Josiah Dark Thrillers Box Set

by Tim Ellis

  ***

  He showed his Warrant Card to the bouncer at the door of the Satin Club, who was at least three inches taller and a foot wider than him.

  The building was nondescript, with only a small sign, to the left of the door, to indicate that it was a lap-dancing club. It wasn’t lap-dancing that paid the bills, but everything else that went on behind the facade of respectability.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mister Ghenosu.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Police business.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  The bouncer moved away to the left and spoke into a hand-held radio. After a few minutes he returned and said, ‘Mister Ghenosu will see you.’

  Dark’s lip curled up. ‘I’m honoured.’

  The bouncer stood to one side to let him in.

  He pushed the heavy wood and glass door open and stepped into the foyer. The carpet was a deep-pile burgundy, the wallpaper an expensive matching brocade with flashes of gold motif.

  A woman in next-to-nothing approached him. ‘Can I take your coat, Sir?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Thanks.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  She left him alone, but he wasn’t left waiting long.

  A tall man in a black suit with a long thin scar from eye to jaw down the left side of his face walked towards him. ‘Follow me.’

  He was led through a set of double doors into the large area of the club. There were a number of open booths with burgundy padded leather seats around small tables that were fixed to the parquet floor. On the walls hung gold-framed nude paintings by famous artists, and the ceiling was one big mirror to cater for the narcissistic customers.

  It was still early for an all-night gentleman’s club, but there were a few male customers sitting at the bar that ran the length of the far-right wall. Beautiful women, in different stages of undress, were mingling with the customers, dancing around steel poles on raised podiums, in cages, or on men’s laps. The music was just about bearable, but he couldn’t have spent more than a few minutes there without putting on protective headphones.

  He saw Leah Rice cavorting on a sweaty bald-headed man’s lap. She was wearing a white thong underneath a short white negligee, and he noticed a Cyrillic script tattoo running down the length of her spine in the shape of a thorny stemmed rose that disappeared into the sheer top. It was a lovely work of art, but he couldn’t read it. She looked a lot different to when he’d seen her earlier, and if he’d been a hundred years younger he might have taken a second look.

  The man led him through a heavy door into an opulent office. As soon as the door closed behind him, he could barely hear the music.

  Filip Ghenosu was sitting behind a mahogany desk smoking a cigar. He was completely bald, but had a thin line of beard that followed his jawline, and a moustache that looked as though it had been painted on.

  ‘Detective Inspector Dark,’ Ghenosu said. ‘Our paths have not crossed until now.’

  ‘That’s because you haven’t murdered anyone.’

  Ghenosu grunted. ‘Not here. But in the old country things were very different.’ His eyes glazed over as he thought about the old country, or maybe the murders he’d committed. ‘So, you are a murder detective?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if I have not murdered anyone, what brings you here to my club?’

  ‘A murder.’ He put his hand in his pocket.

  The scarred man who had led him into the office took a step forward.

  Ghenosu waved him back. ‘This is not the old country, Stefan. People here do not carry guns.’ He turned back to Dark. ‘Casting aside where we came from is hard for some of my countrymen.’

  He pulled out the folded drawing of the victim and held it out towards Ghenosu. ‘Do you know this man?’

  Filip studied the picture for at least thirty seconds and then handed it back. ‘No. And I’m at a loss as to why you would think I might know him. What strange route led you to me, Inspector?’

  ‘He was murdered by someone who hammered a wooden stake through his heart.’

  Ghenosu laughed. ‘And because we are Romanian, you think we are also vampire killers? You English will believe anything. Vampires are not real, Inspector. Count Dracula was a character in a book. In the old country, it is a story to frighten children, nothing more. We call them strigoi. They are the troubled spirits of the dead. The old women still believe that hammering a stake through the heart of red-haired people will prevent them from coming back to suck the blood of beautiful young girls.’ He laughed again. ‘Believe me, those beautiful young girls have more to be concerned about today than strigoi.’

  He had no idea what might happen if he connected the victim to Leah Rice, so he said nothing about her. ‘Does the number 794 mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  He stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Mister Ghenosu. I hope our paths never cross again.’

  ‘Likewise, Inspector. Feel free to stay awhile, have a few drinks, and your choice of our beautiful young women . . . On the house, of course.’

  ‘Very kind, but I have work to do.’

  ‘Then, come back another time when you have no work to do. You would be most welcome.’

  He followed Stefan back out into the club. In the short time, he’d been talking to Filip Ghenosu, the club had filled up considerably.

  Leah Rice stepped in front of Stefan as they made their way across the room and shouted something to him.

  Stefan smirked, nodded and moved away.

  ‘You didn’t mention my name to Mister Ghenosu, did you?’ Leah asked him.

  ‘No.’

  She grabbed his arm and led him to a chair. ‘Sit.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to know about the man in the picture?’

  He sat.

  Before he knew what was happening, she was sitting astride him gyrating and grinding her crutch into his.

