by Greg Keen
Eventually my brain slipped into neutral as I watched the darkening East Anglian landscape flash past. The carriage was empty and greenhouse-warm. Combined with the hypnotic rattle of the wheels, it began to make me feel sleepy. I allowed a two-day-old copy of the Ipswich Advertiser to fall on to my lap, closed my eyes and began to dream.
It was almost dark on the beach. The moon was high in the sky and the tide had advanced over the pebbles until it was within yards of the fisherman. In a few minutes, the water would float him free of the shingle and bear him out to sea.
Wait any longer and I would be carried away myself. I wished the fisherman bon voyage and hoped that we would meet again some day. The stub of pipe fell from his lips and he muttered something through his beard. I put my ear closer to his mouth and he told me who had murdered George Dent.
THIRTY
Odeerie’s arms were folded tight and his lips screwed together in a sceptical grimace. ‘Seriously, Kenny,’ he said. ‘You really think that’s what happened?’
‘Positive,’ I replied.
The fat man blew out his cheeks and shook his head. It had just gone 8 a.m. I’d had four hours’ sleep. The Seven Dials Bakery had called to say that Odeerie’s delivery of breakfast croissants was running late. Fair to say we were both a little tetchy.
‘Blimp Baxter blackmailed George Dent to get his plans passed for the River Heights development, and then George decided to go public with it?’
‘That’s right. As part of his remit for Urban Development, George chaired the Inner City Planning Committee. Blimp’s application to have the Corn Exchange demolished was denied twice and then the committee changed its mind.’
‘How many sat on it?’ Odeerie asked.
‘Nine,’ I said.
‘What was the split?’
‘Six for, three against.’
‘Then it wasn’t George’s vote that carried the application?’
‘No, but he was the chairman and the most senior politico. You know how that world works, Odeerie. George probably did a little quid pro quo with a couple of the other members.’
‘All to prevent the drugs photos from getting out?’
‘And ruining his career.’
Odeerie’s arms disengaged. He glanced at his watch and scratched his head. ‘But you said that Will took the photographs.’
‘Almost certainly at Blimp’s suggestion. If Blimp could get some kind of leverage on George then he could use it to get the application passed.’
I took my laptop from my bag, opened it up and placed it before Odeerie.
‘This is the Old Hibbertians website. Tell me what you see . . .’
Odeerie squinted at the screen. ‘A bunch of middle-aged blokes holding up champagne glasses,’ he said. ‘Is that what I’m meant to see?’
‘The two standing by the left of the statue are Blimp and Will.’
‘So what? They both went to Hibberts.’
‘Will said that he hadn’t seen Blimp in forty years.’
Odeerie sat back in his chair and sucked his teeth. ‘Maybe he forgot.’
‘Who’s going to forget meeting Blimp Baxter? And when Will admitted to blackmailing George Dent, he was definitely worried about something. That something was his link to Blimp.’
‘Baxter paid Will to blackmail George Dent?’
‘Exactly. When Will mentioned to Blimp that he was supplying George Dent with coke, Blimp saw an opportunity. It wasn’t about cash. It was about allowing the River Heights planning application to go ahead.’
‘Then I’m not surprised he was worried about you finding out,’ Odeerie said. ‘He could do four years straight off the bat for regular blackmail. A lot longer if the connection to Blimp was revealed.’
The doorbell rang. Odeerie couldn’t have hauled his arse out of the office any quicker had his trousers been on fire. Les croissants étaient arrivés.
I rubbed my hands over my face in an attempt to banish the tiredness. After arriving back from Suffolk, I’d spent an hour searching online for the River Heights application. RIBA reported that it had been passed at the third time of asking.
Checking the Hibberts site had been a shot in the dark. On finding the photo of Will and Blimp, I’d emitted a whoop of delight that was probably audible in Piccadilly Circus.
Odeerie returned to the office carrying a cardboard box. ‘I’d offer you one, Kenny, but there’s only six.’
