Death & the City Book Two

by Lisa Scullard

  “I don’t think his wife would be pleased if he lost his job over that,” I nod. Although we don’t use the term struck off, exactly. Suspended, maybe. She sounds more like a nurse, or a secretary, than a nightclub hospitality expert.

  “See, and he’s married as well,” says the woman, triumphantly. “That’s disgusting behaviour.”

  “Well, don’t let her hear you say that,” I remark. “Because that’s her, in the photo. That’s his wife Cindy. How about we go find her and confirm it for you?”

  The woman and her friends look at me, mortified.

  “No…” one of them says, sounding crestfallen. “You’re just covering for him.”

  “Her name’s Cindy Knightwood, and they’ve got a little boy called Harrison,” I say, cheerfully. “Go and ask her yourselves. I’m sure she’ll see the funny side of you photographing them having a bit of a cuddle, and wanting to report her husband for acknowledging her while he’s at work.”

  The complainant, significantly paler, snaps shut her phone again.

  “We’ve seen other things,” she says. “Lots of things. You haven’t heard the last of this.”

  The group hustle out like fussed hens, leaving behind phrases including ‘A likely story’ and ‘They’re all liars’. The Gucci Cheerleaders congratulate one another, and go back to the mirrors to retouch make-up, and retrieve drinks.

  “Thanks,” Chelsea says to me. “What bitches, eh? Was that really Manny’s wife?”

  “Yup,” I nod, checking my own make-up in the mirror alongside.

  “Really?” Chelsea echoes, and her circular puppy-dog eyes belie yet another shattered illusion. I just nod again. The everlasting myth that all doormen are single still reigns, I muse. Never mind. Sometimes it suits both parties, but usually it’s just a trail of broken hearts and beer goggles.

  I go to my next position on the D.J. podium, and D.J. Danshaku Doyobi gives me a nod and hands back my MP-3 stick. Every so often I ask him to share a new mix he’s trying out if I like it. The club and flyers promote him as ‘Resident D.J. Dan Shackles’ after deliberately mishearing him, because the management think it sounds better than his Japanese Voodoo D.J. name, and worry that if he sounds too minority, customer numbers might suffer.

  “It’s not like they turn up and then ask why am I not bald with freckles and a frigging parka and baseball hat,” Danshaku said to me once. “They turn up and see a Japanese guy with tattoos, a green Mohawk and glasses and say: Why is he calling himself Dan Shackles? That’s so not his real name, he’s called Hiro Suzuki or something like that in real life. If I was the kind of guy to get pissed off, I’d do them for racial discrimination for changing my D.J. name without asking me first.”

  It’s not even as if he’s a minority in my opinion. As far as I’m concerned, I’m working for one of the last vestiges of Western-market dumb-down-class pleasers, in the hospitality industry. Everywhere you look now, there are Japanese coffee shops, giant Chinese supermarkets have taken over the best sites, most of the high street fashion retail is Far Eastern, and the number one phone network is based in Taiwan. It’s like an economic revolution happened while the West tried to drink their recession sorrows away, and they haven’t sobered up yet enough to notice who actually owns everything now. Danshaku’s attitude just reflects the slightly indulgent tone of someone who knows the old historic image isn’t a threat to the new reality. As for me, I know whose satellites and technology are being utilized to keep things running smoothly in my day job, so to speak - so showing any old-school discriminatory tendencies wouldn’t do me any favours.

  He passes me a note as well, scribbled on one of his request slips, and I glance at it and shake my head.

  “I don’t know some of these characters,” I say, pointing to the words he’s written in Kanji. “I know ‘Hebi’. Are you calling D.J. Crank a snake?”

  He grins, nodding, and offers his hand in a high-five over the D.J. screen.

  “Saiminjutsushi. Hypnotist. Snake charmer,” he clarifies for me. “He’s got friends in low places. You’re going to have a lot of fun in Vegas, with him to keep an eye on.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” I nod, grinning back and pocketing the note. “I could print this on a t-shirt for him as well.”

  It’s not that eventful, for a Saturday night. Mel finds Des throwing up in the sink in the glass-wash room, ruining her night of flirting with the unattainable Ryan while she’s forced to look after her instead. Doormen Jak and Sutcliffe throw out the politically-correct Café de Paris blaggers, for stealing Cindy Knightwood’s handbag off the back of her bar-stool and rummaging through it in the toilets, claiming that they believed she was a drug-dealer supplying the doormen in the club, where they were caught by the Congolese lavatory attendant, Booma. They kick and bite and scream in the Fire Exit right under the security cameras, and the police are called to attend the scene from site patrol.

  Cindy’s quite happy for the police to search her bag and examine her support tights with a ladder in that she’d taken off, and her mild bladder weakness panty-liners, while the nurses, as it turns out, are armed with a list of reasons Why All Nightclub Doormen Are Scum printed off a Facebuddy group page, belonging to some embittered anonymous ex-wives. Some of the items on the list have been ticked off by the nurses, including: ‘Will refuse you entry if they don’t fancy you’ and ‘Pretend they think you are too drunk as an excuse to get you out’. The police arrest the nurses for theft, disturbing the peace, and harassment, and as they’re led out to the big van, wind them up more that they’ll be lucky if they still have jobs in the morning. Oh, and impersonation. It turns out that the current staff manager at London’s Café de Paris is a man.

