‘How did your husband feel about that?’ asked PC Brown.
Willis decided he would let Claire Brown have her head. He’d noticed before that, along with her sympathetic manner, she had an effectively neutral way of asking questions. She seemed to be doing rather well with Susan Cooke.
‘Well he wasn’t best pleased, but then nobody would be.’ She paused again.
‘Look, uh, you’re not trying to suggest … I mean, I can tell you now. My Terry would never hurt that girl, not his princess.’ Susan Cooke spat out the last few words. She touched her bruised face again.
‘How did you get that bruise, Mrs Cooke?’ Claire Brown asked quietly.
The woman looked startled. ‘What? That? Oh, I was putting the twins down the other night. They’ve got bunk beds. They was playing up. I knocked my face against one of the uprights, while I was trying to get them to settle.’
Brown and Willis exchanged glances. Neither made any direct comment.
‘You’re quite sure your husband would never hurt Melanie?’ asked PC Brown, keeping her voice expressionless.
If Mrs Cooke grasped the particular significance of the question, she showed no immediate sign of it.
‘Not in a million years,’ she said, with a sniff. ‘He worshipped her. Worshipped the ground she walked on. His little princess, as I keep saying, that’s what he called her.’ She paused then and seemed to be thinking things through. ‘He’d never hurt his princess,’ she repeated.
‘Look Mrs Cooke, we just need to learn everything we can about Melanie, her family, her friends, her behaviour patterns, everything. In your opinion, what sort of girl was she?’
‘I told you, I hardly ever saw her. But I know she was spoiled right enough, by her father, that’s for sure. He was always spending money he didn’t have on her. And by her stepfather by all accounts. Competing for her affections, the pair of ’em, if you ask me.’
‘What about her mother?’
Mrs Cooke shrugged.
‘Caught between the two men, I reckon. Takes the easy way out. Turns a blind eye to all sorts of stuff, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Willis thought it was time for him to take control again.
‘So let’s move on to last night,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me where your husband was, Mrs Cooke?’
‘I knew you’d get to that soon enough,’ the woman muttered. ‘Here, in bed with me, of course, like he always is. That’s one thing about my Terry. He’s not got enough life in him anymore to play around.’
‘And earlier in the evening, before you went to bed?’
‘He had a long job on yesterday. Left home soon after five and didn’t get in til gone seven. We had something to eat, then he slumped in front of the telly. Sometimes he goes to the pub, but he was too knackered. We were in bed by ten o’clock, or thereabouts. So we were together til Sarah called.’
Willis glanced toward the pill bottle.
‘What are those?’ he asked.
Sarah Cooke coloured slightly. ‘Oh, just something the doctor gives me for me nerves.’
‘Do you take any other medication?’
The woman nodded.
‘Sleeping pills by any chance?’
She nodded again.
‘And did you take any sleeping pills last night?’
‘Yes, I take them every night.’
‘How many?’
‘Two. I always take two.’
‘What brand?’
She told him.
Willis knew about sleeping pills. His mother had been on them for years after his father went, until she met her new man.
‘That’s about as strong a brand as you can get, Mrs Cooke,’ he said. ‘I would imagine they really knock you out, don’t they?’
‘Well yes, they do. But it’s the only way I can get any sleep, you see, with me nerves and the children …’
The woman’s voice tailed off. Willis thought she might be beginning to grasp the significance of his line of questioning.
‘So how can you be sure your husband was with you all night?’ he continued. ‘If he’d popped out for a couple of hours after you’d fallen asleep, you wouldn’t have even known, would you?’
Mrs Cooke looked confused. ‘Well, I mean, we sleep in the same bed. Anyway, he wouldn’t have. He didn’t. Really. I’m sure.’
She didn’t sound that sure.
‘I think you have to admit it would be possible, Mrs Cooke,’ Willis persisted.
‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ The woman still wouldn’t commit herself.
‘Mrs Cooke, did you wake when your husband’s ex-wife called him in the early hours?’
