Soho Angel

by Greg Keen

  On the plus side, my headache was within acceptable limits and I didn’t feel like puking into the loo. My call was answered promptly.

  ‘Jake Villiers speaking.’

  ‘Hi Jake, it’s Kenny.’

  If Jake was surprised to hear from me he didn’t sound it.

  ‘Hello, Kenny, what can I do for you?’ he asked, as though the last time we’d spoken I’d been trying to sell him life insurance instead of accusing him of murder. Nevertheless, what had been said had made it important to play things carefully.

  ‘Jake, I just wanted to . . . Actually, forget about it. Sorry to bother you.’

  ‘Hey, hang on,’ Jake said. Judging by the background noise, he was driving. ‘There must have been something you wanted to speak about . . .’

  I left a calculated pause.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the other day . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I flew off the handle.’

  ‘Just a touch. I had to buy a new laptop.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry about the other things I said.’

  Jake changed gear and I heard the car accelerate.

  ‘I did what I had to do, Kenny,’ he said. ‘Simple as that.’

  ‘I get that now. And that’s why I wanted to apologise.’

  ‘Okay, apology accepted.’

  ‘The other thing I was thinking . . . You said that you might be prepared to offer me a job managing the Duck & Unicorn. This investigations thing isn’t going anywhere and the happiest time in my life was when I was running the Galaxy.’

  For a few moments all I could hear was the hum of the car’s engine.

  ‘Let’s not piss about, Kenny,’ Jake said. ‘We both know that the job offer was contingent on you keeping certain unverifiable information to yourself. How about I make it easier and pay you the cash as a one-off consultancy fee? Then we can forget all about it.’

  ‘I’m not threatening you, Jake,’ I said. ‘And I’m not looking for a handout. I really want to work. But if you don’t think it’s feasible . . .’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you swing by the office tomorrow lunchtime and we’ll have a chat?’

  ‘Actually, I wondered if there’s any chance we could meet today,’ I said, trying to minimise the tension in my voice. ‘You know what it’s like when you get the bit between your teeth . . .’

  ‘Can’t be done,’ Jake said. ‘I’m scouting a place in Folkestone.’

  ‘I could be in Richmond this evening. That’s where you live, isn’t it?’

  Jake’s satnav advised him there was a turn coming up in eight hundred metres.

  ‘Can you be there by six?’ he asked.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’ll text you the address.’

  ‘No need for that,’ I said quickly. ‘Just give me your postcode and house number.’

  He obliged with the details.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Oh, and Stephie won’t be around, will she? It might be a bit, you know . . . awkward.’

  A pause, and then Jake said, ‘Steph won’t be there.’

  ‘See you later, then,’ I said, and ended the call.

  The best advice I can give you when it comes to executing someone is to pretend that it isn’t happening. I put Farrelly’s gun and the ammunition under my mattress and focused on the day ahead. The first thing was to call Whispering Nick and see what information he had about his uncle being taken into custody.

  The answer was not much. Kris had been interviewed after we’d found Emily’s remains and then asked for a ‘routine’ DNA sample a day later. His arrest had come out of the blue and the police weren’t giving the family any more information than they were to the public. I told Nick that I was sure that his uncle was innocent and to get in touch if there was anything I could do to help.

  My conversation with Odeerie mostly concerned his ongoing search for the source of the email used to lure me to the abattoir. He’d tried various methods to break the encryption. None had succeeded and he sounded as though he was losing hope. I asked him to give it another day and then give it up as a bad job. The rest of the call was spent discussing Shaheen’s suspicion that Kris was implicated in Emily’s murder.

  ‘It’s not Kris,’ I said. ‘He’s a roly-poly Greek guy who wouldn’t harm anyone.’

  ‘Now he is,’ Odeerie said. ‘But twenty years is a long time, Kenny. And a lot of people thought Ted Bundy was a very charming guy.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, he’s not Ted Bundy.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that you have a tendency to be impressed by superficially charming people. And if the police have DNA evidence and have held him overnight, then they must be fairly sure that he has something to do with the murder.’

  ‘It’s Dean Allison. You saw the movie and you heard the tape.’

  ‘Shaheen wasn’t that impressed.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ll see.’ A lame way to end the discussion, but I couldn’t think of a snappier line.

  ‘What time are you going into hospital?’ Odeerie asked.

  ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow.’

  ‘Why don’t you come round tonight for a drink?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got something on.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Er . . . My brother’s having me for supper.’

  ‘Oh, right, well I guess you should be with your family.’

  The disappointment in Odeerie’s voice made me bite my lip. ‘That’s fairly early, though,’ I said. ‘I might come round afterwards . . . depending on how I feel.’

  ‘Be good to see you, Kenny,’ the fat man said. ‘Obviously I’d visit you in St Mick’s if I could, but you know how it is . . .’

  ‘I know, Odeerie,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  My brother rang from Hong Kong while I was packing my hospital bag. He’d taken a tumble in a restaurant while entertaining a client and broken his arm. As a result he’d missed his flight and wouldn’t be back in the UK for another forty-eight hours.

