by Greg Keen
I used the magnetic fob on the key Peter Timms had given me to gain admission. On one side of the entrance hall was a set of pigeonholes for residents’ post. The opposite wall featured a bicycle rack containing several off-road machines. Daylight came through frosted panels in the door and was augmented by three rows of halogen ceiling studs. Had there been an oxygen cylinder and a Sherpa handy, I might have attempted the seven flights of stairs. In their absence I took the lift.
The lock protecting flat 44 would almost have been as easy to open with a pick as it was with the key. I entered a sitting room that was a symphony in brown. At one end of the spectrum was a mahogany coffee table; at the other a set of beige curtains that fell to the floor. The floorboards were varnished pine and the sofa chestnut-coloured leather. The most interesting thing in the room was a small and well-executed seascape signed with the initials GD.
The spare bedroom served as an office. A glass table supported an inkjet printer and a mug filled with pens and pencils. At one side was a mini filing cabinet. The top drawer was thick with opened envelopes and letters. Some had the Mermaid Court address on the front; others had been delivered to the Houses of Parliament.
Presumably the cops had removed anything relevant to their enquiries. All that a quick search revealed was an A4 envelope crammed with receipts, an invitation to a steering committee, half a dozen takeaway menus and several constituency letters, each with a date-received stamp. None were signed A. Porteus (deceased), which would have made things a lot more interesting.
George Dent had fallen from the main bedroom. A twenty-five-metre drop directly on to concrete would be hard to survive. In the absence of a suicide note, and bearing in mind the high levels of alcohol in the deceased’s system, the coroner had returned a verdict of accidental death. Only an idiot would believe it. The child abuse images had been category five. Dent would have done the hardest time there was.
Was it possible he could have seen Alexander Porteus from his window? Answer: yes. Could he have fallen accidentally or even been pushed? Also yes. Did I think either event had taken place? Emphatically no.
A key turned in the lock. My instinctive reaction was concealment. Then I remembered that I was in the flat legitimately.
In the sitting room a woman in her mid-twenties was unhooking a large satchel from her shoulder. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked.
She jumped a couple of inches and her bag crashed to the floor. The top fell open and a Bic biro trundled across the boards. It came to rest against the leg of the coffee table.
‘God, you gave me a fright. I thought the place was empty.’
‘Sorry about that. My name’s Kenny Gabriel. I’m working for Peter Timms. He’s George’s executor.’
Not a lie in the strict definition of the term, and the woman appeared to have no problem with it. ‘Sally Thomas,’ she said. ‘I was George’s constituency assistant. I’m here to pick up any documents he may have left behind after . . .’
The girl’s shoulder-length brown hair hadn’t seen a salon for a while. She wore no make-up, a pair of jeans and a cable-knit sweater. A slim figure and large hazel eyes made her the perfect candidate for a makeover show.
‘Terrible business,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Yes.’ Sally swallowed. ‘Yes, it was.’
I picked up the biro and handed it over. She nodded gratefully and slipped it into her satchel.
‘Didn’t he leave everything to Amnesty?’ she asked.
‘Peter is still legally required to take an inventory.’
I had no idea whether this was correct. Thankfully Sally didn’t seem to either.
‘Actually, George mentioned Peter a couple of times,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he run Dairy Vale?’ I nodded. ‘And he’s your boss?’
‘In a manner of speaking. How long did you and George work together?’
‘Almost five years.’ Sally’s chin wobbled. She pulled a pack of Kleenex from her jeans pocket. ‘Sorry about this, but what they did to him was disgusting.’
‘What who did?’ I asked.
She dabbed her eyes. ‘Whoever planted the disk.’
‘What disk?’
‘The child pornography files were on a disk drive in the toilet cistern. Didn’t you know that?’
‘To be honest, I didn’t really follow the case,’ I said. ‘Why would anyone plant it?’
Sally tucked the used tissue up her sleeve. She sniffed a couple of times and pushed a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. ‘George was doing a lot of work exposing corporate corruption. And believe me, the one thing you don’t want to do in this country is cross the establishment. Then again, it might have been the bloody Tories, or even someone in the party. You wouldn’t believe the jealousy in politics.’
‘How would they have managed it?’
‘I told George dozens of times he should get the lock changed. The one he had wouldn’t stop anyone who knew what they were doing.’
‘What about the coke?’ I asked. ‘Was that planted too?’
‘No. That was his.’
‘He told you?’ She nodded. ‘And you believed him?’
Judging by Sally’s reaction, scepticism had crept into my voice.
‘Why would he lie?’ she asked with an edge to her own.
‘Some things no one admits to.’
‘George wasn’t a paedophile, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
Peter Timms had also been adamant his friend hadn’t been sexually attracted to children. Then again, he’d been equally convinced the man wasn’t into drugs. Who knows what’s really going on with other people?
‘Did George ever mention someone called Alexander Porteus?’ I asked.
Sally pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘Not that I recall. Who was he?’
‘Someone he’d met recently.’
‘You seem to know a lot about George.’
