by Greg Keen
‘I wrapped a towel around his leg before I left. The flow had stopped and if Jake called an ambulance straight away then he’ll be fine.’
‘What about the cactus?’
‘The cactus was fucked.’
‘I meant why did you shoot it?’
‘Things were a bit tense,’ I said. ‘It was either the cactus or Jake.’
‘What if he tells the cops?’
I shrugged.
Odeerie knocked back the rest of his brandy and picked up his phone. He tapped it a few times and scrutinised the screen. ‘There’s nothing online.’
‘Maybe the news services haven’t picked it up yet.’
‘Unlikely. They get hold of this kind of thing almost straight away. Jake could have passed out after you left and been unable to make the call. That would mean he’s lying dead in his house right now.’
‘Thanks, Odeerie.’
‘Just being realistic, Kenny.’
‘The police could be delaying the release for operational reasons.’
‘Or Jake didn’t call an ambulance.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘He might have gone private.’
‘BUPA?’
‘Someone prepared to take care of it without informing the police. You know, a GP who’s been struck off or a dodgy vet.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘See what you mean.’
Taking the train from Richmond had felt like taking an acid trip. My anxiety levels were so high that everyone seemed to be staring at the whey-faced damp bloke in the corner of the carriage and muttering about him under their breath.
No way was I convincing Odeerie that I’d just returned from a quiet supper with my brother. My attempt to explain events had been so incoherent that the brandy had been produced. Currently the fat man was outdrinking me at a ratio of 3:1.
‘Nope. Jake’s either dead or used a hooky doctor,’ he said, having found no information on his phone. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier, Kenny?’
‘Because it would have implicated you.’
Odeerie looked at the ceiling and shook his head.
‘Where did you get the gun?’ he asked.
‘Farrelly.’
‘Farrelly, the guy who tortures people for fun?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That Farrelly.’
‘It just gets better and better. You’ve shot a prominent businessman with a weapon supplied by a stone-cold psychopath. What are you doing for an encore, Kenny?’
‘Going into hospital and having my skull opened.’
The line stopped Odeerie in his tracks.
‘That was another reason I went after Jake,’ I said. ‘There was a decent chance there wouldn’t be any comebacks.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The operation’s not quite as straightforward as I told you. The tumour isn’t malignant but it’s bloody big. Getting it out isn’t going to be an easy job. If things go well then I’ll need a few weeks to recuperate.’
‘And if they don’t you’ll need a few more weeks.’
‘It’s not that simple. I might be blind or physically incapacitated. If it goes really badly then I might not come out of hospital at all.’
A car drove past with the dull repetitive thud of bass cranked to the max. After twenty seconds or so, its pumping beat was swallowed by the night.
‘I’m sorry, Kenny,’ Odeerie said.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘So am I.’
For the next hour or so Odeerie did his best to be positive. We talked about the statistics I’d been given and the fact that hospitals tend to err on the side of caution. The fat man opened up a box of Krispy Kremes and began to plough through them while I collared what remained of the brandy. We kept the TV tuned to BBC News in case something came up about a shooting in South West London.
There’s only so much you can say about a brain tumour before it gets samey, and the conversation drifted. Odeerie still hadn’t cracked the encrypted email and wasn’t particularly hopeful it could be done. In his opinion, whoever had taken me to the slaughterhouse had been well prepared and knew what they were doing. He bit into his third doughnut and chewed thoughtfully.
‘Let’s review the whole thing. You’re convinced that Dean Allison killed Emily but he’s got an unbreakable alibi, according to the police. JJ Freeman and Castor were best mates, right? So close they were essentially brothers.’
I nodded.
‘So if Castor did murder Emily in a fit of rage after finding out that she had a thing with Dean Allison, then he could have gone to JJ for help afterwards.’
‘Apart from they were having huge barneys about money.’
‘What brothers don’t have arguments? Doesn’t mean they aren’t going to be there for each other when the shit hits the fan. JJ could have smuggled Castor out of the country and he doesn’t want you or anyone else to know where he is.’
‘Why would he think we were even getting close?’
In lieu of an answer, the fat man introduced another name to the conversation.
‘Chop Montague.’
‘What about him?’
‘He and Castor were writing hit songs but Castor was getting himself wired on drugs and writing less. Chop could have got pissed off that his career was going down the toilet and decided to do something about it.’
‘Apart from Chop’s gone from strength to strength.’
‘He didn’t know that would happen at the time.’
‘Fair enough, but why kill Emily?’
Odeerie thought about this for a few seconds.
‘What if the two events aren’t connected? What if someone killed Emily and someone else killed Castor?’
‘Hell of a coincidence.’
‘So we come back to Castor murdering Emily and escaping under his own steam, or more likely with the help of a third party . . .’
‘You really think a shadowy group called the Golden Road disappears rock stars and makes a fortune off their royalties?’
The fat man spread his palms. ‘I’m just saying that’s where the evidence is pointing, Kenny. And if the Golden Road doesn’t exist, who made the phone call to you and arranged all that business in the abattoir?’