  Malcolm said the things that big brothers say to little brothers even when their combined age is well north of a century. He asked if there was anything I needed. I told him there wasn’t. He promised that his would be the first face I saw when I woke up. I told him that brain surgery was punishment enough.

  I’d just pulled the zip closed on six boxer shorts, twelve socks, a twenty-year-old pair of pyjamas, and some carpet slippers that I’d forgotten I owned, when my phone rang again.

  Pam Ridley got straight down to it. ‘It’s just been on the news that they’ve charged someone,’ she said. ‘Is that right, Kenny?’

  ‘I don’t think they’ve charged Kristos, Pam. He’s just being questioned.’

  ‘Did it have anything to do with that toy you were so excited about?’

  No point in telling Pam about the tapes. She would insist on playing them, and viewing her daughter’s rape would serve no useful purpose.

  ‘Just a hunch that came to nothing,’ I said. ‘The arrest was made after DNA screening. Kristos was the premises manager at the Emporium. He still works there. At least he did.’

  ‘Wasn’t he there when you found Em?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you didn’t suspect him?’

  ‘I didn’t then and I don’t now. But the police must think they have some fairly compelling evidence. They wouldn’t have held him so long otherwise.’

  ‘How long can they keep him for?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours with an extension.’

  There was a silence, during which Pam digested this information.

  ‘I spoke to Swami Hari again before I left,’ she said. ‘He reckoned that you’d be the one to find out who killed Em, and if you don’t think it’s him then it isn’t him.’

  ‘Maybe the swami’s wrong on this one,’ I said. ‘I’m going into hospital tomorrow morning and I won’t be doing anything for several weeks at least.’

  Alway
s assuming that I came out at all, that was – or didn’t get arrested for murdering Jake Villiers before I went in.

  ‘Everything’s going to be fine, Kenny,’ Pam said.

  I had my doubts about that.

  In the afternoon, I realised that what I intended to do was insane. Instead I should treat myself to a decent meal, have a nightcap with Odeerie, and get what sleep I could before setting off for St Mick’s the following morning. Farrelly could have his ‘shooter’ back, and God, karma or random chance could deal with Jake Villiers in whichever way it chose. I wasn’t a cold-eyed dispenser of justice; I was a bloke with a growth in his head and a stupid tattoo on his arse. Jake would probably end up taking the gun and using it on me.

  And then I changed my mind again. Leaving things to God, karma or random chance wasn’t an option. Jake Villiers could easily go on to murder anyone else who got in his way. The pendulum swung to and fro, and could have done so indefinitely had Stephie’s bruised face not edged into my memory. At 3 p.m. I left the flat carrying a loaded Beretta.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  From Richmond station to Jake Villiers’s house took ten minutes by taxi. Instead I chose to walk, ensuring that my baseball cap was pulled down low over my face when exiting the barriers. All that the CCTV cameras would record was a man in a black jacket and jeans whose face wasn’t visible and who had a rucksack over his shoulder.

  I’d arrived two hours before I was due to meet Jake, in order that I could take a circuitous route. Many of the buildings I passed were a couple of hundred years old and most likely owned by stockbrokers and fund managers who wanted to live in a leafy Georgian town within a few miles of Central London.

  Gresham Street was lined with mature plane trees coming into bud. The houses in the terrace were three storeys high and each front door was painted navy blue. A couple in their thirties were too involved in an argument to take any notice of me, and an elderly woman walking a portly golden retriever didn’t give me a second glance.

  I walked past number 17 three times before pressing the bell. Jake answered the door wearing jeans and a pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. On his head was propped a pair of reading glasses.

  ‘God, is it that time already?’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Come in . . .’

  The study looked out on to the back garden. A teardrop chandelier provided the light and a large Oriental rug protected the floorboards. An oak bookcase held what looked like a complete set of Wisden, and a pair of leather sofas faced an exquisitely moulded fireplace. By the window was a pale-green cactus as tall as I was.

  ‘Didn’t know you were an Arsenal fan,’ Jake said.

  ‘What?’

  He pointed at my cap.

  ‘Oh, right. I’m not. Just bought it to keep the chill out.’

  I took the cap off and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. My breathing was so shallow and rapid that if I didn’t slow it down I would start to hyperventilate.

  ‘On your own?’ I asked.

  Jake nodded. ‘Chance to get an early night for once. Fancy a drink, Kenny? You look like you could use one.’

  ‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Scotch if you have it.’

  Jake opened a cabinet to reveal at least a dozen bottles of spirits and several tumblers. ‘I’ve got some vintage Ardbeg,’ he said.

  ‘Fantastic,’ I said. ‘Any chance I could use your loo . . . ?’

  ‘Out of the door, second on your right.’

  I splashed cold water over my face and took deep and regular breaths. My hands were shaking so much that it could have been minus ten in Jake’s downstairs lavatory. I used the towel, opened the rucksack and removed the gun. I released and reinserted the magazine. Then I checked the safety was definitely off.