Her suspicion was understandable. As a result, I decided to pursue a risky and seldom-used strategy – the truth. ‘Peter had a few concerns about how George died. He hired me to ask some questions. That’s why I’m here.’
‘You’re a private detective?’
I nodded.
‘What kind of questions?’ Sally asked.
‘Similar to your own,’ I said. ‘He didn’t think George was the kind of guy who’d be into child porn. And he had a few other suspicions.’
‘About what?’
‘I’m afraid that’s confidential,’ I said, and moved the conversation forward. ‘Did George seem at all agitated before he died?’
‘He was under a fair bit of pressure. Which senior MP isn’t?’
‘Nothing unusual, though?’
‘I don’t think so. Was Alexander the new boyfriend?’
‘George had a regular partner?’
‘I don’t know about regular, but I think he was seeing someone.’
‘He didn’t mention a name?’
Sally shook her head. ‘George didn’t talk much about his personal life.’
I glanced at my watch. The conversation wasn’t going anywhere fast and I still needed to arrange some protection before the day got much older. ‘God, is that the time?’
‘Before you go, Kenny, there’s something I wanted to ask.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I haven’t got anything to remember George by and he was so proud of his painting. I was wondering whether . . . well, I was wondering if it would be okay if I took the watercolour.’
I’d been surprised that Sally had jumped quite so high when I disturbed her. Now I knew why. The girl had been doing some pretexting of her own.
‘Of course I’ll send a cheque to Amnesty for whatever the estate thinks it’s worth,’ she continued. ‘And if there’s anyone else it’s earmarked for, no problem.’
‘Not that it’s my decision, Sally,’ I said, ‘but I’m sure George would have wanted it to go to you. Just make s
ure you tuck it in your bag on the way out. Oh, and if anything else occurs . . .’ I handed her my card.
‘Actually, there is something,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, nothing important. It’s just that we went out one night and got on to regrets . . . You know how it is when you’ve had a few drinks.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I know.’
‘George said he did something at school he’d felt ashamed about all his life. I asked what it was but he wouldn’t tell me. I don’t suppose you know?’
‘Maybe he raided the tuck shop.’
‘It sounded a bit more significant than that.’
I shrugged and said, ‘We’ve all got regrets, Sally.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose we do.’
After departing Surrey House, I sat on one of the memorial benches by the mermaid fountain. Meeting Sally Thomas hadn’t changed my mind about Dent’s suicide, but it had raised a few questions. Had someone loathed him enough to plant the disk drive in the cistern? If so, then they must have had a bloody big grudge. I made a mental note to check with Odeerie whether the shadow minister had grievously pissed off anyone quite so influential.
The fat man had texted me a number for Simon Paxton, the boy who had organised the cemetery expedition in ’79. I called it and was immediately connected to a machine: This is Simon. I’m unable to speak right now was the succinct message.
‘Hi, Simon,’ I said. ‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel. I was calling about George Dent’s death. I’m not a reporter or affiliated with the press. Please call back, it’s important.’
I repeated my number a couple of times and killed the call. The wind changed direction and I began to get some spatter from the mermaid. I transferred operations to a bench on the far side of the fountain.
Sitting beside me was a woman with a miniature poodle on her lap. A walking stick rested by her side, and she was swaddled in a tweed overcoat and matching hat. In her eighties, she looked like she was heading for her own memorial bench.
I accessed Baxter Construction’s website on my phone. It had all the bells and whistles including hi-res photographs of completed projects from all over Europe. Demolition work had begun at a site south of Blackfriars Bridge. River Heights, an intelligent office and residential complex, was scheduled to open in 2023.
Blimp Baxter was pictured on site with his investors. He was six inches shorter than the other three men and considerably rounder. The face under the hard hat wore an avuncular grin although, if Blimp’s reputation was to be believed, there wasn’t much the developer would stop at to get his way. He had appeared in court twice accused of financial irregularity. Neither charge had stuck.
There had been rumours in the City that the River Heights project had put considerable strain on Blimp’s cash reserves. They’d been denied but had not gone away. Had Blimp bitten off too much even for him to swallow?
Calling a number on a website and expecting to speak to a man worth £1.2 billion was a tad unrealistic. Instead I set myself the task of trying to reach Blimp’s personal assistant. Ten minutes and five calls later, I had Daisy Cornwallis, his PA, on the line. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked in a Roedean accent.
‘I’m trying to get a message to Henry Baxter,’ I said.
‘And your name is?’
‘Kenny Gabriel.’
‘Is Henry expecting your call?’
‘Not that I’m aware.’
Daisy went into termination mode. ‘Mr Baxter is tied up in meetings for the next few days,’ she intoned. ‘However, I’ll let him know you called, Mr . . .’
‘Gabriel,’ I reminded her. ‘And could you also let him know that I have some information about George Dent’s death he might be interested in?’
‘May I ask the nature of the information?’ Daisy asked.
‘I’m afraid that’s confidential,’ I said, then gave her my number and cut the call.
Whether either message would provoke a response remained to be seen. Meanwhile I had some personal protection to arrange.