It was a question to which I had no answer. Odeerie stared at the doughnut in his hand for a few moments, as though it were a tiny crystal ball instead of a globe of deep-fried pastry. Then he popped it into his mouth and ate it.
By 2 a.m. there hadn’t been any reports about a shooting incident. It looked as though Odeerie’s theory about Jake’s unregistered doctor had been right. Our hug was awkward. My arms couldn’t span Odeerie’s circumference and he patted my back as though winding a baby. I’d felt more comfortable pulling a gun on Jake Villiers.
The streets served as a decompression chamber following a long dive. The familiarity of buildings I’d known for thirty years helped neutralise the emotion of the last few hours. It would be a while before I trod the cobbles of Berwick Street, set my watch by Bar Italia’s clock, or smoked a fag with the doormen outside Sunset Strip. All of which I did before returning to the flat.
There were no police officers. Waiting was the bag I’d packed for St Mick’s, a half-empty bottle of Monarch and an unopened pack of Marlboros. Every New Year I had promised myself that life would be different. I’d join a gym, quit smoking and get a proper job. It had never happened and now it probably never would.
After settling into the chair to get some sleep, I roamed through dreamscapes littered with guns, supposedly dead rock stars, and giant eggs. Pauline Oakley hung from a tree on Hampstead Heath and Farrelly gave me a bollocking for not following through. By the time the alarm on my phone woke me at seven thirty, I felt more knackered than when I’d drifted off. A long shower and a pint of coffee went some way to making me feel better. While waiting for the taxi, I sat down and read a week-old copy of the Guardian.
The paper’s lifestyle guru detailed an exercise in which people were asked to look fo
r everything brown in a room and told to close their eyes. When asked what was green they hadn’t a clue. The point was that we see what we expect to see, not necessarily what’s there – particularly if someone misdirects us. Was Castor Greaves still alive and writing music? Of course he was.
I’d just been looking in the wrong place.
FORTY
The bungalow was a converted stable constructed from the same granite blocks as Mickleton Lodge. There was about a hundred yards between the buildings. A skylight and a solar panel had been set into the roof, and a decking area was home to several potted shrubs, a barbecue station and a bench with a propane heater above it.
I used my binoculars to switch from the house to the bungalow and back several times. No one around. I clambered over the dry-stone wall and deposited my rucksack under an oak tree. The damp from the grass penetrated my Hush Puppies long before I’d reached the decking. My feet squelched over the planks as I approached the door.
I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer.
The window to the left served a kitchen. A few dishes had been left in the sink and a pair of muddy wellingtons lay on a sheet of newspaper. Curtains had been drawn across the window on the right, although I could make out a TV and the edge of an armchair. I passed a gleaming steel septic tank on my way to the rear of the building.
A beaten-earth path led from the bungalow to a nearby copse, above which a parliament of rooks circled and cawed. There was only one window and one door. I peered into a small bedroom. Lying on the bed was a battered acoustic guitar along with an A4 pad. On the bedside table, next to a clock radio, was a copy of the iconic picture of Emily Ridley with her head on Castor Greaves’s shoulder.
Had I taken a couple of photos and left, it would have been enough. Instead, I tried the door. It was locked. An expert could have cracked the single-lever mortice with a paper clip. Even I took less than a minute using a tension wrench and a pick.
The door to the left opened on to the bedroom. Opposite was the bathroom. After establishing this, I entered the sitting room and switched on the lights. Five shelves contained what had to be a couple of thousand records and CDs. An electric guitar was propped against the TV and a keyboard lay on a waist-high stand.
The wardrobe was filled with jackets and boots. What looked like a balaclava had been draped across the rail. I reached in and pulled it out. Peering up at me was the rubberised face of the forty-fifth president of the United States. I’d just transferred the mask to my pocket when I heard the click. Chop Montague was pointing a shotgun in my direction.
‘You took another look at the photo, didn’t you, Kenny?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I took another look at the photo.’
The nylon tie had been looped around the cooker’s gas pipe. Had I been strong enough to wrench the thing free, I’d still have risked blowing the building sky-high. The only thing I could do was sit on the kitchen chair and stare at Chop, who was leaning against the fridge with the shotgun cradled under his arm.
‘Who else did you tell you were coming here?’ he asked.
‘Fucking everyone,’ I said. ‘If I’m not checked into St Mick’s Hospital in the next half-hour then they’ll know exactly where to look for me.’
Chop smiled. ‘I don’t think so, Kenny. You couldn’t have been sure that the guy in the picture was Castor and you wouldn’t have wanted to look stupid.’
He was right. The first time I’d seen the press photograph of the blaze at Mickleton Lodge I’d focused on the woman who was Emily Ridley’s doppelgänger. What I should have been doing was checking out the guy who had raised the alarm.
‘When you showed me the photo on your tablet at Encore I thought it was the end of the line,’ Chop said. ‘And then you started going on about my sister being Emily Ridley. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was all for killing you, but after what Castor did to Saskia Reeves-Montgomery I thought it a trifle risky.’
‘Castor killed Saskia?’
Chop nodded. ‘She called and asked how long my heroic gardener had been working for me. Of course there wasn’t much doubt as to why she wanted to know, which is why Cas had to pay her a visit.’