  Jake was holding a tumbler and staring out of the window. He’d put some jazz on the sound system and didn’t hear me enter the room. It would have been relatively simple to fire a couple of rounds into his back. Instead I powered off the system. The music slurred as the turntable slowed. Jake turned. His eyebrows rose in mild surprise. And then he started to laugh. ‘Is that thing real?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s real,’ I said.

  ‘You’re going to shoot me?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Wow! Do I get to know why?’

  ‘You murdered two people and there’s every chance you’ll do the same to Stephie when she realises what a piece of shit you are.’

  Jake took a hit on his Scotch and sighed. ‘We’ve been over this already,’ he said. ‘If people threaten me, they need to be dealt with. As far as Steph goes, what can I tell you? I’ve got a temper and sometimes it gets the better of me. But if you’re worried about her, Kenny, then let me put your mind at rest. She’s perfectly—’

  The tumbler fell to the floor. A blackbird in the garden made a skittering cry. Jake looked down at his right leg and looked at me. A moment later he collapsed. ‘You shot me,’ he said, clutching his thigh with both hands. ‘You fucking shot me!’

  Indeed I had. The tension in my hand had increased to the degree that I’d pulled the trigger involuntarily. Not that Jake knew that. As far as he was concerned I’d put a bullet in his leg for taking the piss. I took a couple of strides forward and levelled the gun again. Jake groaned. It might have been the pain or it might have been the fact that he was seconds away from oblivion.

  ‘Stephie and I broke off the engagement last night,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘She did or you did?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘You’re making it up.’

  ‘Call her.’

  ‘That’s not really an option, Jake.’

  ‘See that cabinet . . .’ Jake released one bloodied hand and pointed at an escritoire next to the bookcase. ‘Open the drawer and take a look inside . . .’

  I followed Jake’s instructions. Nestled amongst a few folded documents and envelopes was a diamond engagement ring. As far as I could tell it was the same one I’d returned to Stephie in the Vesuvius.

  ‘Now do you believe me?’ he asked.

  ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘I want to know.’

  ‘She said that she didn’t want to be with someone who thought it was okay to hit women. All of which means that you don’t have to do anything stupid. Just give me my phone so I can call for help, and fuck off.’

  I replaced the ring and shut the drawer.

  ‘If you’re worried about me telling the police, don’t be,’ Jake said. ‘The last thing I want is them hearing your claim that Pauline’s suicide wasn’t really suicide. I’ll make some story up about . . . how I answered the door . . . to an intruder . . .’

  Jake’s face was the colour of putty and his teeth were beginning to chatter. The damp patch on his leg was widening and darkening.

  ‘Let me tell you why you’re really doing this,’ he said. ‘You know full well that I’d never really harm Stephie . . . What’s pissing you off is that I was with her and you weren’t . . .’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. You can fool yourself that you’re doing something noble and self-sacrificing . . . but you aren’t. If you . . . if you kill me, you’re doing it for one person and one person only . . . You’re doing it for you . . .’

  Was Jake right? Was the real reason I was standing in front of him pointing a gun essentially envy? No time to think about that now. There was a more important question I needed answering. ‘Are you connected to the Golden Road?’

  ‘Jesus, not that again.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Why . . . would I be?’

  ‘How about the Road paid you to buy the Emporium in case someone else bought the place and decided to develop it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Then Emily’s body would be discovered.’

  ‘The Golden Road’s . . . just a . . . conspiracy theory.’

  ‘You said
in the Duck & Unicorn that you’d never heard of it.’

  ‘Which is why I checked it out. Kenny, are you sure . . . this Golden Road thing hasn’t unbalanced . . . you mentally?’

  I tightened my grip on the gun.

  ‘I’m going to ask you again, Jake. Lie to me and I’ll kill you.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake . . . I’m telling—’

  ‘Are you connected to the Golden Road?’

  Jake looked me straight in the eyes.

  ‘I swear I’m not,’ he said.

  I squeezed off three rounds in quick succession.

  All three hit the target.

  I sauntered down Gresham Street as though taking a late-evening constitutional. Heavy rain meant that it was ten minutes before I passed the first person who might be able to ID me to the police afterwards. It was the best part of an hour before I walked on to Richmond Bridge, and even then I found it more by accident than design.

  First, the body of the gun descended into the dark water swirling beneath me. Seconds later the magazine followed. If one day the river deposited them on to the shore then they would be unusable and untraceable. For some reason I couldn’t move, as though a hypnotist had commanded I remain rooted to the pavement.

  What seemed like a flash case of the flu set in and my body ached and shivered. Tears began to course down my cheeks. I was wondering if I might have to remain on the bridge until someone arrived to lead me off it, when the weeping stopped and my feet seemed capable of shuffling forward. Ten minutes later I called Odeerie.

  THIRTY-NINE

  A bottle of brandy usually lasted Odeerie six months. He was now on his third glass in twenty minutes. The curtains in his sitting room were drawn and the lighting muted. Odeerie occupied a brown leather sofa next to a shelf of classical vinyl. I was slumped in the corduroy armchair by the door.

  ‘Christ, Kenny,’ he said after I’d reached the end of my account. ‘The guy could have bled out.’