Odeerie virtually inhaled the first croissant. The second received a couple of cursory chews. After dispatching the third, he asked, ‘Where did you get this theory?’
I could have told him that a fibreglass fisherman revealed it to me in a dream.
Or . . .
‘It was a subconscious thing,’ I said. ‘You know, when your mind connects the dots without you being aware of it and then suddenly you have the answer.’
‘What about Alexander Whatshisname?’ Odeerie asked. ‘How does that fit in?’
‘Simon Paxton thinks he and the other boys set up some kind of supernatural connection with Porteus in the cemetery.’
‘What do you think?’
‘He might be right.’
‘Stone me, Kenny. You are joking.’
‘Not everything can be explained rationally.’
Odeerie screwed his face up and looked at the final three croissants. ‘Maybe you should have one of these,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Your blood sugar must be low.’
Simon Paxton’s theory did sound a little less convincing in Odeerie’s office, complete with brushed aluminium desks and humming computer stack, than it had on a windswept Suffolk beach. No point arguing the toss, though.
‘Leave Porteus out of the mix and then does it make sense?’ I asked.
Odeerie considered the question. ‘So, for argument’s sake, let’s say that Blimp did get Will to set George up with the drugs photos and he passed the River Heights application to stop them getting out. Then George changes his mind and tells Blimp that he’s going to the press about what happened. Why does Blimp plant the porn and the drugs in his flat?’
‘So that George would be discredited. Blimp wanted to neutralise him if he went ahead with his threat to reveal that he’d been blackmailed to pass the River Heights development in the first place. Who would believe someone who’d been charged with being a paedophile and a drug user?’
‘After which George tops himself?’
‘Or he was murdered by Blimp just to make completely sure.’
Odeerie grunted. ‘And he killed Peter Timms?’
‘Either that was a genuine accident or Blimp thought George must have told him something.’
‘So Blimp Baxter, billionaire property tycoon and TV personality, also moonlights as a serial killer? That’s really what you’re going to the police with, Kenny?’
‘I probably don’t have enough proof,’ I admitted.
‘You don’t have any proof,’ Odeerie corrected me through a mouthful of dough.
‘But what if I convince Will that I know everything?’ I said. ‘Then he might confess to the cops in return for a good word at sentencing.’
‘And if you’re wrong?’
‘Then I look like a twat.’
‘Yeah, well, that wouldn’t be the first time. Look, I think you’re in danger of making one and one add up to three here, but there’s probably no harm in giving Creighton-Smith a prod and seeing which way he jumps.’
While Odeerie concentrated on his breakfast, I called Will on his mobile. It went straight to voicemail. My next call was to Mountjoy Classics, where a man who sounded in a hurry said that Will hadn’t turned up for work that morning. I asked if he had rung in sick and was told he hadn’t.
‘Not there?’ Odeerie asked after I hung up.
‘No. And he’s not called them either.’
‘Bit odd, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said. ‘How’s the password thing doing?’
Odeerie wandered over to a desk on which were a large screen
and a keyboard. He tapped a couple of keys and said. ‘It’s seventy-four per cent of the way through the program.’
‘What does it do, exactly?’
‘Tries out every letter and numerical combination it can to obtain a password. The parameters I’ve set mean that it’ll be finished in about four hours.’
‘And it’ll have cracked it by then?’ I asked.
‘Not necessarily. Depending on the length and complexity of the password, it can take weeks or months to get right. Years, even.’
‘We’ve got forty-eight hours.’
Odeerie’s silence said it all.
‘Let’s wait until your program finishes,’ I said. ‘If that doesn’t produce the goods then I’ll come up with . . . you know . . . another plan.’
We sipped our coffee. I wondered what the hell the other plan might be. I had a fair idea that that was on Odeerie’s mind too. As there wasn’t much I could do about the Dylans, I focused on my other problem instead.
