“I’m Quinn Laurier. I work with Thatch,” I said, offering my hand for a shake, which she met with a polite smile.
“I’m sorry if I seem weird,” Lily began as Thatch encouraged her to take a seat across from his desk. She fumbled with her shoulder bag in her lap and shook her head as though trying to clear it of unwanted thoughts. “I just never thought I’d have to go to these sorts of… lengths.”
“It’s been around three months, right?” I asked, settling myself on the corner of my desk as Thatch wheeled his chair around his desk. I already knew the answer. Jocelyn had disappeared exactly four months after Beth.
Lily nodded, her hands still trembling in her lap. “Three months, two weeks, four days,” she laughed apathetically. “The police literally have nothing. As soon as they found out that she was going to some club that was supposedly bad news, they all but gave up.”
My eyes widened as I glanced briefly at Thatch. So, she knew about Omen. Chances were if she was aware of her younger sister’s dealings with the shady nightclub, she could know Meri, whoever he or she was.
“This isn’t like Jocelyn. She’s always been so sensible, stable. She might have enjoyed a few nights out in the riskier part of town, but that doesn’t make her a runaway or a junkie like the police were suggesting. She just… she had a habit of being a little… uptight.” Lily’s face reddened at the thought, her movements growing more flustered until she was dabbing at a few stray tears that had rolled down her cheeks.
“It’s OK, we know how the police can be with these cases,” Thatch soothed, passing Lily a tissue from the box he kept on his desk. She thanked him, and we gave her a few moments to catch her breath.
“Was Jocelyn seeing anyone? Or did she have any close friends you weren’t comfortable sharing with the police?” The blunt nature of my question had Thatch’s eyes on me in a split second—icy cold and warning, marred by his bushy eyebrows as his scowl deepened in my direction. Lily didn’t seem to notice though, or at least, if she had been offended, she’d brushed it aside without even flinching.
“No, I don’t think so,” Lily replied with a sniffle. “She never mentioned any friends or boyfriends, she was a bit of a loner.”
Thatch’s face relaxed as he finally pulled his focus away from me and back to Lily.
“Any idea why she’d go to Omen?” He asked.
Lily frowned, bundling her hands in her lap and fidgeting with the dainty rings on her fingers.
“Is that the name of the club? The one she was going to?” She asked quietly.
Thatch moved to answer, but I cut in. “Yeah, that’s the one. I found a couple of check-ins on Jocelyn’s social media accounts.”
Despite Lily studying me as if she was eager for more information, I kept my mouth shut. She didn’t need to know that Omen was a black hole that lured sinners into its abyss with ease. It was difficult to find concrete information on the club or its clientele, but from what I’d heard, a lot of nasty shit went down at Omen. So far, any investigation into its dealings had ended before it had even begun and there had never been an arrest made on the premises.
Lily cleared her throat before she spoke. “I’ll be honest with you both. I wasn’t that close to my sister, not recently at least. Our dad died a couple of years ago and ever since then, Jocelyn’s been more closed off than usual. There could be things I don’t know about and I’m willing to accept anything you bring to me. I don’t care what you find out about my sister, I just want to know if she’s alive.”
Lily’s words caused my heart to ache as it pounded against my chest. It wasn’t very often I had some weird emotional response to a client, but this was different. I knew why. Thatch knew why. Still, I wanted nothing more than to help Lily find her sister.
And I knew exactly where to start.
Thatch had asked me time and time again not to do anything stupid. Not just on this occasion, it was a common demand that he made. He seemed to think I was trying to make up for my gender or petite stature often. Especially whenever I did something that he couldn’t. Like throw on a hellishly short dress and head over to Omen late on a Friday night.
“If I find out you’ve gone to that club, Quinn, I swear to God,” Thatch had grunted as I left the office.
Jocelyn’s sister, Lily, hadn’t long left. She’d stayed for a couple of hours as we trawled through all the information we had about Jocelyn. Some of it, we’d got illegally from an insider on the police force. We didn’t share that with Lily. We didn’t want to scare her off before we’d even started the proper investigation.