  Against his better judgement, he began to get aroused.

  He pulled a face. ‘Will you stop doing that?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘I can’t stop. If I stop, they’ll want to know why I’m not keeping you happy. Men don’t come here to talk. Just sit back and think of England. Oh, and you’re expected to give me money.’

  ‘Money!’

  ‘I’m not doing this for the good of my health, you know. How else can a girl make her way through university?’

  He took his wallet out of the inside pocket of his overcoat, withdrew a five-pound note and then wondered where he was going to put it.

  ‘Five pounds!’ she said. ‘I guessed you’d be a cheapskate.’

  His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘How much do you think I’m worth?’

  ‘I have no point of reference.’ He withdrew a twenty, and hoped she didn’t have a lot to tell him, but he still didn’t know where he was going to put the note.

  She thrust her breasts into his face and jiggled them about.

  He could smell fresh flowers, and there was a silver crucifix on a chain sticking to the perspiration on her chest.

  ‘Well, what about the man in the picture?’ he said, as he stuffed the twenty pound note into her cleavage.

  ‘His name is Toby Flagg.’

  ‘And?’

  She grabbed the back of his head with her hands, thrust his face into her cleavage, and squirmed and wriggled on his lap. ‘Insert more money.’

  ‘More!’ He was sure he sounded like Mister Bumble in charge of the workhouse.

  ‘I dance on your lap, and you pay for the pleasure. That’s how the lap-dancing gig works, Inspector cheapskate.’

  It was his own money. He could just imagine Henn’s face if he tried to claim it back. And Lake would probably have something to say about it as well. She seemed to have something to say about everything. He stuffed anoth
er twenty into Leah’s cleavage.

  ‘Yes, I picked him up from the barber’s shop and gave him a lift.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘Rose Hill train station.’

  ‘Was he going somewhere?’

  ‘No, he said he was meeting some people.’

  ‘Some people! Not one person?’

  ‘He said, “Some people” to me.’

  ‘Off a train?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he say who these people were?’

  She shook her head and pushed her breasts into his face again. ‘I think Stefan is getting suspicious. Put more money in.’

  He pushed another twenty into the valley of the shadow of death.

  ‘No, but I could see that he was nervous.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Did you know Toby Flagg well?’

  ‘Not really. I knew him from primary school. I think he fancied me. I recall speaking to him a few times since, but he wasn’t really my type.’

  ‘Do you know what he did for a living?’

  ‘Do you want me to do all your work for you?’

  ‘How did you come to give him a lift?’

  ‘I’d been to the Post Office and was walking back to my car as he came out of the barber’s shop. He recognised me and we got talking about the old times, people we’d known and so on. I offered him a lift. He said he was going to Rose Hill train station, I drove him there and left him in the car park – that was it.’

  ‘Why doesn’t anyone in Marple or Marple Bridge recognise him from the picture?’

  ‘He doesn’t live in either place anymore. He has a flat in New Mills, so he said. The family used to live in Marple when he was younger, but they moved away about fifteen years ago. I think he left because his father died, but I don’t know why he came back. As far as I know, he has no other family in Marple or Marple Bridge.’

  ‘Why did you say you didn’t know him? Or, that you’d given him a lift when we came to see you earlier?’

  ‘I didn’t want to get involved. I still don’t. The people who killed Toby might come after me next.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out either.’

  ‘Do you know why someone would hammer a wooden stake into his heart?’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘No . . . Ah! That’s why you’re here. Filip Ghenosu comes from Romania, and you think . . .’

  ‘What about the number 794?’

  ‘Sorry.’ She stopped bumping and grinding. ‘So, was that good for you, Sir?’

  ‘Having no point of reference, I would have to say yes.’

  ‘Happy customers usually leave me a tip.’

  His lower jaw dropped open before he said, ‘A tip!’ Filip Ghenosu said it would be on the house. God only knew what it might have cost him if he’d been a regular customer. He’d already given her eighty pounds. All he had left in his wallet was forty-five, so he dropped that into the bottomless pit of her cleavage. It reminded him of a machine that swallowed bank notes, but this one didn’t appear to give any change. ‘At this rate, you’ll be a millionaire before you get your Master’s degree.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’ She gave him a lingering kiss on the lips and then stood up. ‘Call me. You have my number.’

  He grunted. ‘I don’t think I could afford you.’

  She smiled. ‘Maybe I won’t charge you for the pleasure next time.’

  He made his way out. It had just turned midnight. He was glad he’d decided to visit the Satin Club after all. The Romanian lead hadn’t panned out, but Leah Rice had come good. He’d never been to a lap-dancing club before, and he’d probably never go again. Leah Rice seemed very nice, and she could certainly lap dance – his lap was worn out. And she’d given him a name – Toby Flagg. He’d soon know everything about Flagg, and armed with that knowledge, he was hoping to have solved the case by lunchtime.

