Above the applause Effie was heard to shout, ‘C’me on, Sammy my love, show us yer knackers!’ Sue and Sharon tutted in shocked distress.
To a background of throbbing, sensual music the curtains slid apart and the spotlight picked up a stocky figure in black jacket and trousers standing in a gorilla-like posture near the back of the stage. A hank of dark hair fell over the forehead and the full, red mouth was bunched in a pout. Sultry Sam slithered towards the front of the stage in a series of undulating jerks and with much suggestive twitching of the hips. Then, ignoring his audience, he began to pose before an imaginary mirror, offering first his left and then his right profile, tilting back his head to display his muscular neck, then lowering it like a bull about to charge, scowling upwards from beneath his heavy black brows. He turned his back and glared over one shoulder into space, then leaned forward and dug his hands into the back pockets of his trousers. The spotlight glistened on the soft black leather as, to a swelling murmur of approval, it tightened over his well-shaped buttocks.
The music increased in intensity. Nonchalantly wandering about the stage, Sultry Sam began to unfasten his jacket. A glimpse of bronze, hairless chest embellished with a silver medallion drew sighs of admiration. Having discarded his jacket he slowly peeled off his shirt, expanded his rib-cage, pulled in his stomach and flexed his biceps to a mounting chorus of anticipation. Then, with a languid yawn, he dropped on to a stool and began, very slowly, unzipping his high-heeled boots. The sounds of approval changed to impatient mutterings.
Melissa was fascinated, as much by the audience as by the performance. There must have been forty women in the room and the attention of every one was riveted on the stage. Some were leaning on their elbows, some had their hands to their mouths, others gripped the edge of their table. Quite a few seemed to be breathing heavily and one or two had covered their faces as if in embarrassment but missed nothing through their spread-out fingers.
The music grew louder and the tempo quickened. Sultry Sam shed his tight black trousers to reveal a pair of smooth brown muscular legs topped by shiny red boxer shorts which he pulled down a few inches and then pulled up again. With variations, he continued this tantalising performance until someone — Effie, of course — screamed ‘Get ’em off!’ With a smouldering look in her direction he removed the shorts, only to reveal another, much scantier garment whose sole means of support seemed to be a dangling piece of scarlet ribbon.
By this time the women were squealing and chanting hysterically, waving their arms and bouncing in their seats like a crowd of children at a Punch and Judy show. Sultry Sam left the stage and began prancing among the tables, which had been cunningly arranged so that he could remain just out of reach of outstretched hands making grabs at him as he wriggled past. As the music reached a crescendo he turned, raced back on to the stage and tweaked at the ribbon. His final, flimsy covering fell away; to delighted, awestruck gasps he executed a pirouette worthy of a ballet dancer before scurrying into the wings.
Above the cheering and clapping came Effie’s full-throated call to battle: ‘After him, girls!’ Like a herd of cattle stampeding, a section of the audience left their tables and rushed on to the stage. Sharon and Sue remained firmly seated, shaking their heads.
‘I do wish she wouldn’t,’ sighed Sharon.
‘She does get carried away,’ agreed Sue.
From somewhere out of sight came a masculine shout of mock protest and the sounds of a scuffle before a door slammed. Still shrieking with laughter, the pursuers began returning to their seats.
‘Seems as if Sultry Sam won by a short head!’ whispered Melissa.
It was clear, however, from Effie’s lewd comments and gestures, that the margin was not short and had nothing to do with a head.
‘She’s such a bad influence,’ said Sharon sadly.
‘Lowers the tone,’ agreed Sue.
‘See you next week, then?’ said Sharon as they put on their coats and retrieved their belongings, closely supervised by Annie.
‘You must see Gorgeous George,’ insisted Sue. ‘He’ll be back soon, won’t he, Annie?’
‘Should be,’ said Annie. ‘Pulled a muscle in the gym, that’s all . . . nothing serious.’
‘No bits missing, eh?’ cackled Effie. Sharon was searching for her shopping, which someone appeared to have moved.