‘Why torture her?’
‘We had to know if she’d told anyone else.’
‘That was Cas’s idea?’
‘Actually, mine, but there isn’t much people won’t do to preserve their freedom. Particularly if they’re reminded of the alternative from time to time.’
‘Which is what you’ve been doing for Cas all these years?’
Chop’s smile answered my question.
The radio attached to his belt loop buzzed. ‘Hello, Cas,’ he said, holding it to his mouth. ‘Yes, unfortunately it turns out that, despite our best efforts, I was right about Mr Gabriel . . .’
I heard the indistinct buzz of a male voice.
‘Well, I think there’s only one solution, don’t you?’ Chop looked directly at me. ‘Probably the woods. If anyone hears they’ll assume that we’re shooting rabbits . . . I’ve got the gun here, so there’s no need to go back to the house . . .’ Chop’s radio clattered on to the kitchen table. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘not wanting to draw too much attention was why we went to the enormous inconvenience of arranging the drama in the abattoir.’
‘You pretended to be the Golden Road?’
Chop chuckled. ‘Of all the theories as to what happened to Castor, that was the most absurd. But when the Inquisitor got hold of those demos, suddenly it became rooted in the public imagination.’
‘Why didn’t you just kill me and Saskia at the same time?’
‘Too risky. You’d blabbed in the Post about how you thought the Golden Road was involved in Castor’s disappearance and that he was still alive. If we’d killed you then it would have been seen as proof you were right.’
‘And that would have meant even more publicity?’
‘Indeed. Unfortunately, now you’ve left us with no other option . . .’
Chop ran a hand over the blued-steel barrels of the shotgun. The action caused my stomach to contract and my bowels to loosen. The story in the Post had both kept me alive and condemned me to death. Thank you, Danny Abbott.
‘What happened in the Emporium that night?’ I asked.
‘I can’t tell you, Kenny,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it would mean . . .’
Chop’s brow furrowed. He laid the gun carefully on the table and approached the sink. From a holder containing Fairy Liquid and other cleaning sundries, he selected a dishcloth and scrunched it into a ball.
‘Open wide.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Kenny, you’ll be dead in fifteen minutes. What does it matter?’
The grey rag had congealed fat and particles of food clinging to it. The idea of letting it anywhere near my mouth was repellent. But then so was having a twelve-bore discharged into my face. Chop inserted the cloth.
‘Spit it out,’ he said.
Impossible. The cloth had wedged my jaws open to a degree that I’d lost the ability to manipulate them. All I could do was try not to vomit and choke to death.
‘Good,’ Chop said. ‘Now you can know what happened to Cas and Em. Even if you will be taking the story to a shallow grave.’
He settled into one of the kitchen chairs and crossed his legs.
‘When Castor and I began writing together it became clear that he had a gift. Cas could barely read music and had absolutely no idea as to the principles of composition, but that wasn’t a problem. Having been to the Royal College, I could introduce those elements to the mix easily enough. What I lacked was raw talent.
‘Unfortunately, the more Cas learned, the more he realised that all I was doing was transcribing his ideas. If he left the band, I would have gone from being one half of the most exciting writing partnership in a decade to applying for teach
ing jobs.
‘Cas got disastrously into heroin, as you know. With everything that entailed, it looked as though my writing days were numbered. Which was when fate provided the kind of opportunity that you either take or regret not doing so for the rest of your life. I believe there’s something in Henry V about it . . .’
There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune was probably the passage Chop was referring to. It was from Julius Caesar, but no way could I put him right about that with a dishrag stuffed in my mouth.
‘Pure luck led to me trying the door to the roof,’ he continued. ‘Had it been locked, things would have turned out very differently. Castor had been trying to turn Emily on to smack, and in the end he succeeded. Be careful what you wish for, isn’t that what they say? Anyway, she was carrying the stash and they’d agreed to take it together under the stars. Unfortunately the gear was abnormally pure. Cas still had the needle in his arm when I found the pair of them out cold.’
Chop took a deep breath.
‘And that’s when I made my choice, Kenny,’ he said. ‘I pinched Emily’s nostrils and held my other hand over her mouth. Two minutes later she was dead. Then I slapped Castor’s face and brought him round. He assumed that Emily had died because of the junk he’d pumped into her veins.
‘Cas panicked until I told him there was a way out. He would need to stay on the roof with Emily’s body until the following day, when I’d arrive to supervise the removal of the band’s equipment. Cas wasn’t officially missing and it wasn’t too hard to get him out unrecognised. The real problem was what to do with Emily.
‘The heating ducts had just been capped off and I thought it was where we should temporarily conceal the body. When no one discovered it after three months, leaving her there seemed the safest option. And then you turned up, twenty-two years later.
‘All I wanted was for Castor and me to keep writing together. Everything would have to be released under my name, but that didn’t bother him unduly. It was more about creation for Cas than it was the cash or the glory.
‘That wasn’t the case for me. I’d grown too accustomed to the praise and the plaudits to say goodbye to them. Have you ever been so envious of someone that you did something you ought to be ashamed of?’