‘Yes, of course I did.’
‘Do you know what time it was?’
‘Not exactly. The middle of the night or that’s what it felt like. Maybe three or four.’
‘Weren’t you pretty woozy, disturbed at that hour, after taking your pills?’
‘Well, yes, I probably was, but I knew he had to go out and it had something to do with Melanie.’
‘Did you go straight back to sleep?’
‘I think so, until the kids woke me just after six. You don’t need an alarm in this house!’
‘I put it to you again, is it not highly unlikely that anything would have wakened you, before that call from Melanie’s mother?’ Willis persisted further. ‘Your husband could have slipped out for two, or even three, hours without you noticing. You must agree with that, surely?’
Susan Cooke shook her head stubbornly. ‘He didn’t go anywhere, he was in bed with me all night,’ she insisted.
But Willis was smiling when he and PC Brown left a few minutes later.
‘Few holes in that alibi, then,’ he murmured contentedly.
LEO
After returning home from my night with Tim, I forced myself to stop thinking about him. I am strong. Surely, I am strong. I have had to be, living the life that I do. I concentrated on my work. I am not unsuccessful. I am not an unintelligent man. I think I am quite good at what I do. I think I would be good at anything I chose to put my hand to, actually.
It is just my personal life, my personal predilections, that I can’t cope with. I do not lack confidence in any regard, other than that of my sexuality, of course. I tell myself that it is fear of the prejudice of others, which makes me live the way I do: hiding, skulking and keeping my true self hidden from the world around me.
I tell myself that prejudice against homosexuality in the workplace is still rife, particularly in less cosmopolitan parts of the UK. I don’t want to have to deal with that; I am unable to deal with that. That and the scorn of family and friends. Some, I know, would pity me and that, of course, would be even worse.
I have constructed an image of myself, as well as being strong, I am tough. I am ‘all man’. I have to be. The men I know, in the part of my life that I live from day to day, are the sort who make irreverent, unpolitically correct jokes about almost everything. So when it comes to people’s sexuality, I ensure that, if necessary, I am as unpolitically correct as the best of them. Most of the time I just listen, smile, and laugh when appropriate. But, just occasionally, I will tell the crudest jokes of all, the sort that actually make the others wince.
I enjoy that in a curious sort of way. It’s my cover. I like the fact that they lap it up, that they do not suspect for a single second that I am anything other than one of them. That is the public me. I’m one of the boys. I make crude jokes about women whenever it seems called for and I invent stories of fictional, sexual encounters. Not often, but often enough. It has become a habit.
I have grown to accept that I cannot get by without regular, if not necessarily frequent, sexual encounters with men, whilst also accepting that I will never come to terms with being open about that, with revealing myself to others for what I am.
So I cannot see Tim again. That would break my golden rule. There have been men before with whom I’d shared more than one sexual encounter, although not many. But if ever th
ere was even the merest suggestion of a relationship developing, I backed away. I disappeared.
And that was the way it would be with Tim. The way it had to be with Tim.
So I don’t really know why I kept that half torn, hotel bill, with his phone number scribbled on the bottom. I told myself it was because I might be able to make some sort of expenses claim on it, but that was nonsense, of course. I am not stupid enough to put myself under any unnecessary risk of being found out, in order to save a few pounds.
About two weeks after my night with Tim, I made another trip to London. I remained determined to stay away from Tim and to stay off Grindr, which was so dangerous as well as seductive. I’d failed totally, however, in my greater resolution. I could not suppress my homosexual side. I’d been unable to stop myself looking for alternatives. I surfed the net and found a new, gay club that intrigued me. It had just opened in a basement off Old Compton Street. Discreetly hidden away, it seemed, like Larry’s. Also like Larry’s, it was the sort of place married men would visit, I thought. The sort of place where anonymity was still respected, required even. Not a place, I didn’t think, for the modern set of gays so far ‘out’ that I sometimes felt they were the biggest threat of all to a man like me.