‘That Tara!’ she said crossly. ‘Anyone would think she owned that corner at the back.’
‘Cheek!’ said Sue.
Promising to come to next week’s show if she could manage it, Melissa said goodbye to her new friends and headed for the car park. She was grateful for the fact that it was now raining steadily, which meant that she was unlikely to be spotted by any of her neighbours while driving through the village in her flamboyant make-up. She put the car away, scurried indoors and made a beeline for the bathroom to remove the worst of Debbie’s excesses. After some consideration she decided to keep her hair the way it was for the rest of the day. She must try to remember how Dawn did it.
She went into her study to record the day’s activities. Her impressions of the U.P. Club she put to one side in preparation for next day’s work on her novel. Her observations at Petronella’s and her meeting with Tracy were more factual. The events of the afternoon had driven the matter of the photographs to the back of her mind but now, as she wrote, an awareness of their probable implications began taking shape. They seemed to confirm Bruce’s conviction that something sinister was behind Babs’s disappearance.
Bruce telephoned at half past six.
‘How did you get on?’ he wanted to know.
‘I think we may be on to something,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think it’s quite what you were expecting.’
‘Yes?’ The line fairly throbbed with excitement.
‘I’d rather not talk about it over the telephone. Can you come round for a drink?’
‘Of course . . . when?’
‘Give me time to get a bite to eat . . . say in about forty-five minutes?’
‘I haven’t eaten either. Why don’t I pick up something at the take-away for both of us?’
‘What a good idea . . . I don’t feel a bit like cooking.’
‘Chinese or Indian?’
‘Indian, I think.’ Something hot and spicy would seem appropriate this evening, she thought, and immediately felt guilty. Things had become too serious for flippancy.
By the time Bruce arrived, the rain had stopped. He picked his way to the front door, carefully dodging the puddles that had changed from muddy grey to a glossy blue dappled with flecks of gold. He handed over a bag of plastic containers and opened cans of lager while Melissa transferred the food to the dishes she had put to warm in the oven.
‘It smells good.’ She sniffed appreciatively as she closed the oven door. ‘I didn’t realise until you phoned just how hungry I am . . . I’ve had nothing since lunch.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to eat first and tell me your adventures afterwards?’
‘I’ll tell while we eat but perhaps the exhibits had better wait or you might lose your appetite.’
His grin vanished as he realised that she was not joking. ‘Exhibits?’
‘Some rather nasty pictures.’
Bruce’s eyes saucered and he seemed for the moment lost for words.
Melissa put plates and cutlery on the table. ‘Do you mind eating in the kitchen?’
He brushed aside the question with an impatient gesture. ‘You mean porno pictures? Who of? How did you get hold of them?’
Briefly, she told him while they helped themselves to the food. ‘You can see them afterwards . . . and if you don’t mind I’d rather not be in the room while you’re looking. I assume they’re of Babs . . .’ Melissa picked up her fork and regarded her plate with distaste.
‘Something wrong with it?’
‘No . . . no, it looks delicious. It’s just . . . I didn’t look at all the pictures but the ones I did see were pretty revolting.’
; ‘Let’s talk about something else for a bit. What about your visit to Petronella’s? Your hair looks great, by the way.’ The admiration in his eyes was pleasantly disturbing.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You should have seen me when I got home. The make-up Debbie gave me . . . it was more a disguise.’
‘Isn’t that what you wanted for your assignation with Gorgeous George? How did that go, by the way?’
‘I thought the performance was rather tame but the audience reaction was fascinating. Imagine forty grown women shrieking like a bunch of kids on a Sunday School treat . . . and then squabbling over parking places for their shopping trolleys!’
‘Nothing to shock your strait-laced detective sergeant, then?’
‘Oh, I’m sure I can make it shocking enough for Dilys . . .’
He shouted with laughter as she described the antics of Effie and Sultry Sam. ‘And did you learn anything interesting at Petronella’s?’
‘Not really . . . at least, nothing that couldn’t have a perfectly innocent explanation.’ She ran through her conversations with Julie and Dawn, not forgetting the package that Mrs Farrell collected from the salon. As she expected, Bruce pounced on this with joyful barks.
