by Greg Keen
The other four managed to get their hands on JJ. Tough as he was, I’m not sure that he’d have been able to deal with all of them had it not been for the bouncer’s intervention. He wasn’t the biggest but he knew what he was about.
One suit was pulled off and had his arm bent behind his back. A quick twist was enough to take him out of the game. JJ locked one of his arms around another guy’s throat and they crashed against the table before it collapsed to the floor.
Sober professionals always beat pissed amateurs, and clearly it wasn’t the doorman’s first rodeo. He stepped inside an attempted roundhouse to put suit number five into a neck pinch that had him whimpering like a ten-year-old girl.
By this time JJ was back on his feet but looking groggy. The last suit standing smashed a glass over a chair. Had someone not chosen that moment to introduce a Lagunitas bottle to the back of his head, then he would probably have put the shattered glass into JJ’s face.
‘Cheers, mate,’ the finest guitarist of his generation said.
‘You’re welcome,’ I replied.
It took a surprisingly short time to restore order. The audience had retreated from the brawl but hardly anyone left the club. Half the punters began taking photos, no doubt eager to tweet that they had just witnessed JJ Freeman in a bust-up.
JJ told the suits that, if they didn’t leave immediately, he’d call the police. It was a bit rich considering he’d thrown the first punch, but the battered posse limped out of the club with as much dignity as they could muster.
The band and the bar staff righted the furniture. JJ hoped everyone had enjoyed the floor show and announced that his next bout would be against Tyson Fury. This brought a few laughs and a smattering of applause. Five minutes later, the Chad Williams Band was onstage and it was as though nothing had ever happened.
I stationed myself at the bar with a soothing waga. However righteous it had been, busting someone over the head with a bottle had felt a bit transgressive. My victim didn’t seem to have suffered any short-term effects, although he’d probably need more than one aspirin in the morning. JJ spotted me and came over. ‘Everything this guy drinks tonight is on the house, Clive,’ he said to the barman, and then offered his hand. ‘JJ Freeman.’
‘Kenny Gabriel. We spoke on the phone this afternoon. You said tonight would be the best time to talk about Emily Ridley . . .’
‘Shit, I’d forgotten about that.’ JJ sighed. ‘Okay, best go upstairs, I suppose.’
We passed through an arch with a distressed tin sign that read WASHROOMS. Any concerns I had that we were about to conduct our discussion in a lavatory cubicle were dispelled when JJ unlocked an unmarked door.
We entered a room that contained a battered roll-top desk and a couple of knackered armchairs. The wallpaper was peeling and there was a damp patch on the ceiling. JJ pulled a cord that snapped shut a set of metal window blinds.
At least twenty cases of Jack Daniel’s and almost as many of Smirnoff had been stacked against a wall. I sat in the chair nearest the window while JJ occupied its opposite number. ‘You’re working for Emily Ridley’s mother?’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Definitely not the press?’
I held my phone out. ‘Give her a call . . .’
JJ shook his head and I swapped my mobile for a notebook.
‘Are you in touch with any of the other band members?’ was my first question.
‘Haven’t seen Chop since ’95, apart from on that crap TV show.’
‘You’re not a Moment in Time! fan?’
‘Is anyone?’
‘Over seven million people, apparently.’
‘Yeah, well, that tells you all you need to know about the state of music.’
‘How did Chop get to be called Chop?’ I asked.
‘How d’you think?’ JJ said.
‘Isn’t it to do with his guitar style?’
‘God, no. Just after Gordon joined the band, we went into a kebab and chicken joint in Lewisham. The guy behind the counter asks what we want and Gordon asks if he could do him a nice lamb chop with some new potatoes. For evermore he was known as Chop.’
‘I see. What about Dean Allison? Have you seen him at all?’
‘I bumped into him last year after he’d been busted for having the endangered species in his freezer. We didn’t have a lot to say to each other, but then we never did have much to say to each other.’