It was, according to the website I found, a kind of gay, lap dancing joint. A sort of Larry’s with benefits, maybe. It called itself Adonis Anonymous and boasted, quite blatantly, that it had been modelled on a pole dancing club in New York called Adonis, where allegedly gorgeous, young men gyrated before an eager clientele.
Adonis NY had ‘champagne rooms’, which could be hired at a cost and sounded like a euphemism for something more. London’s new Adonis Anonymous also offered private ‘champagne rooms’ and was rather more blatant about the purposes of those. ‘For the full experience with your personal Adonis,’ it said enticingly on its website.
The temptation was too much for me. I decided I must visit.
The basement room I entered was dimly lit. There was loud music too. It was all rather confusing. It took a while to realise what was going on.
When my eyes began to focus, I could see that there were a series of raised platforms lining the room, each bearing a pole around which scantily-clad, young men danced provocatively.
The punters, whom I knew I would not be able to resist joining for long, prowled up and down, assessing the dancers like judges at a cattle show.
As in straight lap dancing clubs, folded money was passed to the performers. At Adonis Anonymous, it seemed the tradition was that the young men took the notes between their teeth, which was somehow wonderfully provocative. Then, of course, they swiftly removed it to check the amount.
I watched carefully. One young man checked the notes handed him and just carried on dancing. The punter, middle-aged but quite nice looking, reached into the pocket of his trousers and produced another fold of money, which the dancer glanced at before taking it between his teeth. He then beckoned the punter forward and led him through one of several doors in the wall behind the dancing platforms. Then, I noticed that each door bore some kind of crude Bacchanalian image and was labelled ‘champagne room’.
The alleged golden rule of straight lap dancing clubs, ‘look but don’t touch’, did not seem to apply at Adonis Anonymous.
I was aware of the sordidness. I acknowledged that the place was distasteful. Or one half of me did. But, as at that sex party, I couldn’t stop myself becoming aroused. There was an overt eroticism about Adonis Anonymous. Sex was clearly freely on offer – well not freely, exactly. Probably quite expensively. But that was all right, I had come prepared. I’d brought with me as much money as I could afford.
This, surely, was what I wanted. A place I could come back to as often as I liked, with little or no fear of anyone wishing to take an encounter any further. A business encounter. I had dealt with male escorts before; it was inevitable for a man like me. But there was invariably the problem of where to go, as with all casual pick-ups. I had broken one of my rules with Tim, because I’d been so desperate to be with him. Previously, I had avoided booking into hotels, even on an off-the-street cash-in-advance basis, just in case anyone ever recognised me from my ordinary day to day life. I am, of course, fairly paranoid about that.
I did not enjoy fumblings in alleyways and dark corners. I found it squalid to the point of being repugnant, albeit rarely repugnant enough to stop me. Some might think a euphemistic ‘champagne room’ in this environment was little better. By the time I had watched the oh-so provocative dancers for several minutes, I didn’t care.
I gave in to my overwhelming, inner craving and joined the prowlers. A young man of mixed race gyrated before me. He had the most beautiful, olive skin and the body of a Greek God. In the lust of the moment, he seemed to me to be an Adonis indeed. He was beautiful. A truly beautiful boy. Far better than anything I’d expected to find in this place.
His chest was bare. He wore only a pair of dancer’s trousers. Every detail of his well-muscled, young body was on show, above and below the waist. I realised that I could see not just the bulge, but the shape of his cock.
I felt my erection growing. It was almost hurting. I had to do something about it. I glanced around me. I was just one of a throng of like-minded men. No one was looking at me. None of them were interested in anything except their own needs.
I had little idea what the financial protocol might be. In the dim light and at a certain distance, I hadn’t been able to be sure of the denomination of the bank notes being passed over. I thought the middle-aged punter I had watched so carefully may have handed over bundles of tenners. I was pretty certain the notes were pink. But, of course, they could have been fifties. Surely not? I decided I would start small and maintain my options. Although the ache in my groin was making that difficult.