As is my nature, I’d ignored Thatcher’s warning about heading to Omen and by 11PM I found myself freshly showered and putting on more make-up than I’d ever deemed necessary.
From what I’d been able to find out about Omen, Friday and Saturday nights were usually full to capacity. So, if I was going to make it past the entrance, I’d have to at least try to look the part. I settled on an uncharacteristic black dress which thankfully covered the entirety of my back but also hit far too high on my thick thighs. The amount of running around my job as a private investigator demanded had encouraged me to join a gym last year. The result—my naturally curvy thighs had expanded and the indent at my waist only exaggerated that fact. I wasn’t complaining. I was comfortable with my midsize body, mostly. Well, I was comfortable with it covered up with jeans and a t-shirt. Not so much in a dress that barely covered my ass cheeks. The upside to my choice in outfit was that I looked just about as distasteful as Omen’s reputation desired, and it covered my back.
I pulled my blonde hair into a ponytail that snaked its way over one shoulder and slipped my feet into a pair of heels. Instantly, my toes cramped against the increased height. I didn’t wear high-heeled shoes at all. I was more of a trainers or boots kind of girl. Comfort was definitely key with my wardrobe and right now, I was the exact opposite of that.
“No time like the present, I guess,” I muttered as I glanced at myself in the mirror by my front door, tugging awkwardly on the hem of my dress before grabbing my keys and a jacket and leaving the safety of my flat.
It took about forty-five minutes to get to the part of London Omen clung to the underside of. Located on the outskirts of Chelsea and overlooking the river Thames, it was a surprisingly unimposing building huddled among matching Victorian red brick warehouses. I stood just on the corner of the street with my arms wrapped around my middle, a poor attempt at concealing the bulge of my stomach in the confines of the horrendous dress I was wearing.
There were only two differences between Omen and the surrounding buildings, the first being the huge iron windows that would have overlooked the street had they not been blacked out from the inside. The second was the sign that glowed faintly above the main entrance. The letters weren’t intricately curved and delicate, but severe with corners that looked sharp as a razor blade and hung there suspended against the brick, upside down and back to front—a gimmick.
Normally, this kind of investigation didn’t make me nervous. I was used to walking into strange places and asking complete stranger’s random questions. It was in my job description. But knowing that this was the last place where both Jocelyn and Beth were seen alive before they vanished without a trace left me feeling jittery. Finding out Beth had spent her last night at Omen had come as a shock at the time and even with months having passed, I still could not make sense of it. She’d always been the one warning me to be more careful, she hadn’t been the type to venture out alone without letting me know where she was going to be and who she was meeting. Beth was cautious to a flaw, so none of this made sense.
Realising I’d been standing outside Omen for around thirty minutes, I drew in a breath and walked towards the building. Strangely, there wasn’t a queue outside. Having looked into Omen’s limited online presence, one of the only things I’d discovered was that it was supposedly hellishly busy at the weekends. Despite the lack of patrons outside, I could hear the deep pulse of music, the thrum
of it rippling beneath my high heels. I double checked that I’d locked my car and set the keys in my purse as I shook the remaining nerves from my tense shoulders and flashed my best smile at the bouncer waiting by the entrance.
He was a burly guy, well over six feet with a shaved head and a long ginger beard plaited with intricate metal clasps.
He scowled down at me as I stalled a few feet in front of him. “Here alone?”
I watched as his eyes flicked between my face and the iPad he held in his humongous hands.
“Yup,” I replied casually. “My friends are meeting me later. Unless they’re already inside.” My eyes flicked to the towering metal door at his side, the glowing red light from the sign above reflecting in the polished steel. The doorman remained unmoving, even as I set one foot in front of the other, stretching my legs as I pulled some cash from my purse. I had hoped it would act as enough of a distraction to convince the bouncer to let me inside, but it seemed he’d had his fill of desperate young women flirting their way inside. Either I wasn’t his type, or my level of self-confidence was unfounded.
