by Greg Keen
‘Chop Montague?’
Saskia dissolved into a coughing fit that took her thirty seconds to bring under control. ‘If Castor didn’t have the time, then neither did Chop.’
‘I suppose not. You wrote in the book that his and Castor’s process was to listen to each other’s ideas on tape and then decide which ones to develop.’
‘That’s what they told me,’ Saskia said.
‘Who was the most talented?’
‘I’d say Chop, in light of subsequent events.’
Saskia reintroduced the bottle of Teacher’s. She sloshed some into her empty cup and emptied the rest into mine.
‘Up your bum, darling,’ was the toast.
‘Cheers,’ was my response.
We each took a hit and Saskia continued the conversation.
‘It was Castor who had problems producing. Trust me, you can’t take a shit from one day to the next on smack, never mind write a decent tune.’
I suspected Saskia was speaking from personal experience, although it would have been impolite to ask. ‘Did you know JJ well?’ was my next question.
‘Now, that boy did have a temper,’ was her reply. ‘If he didn’t have a rock-solid alibi then I’d have a big question mark over him.’
‘He doesn’t seem to bear a grudge.’
‘Nor should he. JJ made his fair share out of Mean.’
‘And he was close to Castor,’ I said. ‘According to him they were like brothers. What if you’re right about him killing Emily, and JJ got him out of the country?’
This theory brought forth a big sigh from Saskia.
‘Maybe when Lord Lucan did a bunk, you could hole up in some foreign field that will always be England, but the world’s changed, darling. The only place Castor would be safe from an iPhone camera these days is on the dark side of the moon. Unless he took the Golden Road, of course . . .’
‘The what?’
‘You’ve never heard of the Road?’
‘Actually, someone mentioned it this morning,’ I said, recalling my ‘interview’ with Danny Abbott. ‘I’ve no idea what it is, though.’
‘Music industry legend. When an artist is addicted to booze and drugs, or their popularity is waning, the Golden Road organisation makes them an offer.’
‘What kind of offer?’
‘In return for signing over all future royalties, said artist has his or her death faked and is taken to a private island paradise in some far-flung part of the world. They live there in luxury under the protection of the organisation.’
‘What happens when the royalties dry up?’
‘The artists write songs for other artists and theme music for ads and TV, which brings in more revenue for the Road. When they die for real, they’re buried at sea.’
‘Who’s meant to have taken the Golden Road?’ I asked.
Saskia yawned and peered despondently into her empty mug. ‘Depending on who you listen to . . . Hank Williams, Elvis Presley, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Bob Marley, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse . . . and Castor Greaves.’
‘No one believes that, do they?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘How about you?’
‘On the one hand, it’s clearly a ridiculous conspiracy theory . . .’
‘But on the other?’
‘The more you dig into the music industry, the weirder and nastier things become, especially where money’s involved.’
As if to endorse this downbeat assessment, there was a mournful blast of a boat horn from the river. Saskia struggled out of her deckchair.
‘It’s been a delight, darling, but the grindstone calls . . .’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Well, if there’s anything else you want to run past me then you know where I am. And do be careful, Kenny. Golden Road or no Golden Road, when you start poking around in the past, a whole avalanche of shit can rain down on your head.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I said.
The mist had cleared when I clambered out of the Anna Marie. The City was lit up against the night sky, with the Gherkin and the Shard showing to particularly good effect. Unfettered capitalism might not suit everyone’s moral compass, but there was no denying it made for a decent chunk of horizon candy.
The tide was coming in fast and the water slapped against the wooden stanchions supporting the pontoon. After my chat with Saskia, I was back to square one. Could there be anything in the Golden Road theory? I was pondering the question when I heard footsteps behind me. What felt like a fist hit me hard between my shoulder blades.
My surprised cry allowed freezing-cold water to rush into my mouth when I hit the river. I surfaced after a few seconds and spat it out. I took a huge gasp of cold night air and heard someone walk briskly away along the pontoon.
I tried to reach the deck. No chance. Even had I been able to get my hands on to the slippery wood, the weight of my sodden clothes would have prevented me from hauling myself on to it. I clung to one of the mossy stanchions and shouted for help. Help didn’t arrive. The marina’s residents had settled in for the night.
Swimming to the shore wasn’t an option. The current would carry me away after a few seconds. Already its incessant tug was attempting to ease me free from the stanchion. I shouted a few more times. My cries were lost on the breeze.
The cold numbed my hands to the degree that I could barely feel them. I kicked off my shoes. It did little to ease the downward pull of the inky water.
Father Thames was claiming me. What was the point in struggling? My exhausted body already felt as though it belonged to him. All I had to do was open my arms and embrace oblivion. I had made my decision when I heard footsteps again.
‘What the fuck are you doing down there, darling?’ Saskia asked.
THIRTEEN
It took the efforts of Saskia and three others to rescue me, using a hook ladder and two boating gaffs. In the struggle, my trousers were dragged free and borne downstream by a spiteful river. Saskia wrapped a blanket round me and led me back to the Anna Marie. A second bottle of Teacher’s was opened and administered, after which she dumped me in a hot shower for ten minutes. The Scotch and the hot water returned warmth to my bones, and a strategic chunder liberated a pint of the Thames from my stomach.
