washing down steel trays and office workers were beginning to make for the Tube.

  Angus Glazier’s voicemail advised me to contact his mobile number if my call was urgent. He answered in person thirty seconds later.

  ‘Angus, it’s Kenny Gabriel,’ I said. ‘Sorry to bother you after hours, but I’ve been thinking about our conversation yesterday afternoon. Basically, I’d like to accept your offer.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Angus said. ‘May I ask what caused you to reconsider?’

  ‘It’s a great story and it deserves to reach the public. And I think it would be a fitting memorial to Saskia. Could we dedicate the book to her?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It would be a very fitting gesture. Any chance we could chat about this tomorrow, Kenny? I’m on my way to an important meeting.’

  ‘Absolutely. There’s just one small thing . . .’

  A note of concern entered Angus’s voice. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘I need the advance in my account within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘That simply isn’t possible, I’m afraid. Even with a boilerplate contract it’ll take at least a fortnight. And of course we need to find a writer for you to work with. Nothing so slow as publishing, I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘Okay, I’ll take what I know elsewhere.’

  Angus’s suavity died. ‘Hold on a moment,’ he said. A brief silence followed. ‘It sounds as though you need the cash quickly for some reason.’

  ‘Can you arrange it?’

  ‘Not the whole amount, but I might be able to manage ten thousand at short notice. You’d have to sign a contract before anything could be done, though.’

  ‘When could you have it with me by?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow.’

  ‘And the cash?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Couple of hours after you sign.’

  ‘Sounds great, Angus. I’ll let you get off to your meeting.’

  An hour later I dug out a number that I hadn’t rung in over six months. Had hoped never to have to ring again. Before doing so, I poured out the rest of the Monarch bottle and drank it while watching dusk turn to night. The neon sign flickered on at the Yip Hing supermarket and a parking warden slapped a ticket on a Range Rover.

  When the darkness was complete, I called Farrelly.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I spent ten minutes dry-retching into the lavatory. The vision in my left eye was so diminished that for half an hour all I could make out were vague outlines. Factor in a headache that felt as though someone was banging a six-inch nail into my temple and you have a good idea as to how I felt circa 8 a.m.

  The contract from Billingsgate Publishing had arrived in my inbox. Five pages of close type made my head swim even more. The important clause was that ten thousand quid would be transferred into my account as soon as the document was returned. I signed it electronically and sent it back with my banking details.

  Just when I’d decided to cancel Farrelly, the pain began to subside. Ten minutes later and my sight sharpened. I flipped a coin as to whether I should keep our appointment or tell the imp of death that I was too sick to see him. It came down tails. Once I was confident that I wouldn’t barf all over its interior, I summoned an Uber to take me to Victoria Park in the East End.

  Farrelly had been the chauffeur to my old boss Frank Parr. We’d first met in the seventies when Farrelly had taken an immediate and sustained dislike to me. Forty years hadn’t improved his opinion. When Frank hired me to search for his missing daughter, Farrelly hadn’t been inclined to let bygones be bygones.

  The relationship had mellowed slightly when I employed his son as a bodyguard, although saying that Farrelly was your friend was like saying that you kept a pet crocodile. The relationship was subject to change without prior warning.

  As arranged, he was sitting on a bench by the Chinese pagoda. It represented the juxtaposition of two philosophies: reflective spiritual harmony; focused and intense violence.

  ‘You look like shit,’ he said as I sat beside him.

  ‘That’s because I’ve got a brain tumour,’ I said. Most people would have expressed a modicum of sympathy. Farrelly wasn’t most people.

  ‘Ain’t no surprise,’ he said. ‘Crap you put into yourself.’

  Farrelly was teetotal and worked out every day. Had he been born seven hundred years earlier, he could have been a Shaolin warrior. Although it was difficult to see him wearing saffron robes instead of a black Harrington jacket over a Ben Sherman polo shirt and sta-press trousers.

  ‘That why you want a weapon?’ He put a finger to his shaven temple and mimed blowing his head off. ‘Save the aggro of going through chemo.’

  ‘It’s benign. At least they think it is.’

  ‘You want to do someone?’

  I nodded, and Farrelly began to laugh. It was a bit like listening to a komodo dragon attempting to gargle. A disturbed swan hissed at him from the safety of the water.