  Cooper finds the anti-doormen list on Facebuddy after work, and prints it out to pin onto the site office notice-board.

  “None of you are real doormen until you can live up to every single one of those,” he says cheerfully, while we’re signing out.

  “There’s no way I’m shagging anyone behind the club,” Steve says, looking at it in amusement. “There’s broken glass and rats out there the size of badgers.”

  “How can we ALL have a criminal record, and still have an SIA licence?” Hurst points out. “Was the person who wrote this in kindergarten or something?”

  “I wish I had connections to the Underworld,” Coop agrees. “It’d really help my ranking on Bioshock Two. And it misses out the most obvious one, which is…”

  “…All doormen will give you their Porn Star Name instead of their real one,” Stuart chuckles in response. “How could they miss that? I’m going to change the one I’m using to Ewan McKarr. I’m not getting many phone numbers as Seymour Staines, for some reason.”

  “What about you, Lara?” Jak asks me, with a wink. “You’ve got to have at least one thing on the list, or you’re a novice. Have you killed anyone?”

  “Not today,” I shrug, truthfully. It is after midnight, of course. I glance at the list. “How about you, what drugs are you on?”

  “Everything,” he chuckles. “They keep bloody changing my prescription. I think I’m on the contraceptive Pill at the moment. Trying to get in touch with my feminine side.”

  I stay for a staff drink under pressure from Diane, who wants to tell me what she and her friend Beverly Randall used to get up to in Vegas. It’s free entertainment for half an hour while I have a diet cola, and Doorman Jak, who married a Trekkie in Vegas and now wishes he’d stayed there permanently - because his name really is James Admiral Kirk and he gets free drinks just for showing people his passport - sits on the other side of the table, and reminisces as well. It’s quite a nice atmosphere after work for me. I don’t usually stick around for staff drinks, mostly because I’ve got nothing to talk about, but going on a trip means suddenly everyone’s got advice, or an anecdote they want to share. Only Mgr Mel is in some drama of her own, telling everyone who sits down by her about Des’s mysterious malady, and how she had to call her a staff taxi before the
end of shift. So within an hour of finishing work, everybody within earshot is convinced that Mel believes Desdemona is pregnant, and is just acting dumb and blonde while describing all the right symptoms, and repeating over and over ‘What on Earth could be wrong with that girl?’

  Cindy Knightwood stays behind, after her exciting birthday drink with husband Doorman Manny, who is by now wearing her laddered tights on his head and asking everyone ‘Does my bum look big in this?’

  Diane tells the bar staff to mix up some jugs of Sangria, and lines up Tequila Gold shots, so I go to the toilet as an excuse to leave quietly via the Fire Exit, before things get messy.

  As I open the exit onto the car-park, I nearly knock over someone standing just outside.

  Joel’s phone flies out of his hand, from where he was texting on it.

  “Bugger,” he says, wryly, looking from his empty hands to the gutter.

  “Sorry,” I say. “No, it’s all right, look. There it is.”

  “Cheers.” Joel goes to pick it up. “Hold the door for me, I was just trying to get Hurst to come and let me in. What’s it been like tonight?”

  “Not bad,” I nod. “How was Crypto?”

  “Yeah, all right. So when are you leaving for Vegas? And how come no-one else gets asked?”

  “How come everyone found out so quick?” I reply, with a grin. “It’s just my work rota for next week. Not like any of you should be looking at where my shifts are, checking up on me or anything. Anyway, what are you doing over here? I thought you guys were going down to Pole-Ka after work now.”

  “Nah, it’s been getting ugly there,” Joel confides. “The barmaids from Crypto following us, the dancers and Pole-Ka waitresses getting all possessive, both venues’ women thinking they’re something special, when all you want is a drink after work and a break from customers acting up like that. It’s funny once or twice, but after that it’s just boring. Being in the same room as them, all bitching about each other. Besides, Ben’s all loved-up at the minute with your mate the manager at Crypto, so he’s no fun to hang out with.”

  “I’m surprised,” I tease him. “I thought you were more tolerant than that.”

  Joel shakes his head with a bit of an enigmatic smile, pocketing his phone again, after brushing the dirt off with the sleeve of his black Crypto shirt.

  “Can’t be arsed with all that,” he says. “I already got three sisters and a mum. And all her Women’s Institute pals.”

  “That explains it,” I agree, and he gives me a pat on the arm as I let him through the Fire Exit. “See ya later.”

  “Yeah, see you when you get back,” he calls over his shoulder, halfway up the Fire Exit. “I want all your dirty photos.”

  “You’ll be lucky,” I mutter, pulling the fire door closed from the outside. I look around, inventorially.