‘You didn’t get on?’
‘Have you met Dean?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, good luck when you do. If you do.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Dean’s not exactly Mr Congeniality. And he’s a secretive bastard, so don’t expect him to spill his guts.’
The pen fell from my hand. For some reason it felt marginally thicker and slightly heavier when I picked it up.
‘You all right?’ Dean asked.
‘What?’
‘You’re rolling that biro between your fingers like it’s a cigar.’
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘From what I’ve read, Castor had become a little erratic by the time you played the Emporium. Is that how you’d describe it?’
‘A fucking nightmare is what he’d become. He couldn’t be arsed to write with Chop and he was treating Dean and me like shit. The only time we all met was at rehearsals and Cas was usually an hour or two late for those.’
‘Did Castor write anything decent before he met Chop?’
‘He didn’t write anything at all. Chop brought it out in him. The guy’s a pillock but he knows talent when he sees it, I’ll give him that.’
‘Castor was off drugs when you played the gig?’
‘Hard to tell. Regular users get very good at hiding it.’
‘What about Emily? Was she on a high?’
‘If Cas was happy then Em was happy.’
‘She left the Emporium after Dean?’
JJ nodded.
‘And about five minutes after she left, Castor said that he needed to visit the toilet. When he didn’t come back, Chop went to look for him?’
‘Yeah, that’s about right. If you’re wondering who killed Cas and Em then I can save you a lot of time, mate.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘It was a suicide pact. Cas’s mum hanged herself when he was ten and they reckon that sort of thing’s hereditary.’
‘But why would Emily go along with it?’
‘Because she was obsessed with Cas.’ JJ yawned and sneaked a glimpse at his watch.
‘What about the tapes?’ I asked.
‘Someone mucked around with them.’
‘I meant the Inquisitor tapes.’
‘Fakes,’ he said emphatically.
‘A lot of experts don’t agree.’
‘Fuck the experts. It ain’t Cas. The Inquisitor got an impersonator to sing a couple of songs in his style. They’re a bunch of cunts.’
Media commentators had drawn attention to the Inquisitor’s doubtful journalistic standards. None had expressed themselves as pithily as JJ.
‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘But that doesn’t mean they get everything wrong. A couple of their stories have turned out—’
JJ was on his feet and looming over me.
‘Look, mate, thanks for what you did downstairs, but you’re starting to get on my tits. Why Em’s mother is paying you to look for her daughter I’ve no idea, but the truth of it is that she’s dead and so is Cas. End . . . of . . . story.’
JJ’s final three words were punctuated by a jabbing index finger. What had returned him from post-scrap benevolence to the edge of rage was a mystery.
A knock at the door.
‘What?’ he barked.
‘The police are here,’ Clive the barman said. ‘They’ve had reports of an incident and they want a word. Shall I bring them up?’
JJ looked reflexively at the cases of booze.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right there.�
��
Clive’s feet clattered downstairs. His employer’s body language reminded me of the punters in the V when the favourite pulls up at Haydock Park.
‘Christ, that’s all I need. Look, I’m sorry I got pissy with you but I’ve been trying to outrun Mean for twenty years. Cas and Em are dead.’
He opened the office door.
‘And, quite honestly, I hope they stay that way.’
It was only 10.30 when I arrived at the flat, although it had been a long day and my head was buzzing. Hopefully a shot of Monarch of the Glen would draw down the neural shutters. The Monarch doesn’t combine a peaty aroma with hints of lowland mists. It tastes as though half a dozen crack addicts distilled it in a vandalised swimming pool. But at £9.99 a litre it gets the job done and that’s what counts.
While waiting for the Monarch to weave its magic, I watched a recording of Moment in Time! Brief videos were shown featuring the contestants’ humdrum lives, after which the show’s host would scream it was their ‘Moment in time!’ and they would bounce on stage to wild applause. Judges judged and the audience voted, after which the televisual juggernaut rolled on to the next week minus a tearful wannabe.