Understandably, Saskia wanted to know what had happened. I concocted a story about tripping and taking a header. I decided against telling her that someone had shoved me into the water. All I wanted to do was get back home.
Saskia borrowed jeans, a sweater and a pair of trainers from one of her neighbours. She bunged what was left of my clothes into a dryer, which left them damp and covered in silt, and crammed them into a Tesco bag.
She had come on to the pontoon as I’d left my phone behind. Carelessness had saved my bacon, and now it enabled me to summon an Uber. After saying goodbye to Saskia and promising to return the borrowed garb at the soonest opportunity, I made my way warily to the bank, where Ahmed and his Land Cruiser awaited.
My driver showed no surprise at meeting a man wearing a reindeer jumper in March and a pair of scarlet trousers three inches too short for him. During the journey, I pondered who had pushed me and why. Unless it was someone who enjoyed arbitrarily depositing people into the river, my attacker had a motive.
The only one I could think of was that he or she wanted me to quit looking for Emily Ridley’s murderer. It meant two things: firstly, someone thought I might be close to finding an answer, and that someone might be part of the Golden Road.
Secondly, they were prepared to kill me.
It had just gone ten thirty when the call came through. I’d shovelled down a late supper of sausage and chips – surprising how peckish a near-death encounter can make you – when my phone’s screen lit up with a withheld number. I was tempted to let it go to voicemail as the land of nod beckoned. Professionalism and curiosity overrode my exhaustion. Just as well, bearing in mind who it was.
&n
bsp; ‘Is that Mr Gabriel?’ an adenoidal voice enquired.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Chop Montague. You left a message with my agent a couple of days ago. Apologies for not calling sooner, but things have been incredibly hectic.’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘You’re probably aware why I was calling.’
‘Maggie said it was in connection with Emily Ridley and Castor Greaves. I believe you’re the person who found Emily’s body.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Must have been quite a shock for you.’
‘And for you.’
‘Naturally. Do you still want to speak to me?’
‘I’d love to,’ I said, reaching for pen and paper.
‘I’m afraid I’m at the TV studio at the moment. However, I’ve got the day off tomorrow, thank God. Could you come to my house?’
‘Where do you live?’ I asked.
‘Mickleton Lodge in Epping. Hope that’s not too out of your way.’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘What time?’
‘About nine o’clock? I’ll text you the details.’
A minute after we ended our call, a message came through with Chop’s address. I immediately entered the postcode into Google and half a dozen images came up. They featured a nineteenth-century house in several acres of grounds. Nice enough, but nothing like the pile that someone with Chop’s cash could have bought.
The conversation had left me feeling wide awake and I decided to call Odeerie. The fat man rarely sleeps more than four hours and never retires before two in the morning.
He answered immediately. ‘You’ve been bloody quiet, Kenny.’
‘Weren’t you meant to be calling me about Davina Jacobs?’
‘Tracking her down’s proving a bit trickier than I expected. You sure that’s definitely the right name and address?’
‘So Pam Ridley told me.’
‘And she definitely lived on Dunsinane Road?’
‘According to Pam. Look, I don’t think it’s going to be any biggie if you draw a blank, Odeerie. Davina was Emily’s best mate, so the police must have interviewed her. And if it was no use to them . . .’
‘I’ll keep trying,’ he said. ‘How did today go?’
It took fifteen minutes to cover off my various encounters.
‘You should get checked out by a doctor,’ Odeerie said. ‘A lot of boat owners pump their raw sewage straight into the water.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘Just looking out for you, Kenny. Who d’you think gave you a shove?’
‘Presumably someone who doesn’t want me looking into Emily’s death.’
‘How would they know you were at Saskia’s boat?’
Few things in life are more irritating than having doubt cast on your reported murder attempt. ‘I’m telling you it was deliberate, Odeerie,’ I said.
‘Then why not report it to the police?’
‘Because they’d probably give me the same bullshit you are.’
The fat man redirected the conversation. ‘So, in all probability Castor killed Emily in a fit of jealous rage after she told him that she’d been in a relationship with Dean?’ he asked.
‘I can’t see any other likely scenario,’ I said.
‘But why do that if she knew what he was like?’
‘Maybe they got into an argument and she wanted to wound him. Having said that, Saskia mentioned something about an organisation called the Golden Road. You heard of them?’
‘Yeah, I think they’re mentioned in the Inquisitor piece. Shady organisation that disappears music stars and makes money on their estate.’
‘That’s them.’
‘And Saskia reckons that’s what happened to Castor?’
‘No, she doesn’t, but it got me thinking about where his royalties go. And who benefitted in his will. Assuming he made a will, that is.’
‘Good point,’ Odeerie said. ‘I’ll check out whether Castor’s been declared dead first thing tomorrow. It’s been over seven years, but that doesn’t mean it’s automatic. Someone has to apply and the coroner’s office has to agree. On a different subject, have you had any reporters at your door?’
‘A couple this morning but it looks like they’ve given up. You?’