“We’re at capacity,” he replied, still refusing to meet my gaze.
“Oh, come on, I’m tiny. Surely you can squeeze me in?” I pleaded, shamelessly batting my eyes at him in the hope he would look at me. Thankfully, he did, and he didn’t fight his urge to study me shamelessly from toe to chest. His eyes, dark with threat but not as intimidating as I assumed he considered them to be, trailed up my legs before finally meeting mine.
“Twenty,” he sighed, holding out a hand as I passed him the cash with a satisfied grin.
“You’re a life saver,” I called as he unlocked the ornately carved door with a creak and allowed me to enter.
The music was so loud that the bass echoed in my chest and radiated outwards until I could feel the rhythm pulsing in my neck. I was no stranger to bars and pubs, but I didn’t often frequent nightclubs. I wasn’t one for getting dressed up just to get shit faced and dance like it was some twisted form of foreplay. Nope, I was more of a few beers in the local watering hole kind of gal. But it seemed I’d got one thing wrong about Omen—it wasn’t just a nightclub.
I came to a standstill as I left the confines of the short hallway and came face to face with Omen in all its glory. The sheer size of the club stole the breath from my lungs. Towering red brick walls were lit up with industrial crimson lighting while flowing black drapes covered the arched windows I’d noted from outside. Leather booths and dark oak tables lined the outside of the heaving dancefloor, all of which were occupied by groups of people sipping at drinks and throwing their heads back in laughter. The dress code caught me off-guard too—I’d anticipated seeing young women in trashy dresses and fishnets, men in cheap polyester suit jackets and band tees. What I was met with was the exact opposite. Despite the drum and bass echoing off the walls, everyone inside was dressed to impress. My eye caught one woman in a green silk dress, her bronze back bare and shimmering with gold jewellery. On her arm was a man adorned in tailored black jeans and a velvet jacket in the same shade as her dress. Their eyes moved to me as I studied them, unable to tear my gaze away from how beautiful they were.
Clearing my throat and offering the couple a polite smile, I turned and walked towards the bar. It consumed an entire wall, the pale marble separating the staff from the consumers was built into the cathedral style arches that supported the ceiling and cast an eerie shadow across the bare cement floor. Turning my focus away from the décor and the intimidation of Omen’s clientele, I spotted an empty stool and rushed to claim it as my own. Behind the bar a rush of staff were mixing drinks and taking cash from outstretched hands, but my focus narrowed in on one bartender in particular.
She was a small framed but muscular woman with light brown skin and short black hair, cut just below her ears. Her impatient face was contorted with eyes that I imagined could bring a grown man to his knees. Toned biceps and forearms were decorated with dark tattoos whose filigrees curled and twisted across her flawless skin. She was beautiful, but incredibly intimidating. I couldn’t help but be impressed.
“What can I get you?” She asked, leaning her hands on the bar top and staring at me intently.
“I’ll take a gin and tonic, plenty of ice,” I replied with a smile as her eyes lingered on the bare skin of my collarbone.
“Lime?” she asked as she began shovelling ice cubes into a tall glass.
“Please.” I smiled politely, tapping my fingers on the marble bar.
Above the bar, several low hanging industrial chandeliers swayed, spreading a warm orange glow across the staff and those sitting in the wrought iron stools. Had it not been the crowds of excited dancers and raucous conversation, it would have been easy to forget this place was a nightclub. It had the makings of a decadent hotel or restaurant. God, it could even double as a damn ballroom given a slight change in music.
“You here alone?” The bartender’s husky voice called as she set a coaster down on the bar and placed my drink atop it.
“I was supposed to be meeting a friend of mine here,” I began, knowing that this was my opportunity to pull out the small photograph of Jocelyn I’d brought with me.
Her face twisted as she raised an eyebrow at the crumpled piece of paper in my hands as I presented it to her. Jocelyn’s round face smiled up at her, surrounded by a curtain of thick, blonde curls and the bartender let out an exasperated chuckle.