  There were still some unanswered questions though. Who was Flagg meeting at Rose Hill train station? Did they arrive by train, car, or by foot? Where did they go from the train station? Why was he meeting them? Were they the people who killed him? Why did they kill him? Why use a wooden stake? Why engrave the number 794 in the wood?

  ***

  Friday, January 17

  He climbed into his Rav-4, turned on the engine and the heating, and then called Lake.

  Eventually, she answered. ‘Uh?’

  ‘Lake?’

  ‘Why am I not surprised it’s you?’

  ‘I’m still working, Lake. What are you doing?’

  ‘Sleeping. Or, at least I was trying to.’

  ‘Well, while you were sleeping, I’ve found out who our victim is.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the Romanians at the Satin Club?’

  ‘One of their workers,’ which was partially true. She didn’t need to know that the worker was Leah Rice. ‘So, when you get in at eight tomorrow morning, I want you to do some work.’

  ‘That’s what I was planning to do anyway.’

  ‘Good. It won’t come as a shock to you then, will it?’

  ‘Couldn’t you have told me all this in the morning?’

  ‘It already is the morning, and I have other things to do before I get to the station.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Which are none of your concern. Do you have a pen and paper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should get into the habit of keeping those things by your bed.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘His name is . . .’

  ‘Will you wait a minute?’

  He could hear her clattering into things and swearing.

  ‘Get a move on, Lake. Some of us need to get some sleep.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘So, his name is Toby Flagg. He has a flat in New Mills. He was meeting some people at Rose Hill train station. Apparently, he went to school in Marple fifteen years ago, so find out which school and what he’s been doing since then. His family moved away from Marple when he was about ten years old because his father died, but then he came back recently for some reason. That’s as much as I was able to find out, but I expect you to uncover everything else about him by the time I arrive later. Run his name through Crimint; contact the Professor and let him know who the Joe Bloggs he has in the freezer is and ask him to run dental/medical checks to confirm the identity; check for CCTV at Rose Hill station on Monday afternoon/evening; phone Burrows and tell her we want his bank, credit card and mobile phone records; find out where the family moved to and if they’re still alive; check the government databases – driving licence, passport office, medical and dental records . . . The more we know about him, the more chance we have of finding out who killed him and why.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I could probably think of a lot more, but as I said I’d like to get some sleep. Use your initiative, that’s why you’re a detective, why you’re my apprentice, and why the public pay you the exorbitant amount of money they do. Anything else you’d like to know?’

  The call disconnected.

  By the time he reached home it was quarter past one. He made himself a coffee, sat down on the living room sofa, switched his laptop on and skimmed through the case files of Alicia Glover that he’d copied onto the memory stick until two o’clock, and then he lay down and tried to sleep.

  The detectives had followed all the laid-down procedures for a missing child, and they’d certainly had enough practice. Because of its seaside location, Blackpool had the highest incidence of registered and unregistered child sex offenders in Lancashire. They were attracted to the town because of the child runaways from the surrounding areas who gravitated there because of the bright lights, night life and seasonal work; and the high number of vulnerable children on the chi
ld protection register. The town had become a cesspit where children were sold for sex to older men. Recently, the police and social services were having some success leading a multiagency initiative called the Awaken Project.

  Known sex-offenders were hauled in and interviewed after Alicia Glover went missing, but without any evidence of a crime being committed, it was a fruitless exercise. They were simply ticking the procedural boxes. As soon as Morbid had lost sight of her little sister, she was gone. The detectives had combed through hundreds of hours of CCTV footage, interviewed over three thousand people and searched over a hundred known locations, but they’d found nothing.

  He wasn’t hopeful. The case was three years old and as cold as a Siberian winter. He’d give the files to Dixie and Hendrik. Dixie hated child sex-offenders with a passion. If there was any clue to the disappearance of Alicia Glover that had been overlooked by the detectives at Abingdon Street Police Station in Blackpool, then Dixie and Hendrik would find it. They could go where he couldn’t.

  Chapter Eight

  It was six-thirty when he knocked on Dixie’s door.

  Had he slept? He really had no idea. All he could remember was chasing a half-naked Ellie across a misty field in the half-light of the early morning, but she was always just out of reach. How could she possibly run faster than him wearing stiletto heels? Why couldn’t she hear him calling her name? Where were the rest of her clothes? Where were Cleo and Coco? Why was he chasing her across a field anyway? He guessed he was searching for answers, but he woke up drenched in sweat without finding any.

  After shaving, taking a shower, changing his clothes and finding his pocket notebook from May 2004, he left the house and headed towards Macclesfield. He took a slight detour in Gatley to buy two bacon sandwiches and a coffee in a cafe that he’d come across on another case, which he consumed during the journey.

  The door opened.

  A dishevelled Hendrik, in a pair of black Y-fronts, was standing there. ‘Hello, Mister Dark.’ He opened the door a little wider to let Dark in and then closed it. ‘I was just getting up.’