‘I’m going to call Blimp and set up a meet. I’ll tell him I’ve got proof he blackmailed George and that I’ll stay quiet if he gives me fifty grand.’
‘It’s an incredibly good plan, Kenny,’ Odeerie said. ‘In fact, the only fly in the ointment I can see is that you don’t actually have any proof.’
‘I’ll take the wand. If he tries to bargain, I can take the recording to the police.’
The ‘wand’ was a digital recorder disguised as a fully functioning pen. I used it when interviewing people. Usually I didn’t bother telling them that the chubby biro I was scribbling away with could also hold six hours of conversation.
‘Wouldn’t be admissible in court,’ Odeerie pointed out.
‘I know, but at least the cops will do some digging off the back of it.’
‘Or arrest you for attempted blackmail. Blimp’s a player, Kenny. Screw him over and he won’t like it.’
The fat man had a point. Calling Blimp out wasn’t without risk. But if I didn’t give it a shot, I’d never know. I reached for my phone again.
After six rings I prepared myself for Blimp’s voicemail and was taken aback when I got the man in person. ‘Blimp Baxter,’ he said, sounding as tired as I felt.
‘Blimp, it’s Kenny Gabriel—’
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘A meeting.’
‘About what?’
‘The photographs you and Will took of George Dent snorting coke.’
‘Don’t know what you’re on about, old boy.’
‘And it’s not just the pictures.’
‘You’re full of shit.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll take it all down to West End Central and see what the duty sergeant thinks about it. Maybe the papers would be interested too . . .’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ Blimp said. Silence for a few seconds, after which, ‘I live on Regent’s Park Road. Can you come at eleven p.m. tonight? I’m having a couple of people round, but they’ll be gone by then.’
I said I could and took the details.
I hadn’t expected Odeerie to give me a round of applause after I’d reported Blimp’s sudden change of heart about meeting up, although I had expected something. Instead he pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Just because he’s agreed to meet doesn’t mean he’ll tell you anything’ was his disappointing verdict.
‘Maybe not, but it means I’m right.’
‘I don’t know, Kenny. I’ve got a seriously bad feeling about this. If he did kill George Dent and Peter Timms then he won’t draw the line at you.’
‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ I said. ‘If I haven’t called you—’
An electronic parp interrupted me. Odeerie waddled over to the workstation, clicked the mouse a couple of times and rapidly entered something on the keyboard.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘The force program’s nailed the password.’
A series of photographs showed a bunch of people in what looked like a restaurant, followed by half a dozen shots of two guys sparring in the ring at Farrelly’s Gym. Then we got to three in a row that had been taken outside Billy’s apartment block. The third clearly showed McDonald walking out of the door.
‘Bingo!’ Odeerie said.
‘Except that Billy could say the photo was taken before he went missing,’ I said.
‘No, he can’t,’ Odeerie replied. ‘The time and date are embedded in the image, and there’s a log on the iCloud upload. Hang on . . .’
He clicked and the final two shots appeared on the screen. The second had a slightly tighter focus.
‘Christ, what was Gary doing at a theatre?’ I asked.
‘I’ll expand the picture,’ Odeerie said.
On the window of the Cock & Bull Theatre pub was a poster advertising the current production. Next to the poster were photographs of the cast.
One of whom was Martin McDonald.
THIRTY-ONE
I had called Olivia on the journey back from Suffolk and again after arriving at Liverpool Street station. On each occasion there had been no reply. That she hadn’t returned my calls seemed peculiar. As Porteus Books was only a five-minute walk from Odeerie’s, I decided to look in on her in person. I also needed time to think after seeing the final photograph on Gary’s iCloud account.
At 9.15 a.m. things are slow in the occult book trade, especially on a Sunday. When the bell tinkled, Rodney looked up from his iPad like a medium roused from a trance. ‘It’s Kenny,’ I reminded him. ‘Is Olivia in today?’