  ‘Don’t think you’re the type, son,’ he said when the hilarity had subsided.

  ‘Okay, if you can’t help, then I’ll sort something else out.’ I began to get up from the bench.

  Farrelly’s arm forced me back down. ‘Tell me who it is.’

  ‘Won’t that make you an accessory before the fact?’

  ‘Just bleedin’ tell me.’

  It took fifteen minutes to cover off how Jake Villiers had disappeared Arnie Atkinson, killed Pauline Oakley and blackened Stephie’s eye. Farrelly stared at the horizon throughout and didn’t make a single interruption.

  ‘So basically you want to top this bloke because he’s marrying your girlfriend?’ he said when I’d finished.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said about the murders?’

  ‘There’s fuck-all proof he’s killed anyone,’ Farrelly said. ‘And this Arnie geezer weren’t no angel, from the sound of it.’

  ‘What about Pauline Oakley? Scaring her shitless would have done the trick.’

  ‘He couldn’t have been completely sure.’

  ‘Look, bottom line is that I don’t want Stephie marrying a man whose default position when it comes to conflict resolution is murder.’

  ‘All he’s done is given his bird the back of his hand,’ Farrelly said. ‘That’s a long way from putting her in the ground. And she can always walk away if he gets too rough. It’s a free fucking country.’

  ‘Stephie’s got a serious temper, Farrelly,’ I said. ‘She’s not the kind to walk away. If he does max up the violence, there’s a chance she’ll go for him.’

  ‘Sounds like they were made for each other.’

  ‘Apart from Jake will take it all the way. He thinks women should be treated like animals. And you know what happens to dogs that can’t be house-trained . . .’

  Farrelly sniffed a couple of times and pursed his lips.

  ‘Why d’you give a shit?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s just say I do.’

  ‘Okay, how about you drop me a monkey and I give him a hiding? Tell him that if he don’t dump her, then I’ll be back with an angle grinder.’

  ‘It’s a generous offer, Farrelly, but it’s personal.’

  Farrelly nodded. In his world, real men did it themselves, be that wallpapering the landing, changing the oil on a Jaguar Mark 2, or pumping four bullets into a love rival.

  ‘You won’t be picking him off from a hundred yards,’ he said, nevertheless. ‘You’d have to get right up to be sure.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll sort me out?’

  ‘What will you do if I don’t?’

  ‘Find someone else.’

  ‘You don’t bleedin’ know anyone else.’

&
nbsp; ‘I’ll go to the Dark Web . . .’

  Farrelly rolled his head and sighed. ‘Well, then you might as well get it from me or you’ll be nicked before you know it’s happened.’

  ‘How much will it cost?’

  ‘Three grand. Two back if everything goes okay and you return the shooter.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t?’

  ‘I keep the cash and you do life.’

  The money I’d asked Angus Glazier for would easily cover the amount Farrelly wanted.

  A lurcher retrieved a tennis ball that had rolled in front of the bench. Farrelly waited until the animal had raced back to its owner before speaking again.

  ‘Still wanna do it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  While I was on my way back to Soho, Odeerie called with an update as to his attempts to trace the number plate of the Transit van, the source of the email and the address of the slaughterhouse. The news was mixed. ‘The plate does link to a Transit van,’ he said. ‘But it belongs to a sixty-year-old tree surgeon who lives in Dumfries. There’s no reports of it being stolen, so it sounds as though whoever it was knocked up false plates registered to a Transit in case they were pulled over.’

  ‘What about the email address?’ I asked.

  ‘Still working on that. There’s a ton of encryption on it.’

  ‘You will be able to crack it eventually, though?’

  ‘Maybe and maybe not. It’ll take time before I know.’

  ‘How much time?’

  ‘Could be a couple of days.’

  ‘Okay, and what about the slaughterhouse?’

  ‘It’s a few miles outside Sevenoaks. Belongs to a property company called Gifford-Wicks. They bought it off a wholesale meat business that went bust eight years ago and have just put it on the market. I gave them a call to see what the deal was with the power and they said it was disconnected.’

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘Someone from the utility company checking account information. Don’t worry, Kenny, the woman who took my call didn’t ask questions.’