Moment’s panel comprised three C-list celebs and Chop Montague, who looked as comfortable as a guppy in a tank of piranhas. After Billy from Devizes butchered ‘The Way We Were’ in memory of his Nana Rose, I switched off and focused my mind on something that had been unusual on the Emporium’s roof. It concerned the heating vents. But, like a magic-eye picture, the more I looked, the less it seemed inclined to reveal itself. And then, just as I was about to nod off, I realised what it had been.
EIGHT
I woke at 7.30 feeling a lot better than I had in ages. My headache had diminished and I felt properly hungry. After a plate of scrambled eggs, followed by a pint of black coffee and a trio of Marlboros, I reviewed the day’s agenda.
First up was a visit to Jake Villiers’s office. Then I intended to head out west, where I could hopefully touch base with Dean Allison, and then even further west where I would interview Pam Ridley and pick up her new client form.
I called the Emporium, to be informed that Kristos wouldn’t be in for another hour at least. I left my name and number along with a request for him to call me back. The drizzle of the last two days had lifted and I opted to walk to Charlotte Street.
Half an hour later, I was standing in front of a two-storey Georgian townhouse. The only indication that it had been converted to office use was the brass plaque next to the door that had Jake Villiers Holdings engraved upon it. I pressed a brass button. Thirty seconds later the door was opened by a young woman in a business suit.
‘Can I help you?’ was her first question.
‘I have a nine o’clock meeting with Jake,’ I said.
‘Kenny Gabriel?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Okay, well, you’d better come in, then.’
I followed the woman down a passage and into a room in which eighteenth-century decor collided with twenty-first-century technology. Recessed wall panels had been painted magnolia and wooden shutters were drawn back to reveal casement windows.
Beneath an exquisite chandelier was a glass table attended by half a dozen skeletal executive chairs. At the end of the room a large screen had been attached to the wall.
‘Jake’s just finishing up a meeting,’ the woman said. ‘He’ll be with you in a few minutes. Can I get you anything to drink, Kenny?’
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I said, and she left me to it.
After checking my emails, I was wondering whether I had time to call Dr Arbuthnot and cancel the MRI scan that I clearly no longer required, when Jake walked in. He didn’t look like a man who had been tossing and turning all night. But he didn’t seem entirely relaxed either.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Kenny.’
‘No problem.’
‘There’s a bakery round the corner. I can ask Imogen to pop out for a couple of coffees and a few pastries if you’re hungry . . .’
‘I’ve already had breakfast,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we could get down to it.’
‘Of course,’ Jake said. ‘I’m sure you’re busy.’
The exec chairs were a lot more comfortable than they looked. I eased back in mine, Jake hunched forward in his.
‘You want to know what I was doing in Flummery’s with Pauline?’ he said.
‘Only because of your relationship with Stephie. It’s really none of my business what you get up to in hotel rooms.’
‘I quite understand,’ Jake said. ‘And I know that you and Steph used to be . . . close.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘The fact is that Pauline and I went to her room because we needed somewhere private to talk.’
‘About what?’
Jake took a deep breath. ‘Kenny, if I told you that I broke the law a few years ago . . . well, twenty years ago . . . would you be obliged to report it to the police?’
‘Not necessarily.’
Jake’s gaze strayed to a speakerphone perched in the middle of the table, as though it might advise him on the right course of action.
‘Okay, then,’ he said. ‘I have no other option except to trust you.’
I leant forward in order to hear his story better.
‘In the late eighties, my father lent me the money to buy a rundown pub in Luton. I borrowed from the bank to develop it into a restaurant. Six years later I had five more. It was around that time that I met Pauline Oakley. Pauline was an accountant with a background in hospitality. I needed to let go of the day-to-day and focus more on the branding and marketing side of things.’
‘You were business partners?’