Putting aside the tablet, Rodney gave me his full attention. ‘She’s visiting Sebastian in hospital,’ he said, ‘although he might have been discharged by now. Anyway, she definitely isn’t coming in.’
‘What happened?’
‘Overdose.’
‘Heroin?’
‘Neediness.’ Rodney sighed. ‘God, I’m such a bitch. Seb swallowed thirty paracetamol yesterday afternoon. At least, that’s how many he said he took.’
‘He tried to kill himself?’
‘Except that half an hour afterwards he called Liv and she got an ambulance round to him. Does that sound like a suicide bid to you?’
‘He was faking it?’
‘You might say so – I couldn’t possibly comment.’ Rodney yawned and examined his fingernails.
‘Has he tried anything like this before?’ I asked.
‘Only half a dozen times. Basically, Seb reaches for the bottle when he isn’t getting enough attention from his big sister.’ Rodney gave me an arch look. ‘Or he thinks someone is getting more. Tell me, how are things with you and Liv?’
‘I should call her,’ I said, ignoring the question.
‘Spoilsport.’ Rodney handed me a key. ‘You can talk privately on the office phone,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Liv won’t mind under the circs.’
Thanks,’ I said, and headed for the basement.
Olivia’s office was about half the size of a domestic garage. Dozens of books were piled on shelves and virtually every other available space. Some had pieces of paper or Post-it notes tucked into their pages. Others had been packed into envelopes, presumably ready to be sent out to collectors.
Amidst the chaos was a desk bearing a closed laptop and a vintage push-button phone. A large brass frog weighted down several documents and papers. I sat on a rickety bentwood chair and called Olivia’s number.
‘Hi, Rodney,’ she said. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Actually, it’s Kenny,’ I replied. ‘I dropped in to see you and Rodney let me use the office phone. Apparently Sebastian took an overdose . . .’
‘Yes, he did,’ she replied. ‘Although it looks like he might have become confused and not swallowed quite as many pills as he thought, thank God.’
‘Why did he do it?’ I asked.
‘Things were getting too much for him and he was starting to drift back to his old life again. And he was upset about the business with the watch.’
‘The one he accused me of nicking?’
; ‘Seb wasn’t in his right mind, Kenny,’ Olivia said sharply. ‘He’s asked me to apologise to you.’
‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘We’re at my flat. He’ll rest here for a few days.’
Fucking wonderful.
‘Look, Kenny,’ Olivia continued, ‘how about supper tomorrow? I’d suggest tonight, but I don’t want to leave Seb on his own.’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to work anyway.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you a call and we can sort something out. Oh, and Kenny . . . afterwards . . . there’s always your place, isn’t there?’
‘There certainly is,’ I replied. ‘Actually, there’s something else I wanted to ask—’
‘I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. Sebastian’s due at the doctor’s in half an hour.’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘See you tomorrow.’
My next call was to Farrelly. While pondering how to open what might be a tricky conversation, my eyes fell on a printout of a rare-book auction listing the lots on offer, specifically those of Alexander Porteus. The reserve on most was less than £200, although for one volume it was £6,500 – The White Tower by William Gifford.
According to its description, the novel was in fine condition and number 123 of 1,000 copies privately printed in Paris in 1947. It also said that many scholars considered William Gifford to be the pseudonym of Alexander Porteus. The scholars in question clearly hadn’t consulted Olivia.
And yet the entry had been highlighted. Perhaps I’d ask her about it tomorrow, or perhaps I’d steer clear of anything to do with Alexander bloody Porteus, focusing my efforts instead on getting her back to my Brewer Street love salon.
If I didn’t get on and call Farrelly, there was a good chance I never would. He wasn’t going to like what I had to tell him, but he deserved to know. I also needed his help in confronting the people who had nearly killed his son.
Gary’s condition was the first thing I enquired about after he answered the call.
‘Better than he was. They’ve done something to reduce the swelling.’