‘It could well have been a parcel of drugs!’ he exclaimed. ‘That would account for the sudden show of wealth . . . the new salon, the fancy fur coat and all the rest . . . and you say the son’s been in trouble . . . it all fits!’
‘Don’t get carried away,’ said Melissa. ‘Mrs Farrell could have inherited some money, or won the pools, or raised a bank loan. The district is up-and-coming and plenty of finance houses would regard it as a good investment. And you can’t assume that the parcel contained drugs just because it came by special delivery.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ admitted Bruce with some reluctance. ‘But you say the son’s got a criminal record?’
‘Dawn hinted at some trouble with the police but it could have been nothing more sinister than a breach of the peace on a Saturday night. You could check on that, couldn’t you? You must have a police contact, all reporters do.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He put down his fork and finished his lager. Melissa began clearing the table. ‘What about these photographs?’
‘Here.’ She fetched the envelope and handed it to him. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go upstairs while you look at them.’
When she returned a few minutes later, Bruce was staring out of the window, plainly shaken by what he had seen. His mouth was set and his eyes were hard as flint.
‘Are they Babs?’ she asked.
‘Some of them could be almost anyone . . . but two or three are unmistakably Babs.’ He began prowling jerkily round the room. ‘She was a stripper, she was a hooker, she was on to the main chance, but still there was something . . . childlike . . . appealing about her. I’d never have dreamed she’d do . . . that!’
‘Money, of course. Maybe she was saving up for her old age,’ said Melissa acidly, then stopped short, the coffee jar in her hand. ‘I’ve just remembered something you told me the first time I met you . . . didn’t she meet Clive because she wanted to take out an endowment policy? If he was prepared to marry her, he’d represent security. He said she’d been brought up in homes . . . maybe she was scared stiff of being left destitute.’ She filled the coffee machine and switched it on.
‘I’d forgotten that endowment policy,’ said Bruce. ‘That’s something we could check on. The premiums would have stopped when she disappeared.’
‘If she’s still alive, she could be paying them to another branch of the company,’ Melissa pointed out.
Bruce nodded absently. ‘What would a girl get for that kind of session?’ he mused, gesturing at the envelope, his mouth twisted in disgust. ‘Fifty quid? A hundred?’
Melissa shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea but it would have to be a lot more than the normal modelling fee and if she wasn’t spending it, she’d want somewhere safe to keep it. A building society perhaps . . . there’s one just round the corner from Petronella’s. Tracy works there.’
‘Something else to check on,’ said Bruce. ‘We could enquire if they’ve got an account in Babs’s name . . . and if it’s been used lately . . . and whether . . .’
‘Now just a minute.’ Melissa filled mugs with coffee and put milk and sugar on the table. ‘No building society is going to give that sort of information about one of their customers without authority.’ She sipped coffee, knowing that he was not going to like what she was going to say. ‘I think,’ she said, looking him in the eye, ‘you should hand those photographs over to the police. They may be able to trace where they came from.’
‘But I know where they came from!’ Bruce leapt to his feet, like a dog about to chase a stick. ‘The Up Front Model Agency . . . of course! I knew they were into some kind of racket . . . but it isn’t drugs, it’s porn!’ He bounded excitedly round the room, then grabbed at the envelope, pulled out the photographs and examined their backs. ‘There’s a code number on these . . . it should be traceable. Suppose we got hold of some of their pictures and compared them?’
Melissa eyed him warily. ‘The police . . .’ she began.
‘The hell with the police . . . this is our show!’
‘Now wait a minute . . . leave me out of it . . .’
‘But it’s a doddle!’ he insisted. ‘You’re a knock-out with that hairdo . . . you’d need a bit more make-up; go back and see Debbie . . . they’d jump at you. There are bound to be other pictures you could . . .’
‘Oh, I’m sure they keep a few spicy examples lying around to amuse the clients while they’re waiting!’ said Melissa. ‘No, Bruce, forget it. There’s no way I’m going to poke around in that agency.’