Jake shook his head. ‘Pauline was an employee. I was still the owner and sole director and therefore responsible for the running of the business.’
‘Okay, got that.’
‘After eighteen months, I noticed some serious irregularities in the books. To cut a long story short, Pauline had been submitting fraudulent VAT returns and diverting money into her personal account.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
Jake treated me to a rueful smile. ‘It wasn’t quite so easy,’ he said. ‘I’d had my first major flop and it nearly wiped me out. There wasn’t enough money in the business to pay the VAT I owed.’
‘Couldn’t you get the money back from Pauline?’
‘She’d cleared her debts and spent the rest. The best I could do was fire her, cut my losses and hope the Inland Revenue didn’t uncover the fraud.’
‘Which I’m guessing it didn’t?’
‘Thankfully not. I was able to get the business back on track and things went from strength to strength. And then, last week, I received a call from Pauline out of the blue. She had made copies of the returns – all with my name attached – and was threatening to send them to the authorities if I didn’t pay her half a million quid.’
‘She was blackmailing you?’
‘Is blackmailing me,’ Jake said. ‘There’s no statute of limitations on tax fraud. The Revenue would immediately turn the matter over to the police.’
‘Can’t you say that that she was behind it?’
‘Not without evidence. And if I report her for blackmail then I’d still go down for the VAT crime, which would effectively mean my company going under.’
The classic dilemma. Call the blackmailer’s bluff and you both end up in the clarts. Depending on whether they go through with it.
‘Pay and she’ll be back for more,’ I said. ‘You do know that?’
Jake stretched out his palms. ‘What other option is there?’
‘Get some evidence she’s blackmailing you. At least you’d have extra collateral. Courts hate blackmail. She’d definitely do time.’
‘Pauline isn’t stupid,’ Jake said. ‘She took my phone yesterday and searched me. If I said that she committed the crime, then it’s my word against hers.’
The only thing filling the ensuing silence was the tick
ing of a carriage clock resting on the marble mantelpiece.
‘Look, Kenny, I’m not asking you to solve my problems,’ Jake said. ‘All I want to know is that you won’t tell Stephie about yesterday.’
‘Of course not,’ I said, and meant it.
Assuming he was telling the truth, that was.
There were two voicemail messages waiting for me after I left Jake’s office. The first was from Dr Arbuthnot to say that he had secured me an appointment to have an MRI scan. The second was from Kristos returning my call. I rang Arbuthnot and got his assistant. She said that my scan was scheduled to take place at St Michael’s at ten thirty the following day. As Arbuthnot had probably gone to some difficulty in arranging the gig at short notice, I opted not to say that I’d changed my mind.
Kristos answered my second call almost immediately. ‘Hey, Kenny, how’s it hanging, my friend?’ he said. ‘You feeling better now?’
‘Loads better, Kris,’ I said. ‘Sorry if I gave you a shock.’
‘You got vertigo or what?’
‘Something like that. Thanks for showing me round yesterday.’
‘No problem, mate.’
‘I was wondering whether I could come back again today.’
A brief silence.
‘What for?’
‘I’d like to take another look at the roof. Specifically the vents.’
‘Okay, but you’ll have to come right now. I got the afternoon off.’
‘Be with you in half an hour,’ I said.
In the cab, I ran over Jake’s story about being blackmailed by Pauline Oakley. It had sounded plausible, but then Jake knew how to sound plausible. He would, no doubt, expect me to check the verifiable details and I intended to do exactly that.
‘Bit of a late start, isn’t it?’ Odeerie said when I called.
‘I didn’t get home until late.’
‘You should be looking after yourself, Kenny. You’re not getting any younger.’
Given that it would need Dyno-Rod to clear Odeerie’s arteries, his piety was tough to swallow.
‘I was interviewing JJ Freeman at his club,’ I reminded him.
‘Oh, yeah. How did that go?’
‘I’ll tell you about it later. Meanwhile, there’s a favour I wanted to ask.’