“What, no Instagram posts or Tinder profile?” She quipped, setting her elbows on the bar and studying my face as if she were waiting for the punchline to a joke I hadn’t told.
“I’m not into all that social media rubbish,” I replied, holding my nerve. I figured that in a place like this, the staff must be used to running into the odd hipster here or there. Surely a printed photograph of someone wasn’t so unusual that I’d already blown my cover. Yet the way this woman was looking at me, my confidence was already waning.
“Don’t suppose you’ve seen her?” I asked, my voice calm and self-assured.
She shrugged, “sorry, can’t help you.”
Without another word, she turned and walked away and within seconds, she was busying herself with serving another customer. Despite making sure she was involved in pouring drinks and cracking open bottles of beer, her dark eyes found mine any chance she got. Whether it was suspicion or something else, I couldn’t be sure, but her poker face wasn’t quite as good as she thought it was.
Chapter Four
My gin and tonic remained untouched, minus the odd sip here or there that I took to avoid suspicion. I’d been perched on the uncomfortable bar stool for far too long, the bartender from earlier had vanished, she’d slipped off into what I presumed to be a storage room behind the bar not fifteen minutes after our brief chat and was yet to reappear.
The bar stretched the entire length of the building, caging anywhere between ten and fifteen members of staff behind it. My body had adjusted to the drill of the music that pounded from the speakers in front of the DJ’s podium, where dim crimson lights flickered in time with the beat. It had been a relief to feel my pulse return to normal and the brief spell of anxiety I’d felt when I’d entered dissipated without me even noticing.
My eyes once again shifted to scan the club, most of it cloaked in moody darkness and filled with faceless bodies, grinding against one another. Few people remained seated, attempting conversation and sipping drinks—this wasn’t the type of place you visit for a cosy chat. My focus moved to the upper levels of the club, where there was even less visibility. A hardwood staircase cordoned off and guarded by another set of large bouncer’s lead up to a second floor disguised by a tinted glass banister. Part of me wanted to get up there. Curiosity was a downfall of mine and I wasn’t great at resisting my urges, but in this case, it wasn’t the right time to go exploring.
Comfortable knowing that the woman I’d spoken to had found somewhere else to call her workplace for the evening, I signalled to a younger male barten
der who looked far too eager to please. His youthful grin and dimpled cheeks were a stark contrast to the stony faces of the others and as he walked over to me and tossed a dirtied towel over his shoulder, I felt guilty. It was the one thing Thatcher had admitted was a strength that he didn’t possess—the advantage of my appearance. If he were to enter a room, those around him would assume he was trouble. Even with the wheelchair, he exuded an air of danger. When I’d first started working for him, I’d envied that trait of his to no end. All I wanted was to walk into some place and have everyone know I could take care of myself.
It was only during one of my first genuine cases with Thatch that he’d highlighted that me looking the way I do was a bonus. Something about a wolf in sheep’s clothing. People didn’t expect me to know what I was doing. They always underestimated me. The success of a lot of our cases had been thanks to the casual sexism that still existed in most parts of this country today. It seemed this poor, unsuspecting barman was the next to fall victim to my half-decent looks and charming smile.
“Can I get you something else?” He asked softly, just loud enough to be heard over the music.
“I’ll take some water, if that’s OK?” I asked in my gentlest voice, not wanting to ruin the facade at the first hurdle.
“Sure.” He nodded courteously, spinning on his heel and opening one of the many fridges and pulling out a frosty glass bottle of what looked like some seriously expensive H2O. Without asking, he poured it into a glass and topped it with a thick wedge of lime and some crushed ice.
“Here we go.” He smiled widely and maintained eye contact, something which would’ve made me uncomfortable if it wasn’t for his boyish good looks.
“I don’t suppose you could help me out with something?” I began pushing the photo of Jocelyn out over the bar top as I’d done earlier.
Silver Vein: Beneath the City Sleeps Book 1 Page 3