‘But why? There’s no risk . . .’
‘No risk, he says! I don’t think you’ve really grasped what we’ve stumbled against. People who deal in porn can be just as dangerous as drugs dealers . . . in fact the two often go together. You’ve got one hard bit of evidence . . . take it to the police and tell them everything you know.’ She looked away from him to avoid the smile that she found so hard to resist. Hard, but not impossible. ‘Leave me out of it,’ she begged. ‘I’ve got work to do. Deadlines. An agent breathing down my neck. Go away!’
‘Oh, very well.’ He was disappointed, he was conceding for the moment but she suspected she had not heard the last of it. ‘I’m going . . . I’ve got some hard thinking to do.’
Melissa thrust the envelope into his hands and propelled him towards the door. ‘Police,’ she said firmly as she opened it.
It was after nine o’clock but there was still plenty of light. The spring was well advanced and the valley was awash with hawthorn blossom. Even the ash trees, always late-comers to the scene, wore wisps of green lace.
‘Lovely evening,’ said Bruce, taking a deep breath. ‘I quite envy you, living in this peaceful rural paradise.’
‘It hasn’t been very peaceful, or paradisical lately,’ said Melissa drily.
Bruce grinned, walked towards his car and then turned back.
‘By the way, I nearly forgot to tell you, I’ve remembered where I met your padre!’
‘Mr Calloway? Where was that?’
‘You aren’t going to believe this!’
‘Well?’
‘I only remembered the other evening because I saw him there again.’ His sly, almost furtive expression suggested a schoolboy about to tell a smutty joke.
‘For goodness’ sake, where?’ Melissa asked impatiently.
‘The Usual Place.’
‘Well, what’s so strange about that? People go to restaurants for perfectly innocent reasons. It isn’t all strippers and bingo.’
‘It is for the dirty old men who sneak through that side door on a Friday night!’ Bruce gave a malicious chuckle as he added, ‘They haven’t got the nerve of the hussies who pile in bold as brass for their afternoon sessions of bingo-in-inverted-commas!’
Melissa was not impressed. ‘So I’m
a brazen hussy now, am I? And what were you doing, skulking round that side door — or shouldn’t I ask?’
Bruce assumed an air of injured innocence. ‘I was taking a short cut to the car park, if you must know. But your reverend was there for the bum-and-tit show all right, and very sheepish he looked in his soft hat and dark glasses!’
Melissa was on the point of protesting that he must be mistaken but Iris, weeding behind her hedge unobserved by either of them, got there first. She shot up like a furious jack-in-the-box, her face scarlet and her eyes glittering with rage.
‘How dare you spread such . . . such filth!’ she hissed. She made a stabbing gesture towards Bruce with a weeding fork and then rounded on Melissa. ‘This your young man with all the clever theories?’
‘Oh . . . er . . . Bruce Ingram of the Gazette — Miss Ash,’ murmured Melissa in embarrassment.
‘The Gazette!’ spluttered Iris, brandishing the fork under Bruce’s nose. ‘You planning to print your lies in that rag?’
‘Here, hang on!’ Bruce protested, keeping a wary eye on the fork. ‘The Gazette is a family paper. We shan’t be running a feature on vicars and tarts if that’s what you’re worried about!’ He gave a sickly grin which seemed to enrage Iris even further.
‘Don’t you dare publish a word of this garbage . . . !’ she began, but Bruce, recovering his poise, managed one of his most charming smiles.
‘Miss Ash,’ he said earnestly, ‘I promise you I’m not looking for a story and I won’t mention what you have just overheard to anyone else. I only told Mel — Mrs Craig — because when I met your Rector the other day I was sure I’d seen him before but couldn’t remember where.’
Iris lowered her arm but she did not take her eyes off him. ‘Swear it?’ she said sharply. He nodded. ‘Ruin a man’s life, that sort of scandal can. All lies, but mud sticks.’
‘You’re quite right.’ He sounded sincere. He turned back to Melissa. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 17