I was about to head for the porter’s lodge to drop off the key when the old lady spoke. ‘Did you know George Dent?’ she asked in a cut-glass treble.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m doing some work on behalf of a friend of his.’
‘You’re aware of what they found in his flat?’ I nodded. She held the dog’s head between gloved hands and stared into his brown eyes. ‘They should cut the balls off nonces, shouldn’t they, Alfie?’
‘Woof, woof,’ Alfie agreed.
FIVE
Forty years ago I arrived in Soho after a sharp disagreement with my parents as to whether I should attend the University of Durham or the University of Life. I paid the rent on my Berwick Street flat-share by doing a variety of jobs until the agency sent me to a place called the Galaxy on Frith Street. The doorman-cum-chauffeur in the club was a guy called Farrelly. A couple of years older than me, Farrelly radiated menace like a five-foot-nine-inch isotope of unadulterated rage.
My time at the Galaxy ended when I discovered Farrelly yanking a barman’s teeth. Last year I witnessed him torture someone with a car battery and bite a man’s ear off during a scrap. Age had not withered Farrelly, nor custom staled his infinite variety.
Despite this we had parted on reasonable terms. I knew Farrelly was focusing his attentions on a gym he owned in Bethnal Green. I also knew that, as a sideline, he offered a personal protection service. Bearing in mind my problem with a member of what the Standard had referred to as ‘the most brutal gangland family since the Richardsons’, I thought it might be worthwhile renewing our acquaintance.
Farrelly had called his gym Farrelly’s Gym. The plastic sign hung over the entrance door of a deconsecrated church. The typeface was sturdy and even the apostrophe looked as though it had been working out. On the outside, it didn’t seem like the kind of place where stressed execs consulted their Fitbits every two minutes while wheezing along on digitised treadmills. It didn’t seem like that on the inside either.
‘You a member?’ the guy behind the counter asked.
‘Actually, I’m here to meet a friend,’ I said.
‘No entry unless you’re a member.’
‘When I said friend, I meant owner.’
The guy probably lived on steroid sandwiches and protein shakes. They’d done wonders for his biceps but not his complexion. Each cheek was acne-ravaged and a pimple on his forehead was on the brink of eruption.
‘Through there,’ he said, and jerked a thumb the size of a carrot towards the door to his left. ‘But you’d better not be pissing me around.’
The wall by the entrance was covered in mirrors. Three guys were methodically pumping barbells while gazing at their reflections. A fourth, in a Lycra bodysuit, was lying on a bench straining to raise a heavily weighted bar. The guy standing directly behind him was shouting something that sounded like ‘Juju can, Phil. Juju can.’
In the centre of the room were several yellow-painted weight machines. Most were being used by men who may not have been as large as Mr Zit, but who weren’t in danger of fading away either. A lissome girl in her twenties alternately punched and kicked a heavy bag. Each decent connection brought forth a satisfied grunt.
At the far end of the room was a stained-glass window. It depicted a heavily bearded Christ wearing a damask robe. In one hand Jesus held a shepherd’s crook. Cradled in the opposite arm was an adoring lamb. Above him was a blue sky out of which shone a perfect yellow sun. At least, it would have been perfect had several pieces of glass not fallen from their frames.
Christ was looking downwards at a raised dais. Presumably this was where the altar would have been when the congregants were focused more on matters spiritual than martial. Now the Son of God beheld a roped-off ring in which a pair of men in gloves and headgear were busy thumping the crap out of each other.
Supervising the sparring session was the (not so) Reverend Farrelly.
Back in the day, F
arrelly had worn straight-leg Levi’s, oxblood DMs and a black T-shirt. Not much had changed. His head had been shaven then. It was shaven now. The muscles in his forearms were coiled together like mating snakes. His gnarled hands looked as though they’d been marinated in vinegar. The imp of death was leaning on the ropes, watching the fighters dance around each other. Judging by the scowl, he wasn’t pleased.
I mounted the dais and stood beside him. ‘Nice place, Farrelly,’ I said.
‘Fuck do you want?’ he replied.
‘Could we have a word in private?’
‘Use your jab, Gary. How many times do I have to tell you?’ Farrelly shook his head more in anger than in sorrow. From the way he attempted to catch his partner with a series of straight lefts, I assumed Gary was wearing the blue head guard. Not a single punch connected. His coach spat on the floor. ‘This is private,’ he said to me. ‘Get on with it.’
‘Do you still provide personal protection?’ Farrelly nodded. ‘Well, I think I might want to hire someone.’
‘Who needs protecting?’
‘I do.’
‘Who from?’
‘The husband of one of our clients. He’s already beaten up my business partner. Now I think he might be coming after me.’
‘Better, Gary. Much better,’ Farrelly shouted into the ring. ‘Keep moving your feet. Don’t let Sammy crowd you in the bleedin’ corner.’ There followed a further twenty seconds of exchanges before he spoke again. ‘How long?’
‘I don’t know. A week? Maybe two?’
‘Twenty-four hours a day?’
‘Probably.’
‘Week’s gonna be five grand.’
‘There’s no way I can afford that.’