‘They’ve been pressing my intercom all day and asking for a comment.’
‘Have you given them one?’
‘Course not.’
‘What about Jake Villiers buying the Emporium?’
‘Totally legit. The lease came up for sale and Jake bought it. Simple as that. On the subject of giving comments, though,’ Odeerie continued quickly, ‘it would be great publicity for the business if we did, Kenny. You sure you don’t want to do a little press conference? I’ve got this contact at LBC radio who’d love to—’
‘Night, Odeerie,’ I said, and ended the call.
FOURTEEN
The alarm woke me at six. My left eye seemed to have some kind of film over it that resisted my efforts to remove it. I wondered if my dunking in the river might be responsible. Half a pint of stewed coffee teamed with a pair of smokes did the trick and gradually the vision sharpened.
There hadn’t been any concrete developments in the Emily Ridley story, although there was no shortage of features about her and Mean. The Guardian had an insightful piece about the incendiary pressures of fame. The Express claimed that a stripper-turned-psychic had been retained by the Met to trace Castor’s whereabouts. Mystic Mandy was pictured hanging horizontally off a pole and then gazing into a crystal ball. Maybe I should give it a go. The ball, that was, not the pole.
And then I checked out the Post’s website.
The headline read CAS GREAVES TAKES THE GOLDEN ROAD. Beneath it was a photograph of me lifted from Odeerie’s website, and below that the interview that I’d allegedly given exclusively to the Post’s Danny Abbott. According to Danny I was convinced Castor Greaves was alive, equally certain that he had murdered Emily Ridley, and thought it highly likely that he had taken the Golden Road (the existence of which I felt there was irrefutable evidence for).
What had I expected? Trust a man in a green leather jacket to faithfully represent the truth and you get everything you deserve. The only silver lining was that the Post’s reputation was only half a notch above that of the People’s Inquisitor. Once Odeerie had calmed down, I’d get him to issue a statement denying that I’d ever met Danny Abbott and was considering suing the Post for substantial damages.
Over a couple of rounds of toast, I contemplated my day. The morning would be spent talking to Chop Montague. Unless he had anything sensational to reveal, or Odeerie located Davina Jacobs, I wasn’t sure what I’d be doing in the afternoon. Perhaps it would be an opportune time to touch base with Pauline Oakley.
Exactly how I was going to do that was another matter. Jake had been fibbing about the downturn in his company’s fortunes when Pauline had worked for him, but she had definitely worked for him. Ms Oakley could well be blackmailing him over something other than VAT fraud that he was too embarrassed to admit to.
And if I did find out that Jake had a skeleton in his cupboard, how would I break it to Stephie? Anonymously seemed the best option. If Pauline reported our conversation to Jake then I’d end up looking like a jealous former boyfriend who had grassed up his rival in a bid to get back in his ex-girlfriend’s good books.
Which, of course, was a million miles away from being my true motive.
It took nearly an hour to reach Epping on the Central Line. I spent half the journey clutching the passenger rail. A woman with a ‘Baby on Board’ badge was offered a seat at Chancery Lane. Hopefully, London Underground would introduce an ‘Old & Knackered’ version to prompt those who couldn’t spot the telltale signs.
Numbers thinned out considerably after Stratford. During the final leg of the journey, I was alone in the carriage. I’d pondered the Pauline Oakley situation and come to the conclusion that I didn’t have much to lose.
We were above ground by this time, so I accessed Flummery’s website and gave them a ring.
‘How may I help you?’ asked a sprightly female voice.
‘You have a guest called Pauline Oakley,’ I said. ‘Would you mind putting me through to her room?’
‘Hold the line, please . . .’
Fleetwood Mac assured me that I could go my own way for ten seconds until interrupted by a ringing phone. It was answered promptly.
‘Pauline Oakley?’ I asked.
‘Who’s this?’ came the reply.
‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel, Pauline,’ I said. ‘I’m a friend of Jake Villiers. I wondered if we could meet for a quick chat.’
‘About what?’ Pauline asked. Her voice had gone from vaguely suspicious to positively hostile in the space of a single sentence.
‘Might be better if I explain that when I see you,’ I said.
Silence on the line.
‘Come to Flummery’s hotel around twelve thirty,’ Pauline said. ‘Make sure you’re alone.’
‘Okay,’ I said to the dial tone.
Shortly before we pulled into Epping, Saskia Reeves-Montgomery called. Her voice boomed through the tiny speaker to the degree that I had to hold it an inch away from my ear. ‘I take it you made it home without further mishap, darling?’ she asked.
I confirmed that was the case.
‘Where are you now?’ was the follow-up question.
‘On my way to an appointment with Chop Montague.’
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘How interesting.’
‘If you’re calling about the clothes, I’ll return them as soon as possible.’
‘Forget the clothes. What are you doing around mid-morning? There’s something I’d like to discuss.’
‘Can’t you tell me on the phone?’
‘I’d rather do it face to face. D’you know Assassins on Greek Street?’
Assassins was a private club that drew its members from the creative industries. Two years ago, I’d attended a charity auction there during the search for the killer of my ex-employer’s daughter.