I passed the beautiful boy three twenty-pound notes. He leaned forward to take them in his teeth. I pressed them into his hand. I wanted this business over with.
‘Uh, c-could we go to a champagne room?’ I asked tentatively, stumbling slightly over my words.
The boy glanced at the money with a kind of mild amusement. Then he laughed out loud. All the while he carried on dancing, provocatively thrusting his groin towards me.
I passed over three more twenties. This time the boy merely half smiled. He still carried on dancing.
It was going to be more expensive than I had expected, but then, the quality of the goods appeared to exceed my expectations. I couldn’t mess about. I was now in a hurry. The money didn’t matter any more.
I passed over five more twenties.
The boy beckoned me forward. He led me into a ‘champagne room.’ It was small, like a cell, and very hot. The atmosphere was thick, heady, but any lurking hint of the fetid was well enough disguised by a heavy perfume, perhaps some kind of incense. That might have been a relief, if I hadn’t been so past caring. The only furniture within was a short, low couch covered by a velvet throw. Well-used, I imagined, but I didn’t care about that either. The door closed behind us.
I reached for him. He shook his head and backed off.
‘First you have to buy this,’ he said, producing a bottle of champagne. It cost me a further one-hundred pounds. I paid up without a murmur. We never even opened the bottle.
I was desperate for relief. I reached for him again. This time he did not back away. I could feel him now, as well as see him. His flesh warm and smooth. His lips full and instantly responsive. He surely was a God, sent to give me peace again.
I didn’t think a man like me could hope for anything beyond that, nor even wish for it.
So how was it that as I succumbed to the relentless grip of my desire, all I could think of was Tim.
Nice, ordinary, Tim. Tim who wanted more than sex.
Tim who wanted me.
NINE
Right after leaving the North Bristol Academy, Vogel received a text from Hemmings to say that the formal identification had been completed as expected. The dead gi
rl was Melanie Cooke.
He called Willis to relay the news and to suggest they compare notes over lunch.
‘Don’t know about you, but I’m starving,’ said Vogel.
He’d been woken before 6 a.m. and eaten nothing that day, other than a couple of Daisy Wilkins’s biscuits. He was pretty sure the same went for Saslow too. Vogel believed in feeding the brain, even though he frequently forgot to do so. His brain, he feared, was not working at anything like full strength. He doubted that Willis had stopped to eat either. The DS seemed almost as driven as his boss, when he was on a big case. He told Willis to meet him and Saslow at the big, new, vegetarian restaurant down by the floating harbour. Vogel had been a vegetarian for years. He had no wish to be a participant, albeit by default, in the death of any living creature. He wasn’t interested in pub lunches and didn’t drink alcohol. He just didn’t like the taste.
Most of the officers he worked with would have moaned about his choice of venue, preferring a pub or a burger bar. But Vogel knew Willis was only a moderate drinker, who rarely seemed to care what he ate. As for Saslow, he was quite sure she would like nothing better than a fancy salad or a plate of grilled root vegetables. She was always watching her weight, though Vogel had no idea why, he thought she was a perfect shape. He’d never found excessively skinny women attractive.
Willis, looking dapper as ever in a well-cut, navy blue suit, was waiting at a table, when Vogel and Saslow arrived. The DS had already ordered sparkling water, a plate of garlic bread and a dish of mixed olives. It occurred to Vogel that his little team were a tad different to most CID people. Gone were the days when everyone in a male-dominated world of police detection fortified themselves with several pints at lunchtime, as a matter of routine. Though, Vogel mulled, the odd one or two still slipped through the net and quite a few CID men, and women, carried a packet of polo mints close to their warrant card.
‘Oh well done, Willis,’ muttered Vogel, taking a large bite out of a slice of garlic bread, before he’d even sat down.
Deadly Dance Page 9