  The car-park is empty, aside from staff cars, and customer vehicles with single use V.I.P. overnight permits, having opted to drink instead of drive home. I can see my car over in the far corner about a hundred and fifty yards away, its unfashionable dirty white paintwork reflecting the street lights dully, and get my phone out, interested in trying out something.

  I send an SMS to Motion Sensor, and after it records Message Sent, I raise my arm briefly and wave.

  At first I think it hasn’t worked, but then I see my car reverse slowly out of its space and turn in the road, taking the most direct route across the car-park, until it arrives at the kerb in front of me.

  “Cool,” I mutter to myself in a sing-song tone, opening the driver’s door and getting in, switching on the headlights and fastening my seatbelt. The stereo initiates from pressure sensors in the driver’s seat, and a track from Space’s Spiders album kicks in from the memory stick. Had a feeling Warren at Logistics wasn’t being entirely honest about the new navigation not being set up yet. I’ll try not to be too clever though, I decide, slotting my phone into the dashboard cradle. Don’t want head office thinking I actually learned anything, or developed any of my own projects while at University. Or what I did instead of putting that talking Morse-bot into the toaster last night.

  I wonder what else Warren was thinking about modifying or adding to the car, when claiming to be updating the drive navigation. Maybe a built-in vampire/werewolf detector for head office to use, when they know I don’t believe in that sort of thing.

  My phone rings on the dash while I wait at the junction lights leaving The Plaza, and as the stereo volume reduces in response to the interruption, I glance at Caller I.D. and press Speakerphone.

  “Hi Connor,” I greet him.

  “Hey,” he responds. “How’d your night go?”

  “Yeah, fun,” I reply. “Lots of crazy women. Must be a full Moon or something.”

  “That’s definitely what it is,” he remarks. “Some of the tenants in the main house at my place are having a party. Fancy coming over and playing a bit of Murder In The Dark?”

  “You didn’t say Simon Says let’s play Murder In The Dark,” I point out, jokingly. “I have to wait for head office to approve that kind of entertainment. Even Warren had to hang up so they could ring me with target details yesterday, in the middle of helping me install Knock Knock, Who’s There, War In A Box software into my car.”

  “Well, hopefully Murder In The Dark later on. Come and help me on stakeout. It’s boring watching drunk idiots on my own.”

  “Aha,” I grin to myself in the darkness, as the traffic lights change to green outside. “Now you know how I feel at work EVERY night.”

  Chapter 40: Short Notice Cases

  It’s the first time I’ve driven to Connor’s on my own, and I’m glad my work personality is driving. It feels less questionable, in other contexts. Like guys aren’t supposed to booty call you when you’re either working together, or dating officially. To keep in that frame of mind, I pass the time, en route, playing Twenty Questions with War In A Box in the trunk, figuring out by the beep responses what capabilities and range its scanners have, what satellite information it can access if any, and make mental notes for potential shortcomings or improvements that would be useful. I’m starting to have some suspicions about why all the old vampire/werewolf chestnuts are coming out of the woodwork now, and it’s not about doormen being photographed by hysterical customers giving their WAGs a friendly love-bite or two. I wonder when head office are going to work out that my sat-nav they helpfully installed is now hidden under a jolly striped custom-knitted cosy with pom-poms on, because the illuminated screen is annoying out of the corner of my unaccustomed eye, and giving me Grand Theft Auto-related fantasies.

  I leave the main drive in the deer park, and turn off through the archway of Connor’s gatehouse. Security lights greet me as I pull up on the gravel outside the garage, and get out. I can hear faint music in the distance, from the stately home at the top of the main drive, which is now converted into apartments for the nouveau riche. Which makes a change from its previous most recent use as mental hospital for the worried sick - or perhaps not, thinking about the class of worried sick featuring in the Press mostly at the moment.

  Before closing and locking the car, I reach behind the front seats and find my rucksack. More work stuff for Connor to think about. Just in case he thinks calling me over in the middle of the night means something else. At the last minute I remember to grab my phone back out of the dashboard slot as well, and find a missed text message from him saying: In the office walk through X. I’m glad, as it reassures me he’s not playing a new game, like suggesting I find him in the bedroom, or play Hide-And-Seek with the lights off. Now that would end up as Murder In The Dark.

  I walk in through the open garage door, past his black Audi, and find the utility room door unlocked at the rear. As I let myself through, the garage door starts to close behind me automatically. I shut the utility room door also, and head through to the kitchen.

  The downstairs lights are all on, I’m relieved to see. I pass through the kitchen and by the tropical fish-tank in
the living-room wall, where the various Angels and Butterflies flock back and forth in response to movement, begging for food like any other family pet.

  “In here,” Connor calls me over in a low voice, and I cross the large living-room to the smaller study in the corner. Its windows are currently walls of inky blackness through the slats of the vertical blinds, which in daylight would be overlooking the sanctuary of the deer park, woods, and the un-illuminated main driveway outside. Connor’s got his back to me in the leather-backed swivel office chair, watching something on multi-screen layout on his computer monitor. As I approach, it’s immediately recognisable as a CCTV live feed. “I got you another chair already.”

  “Cool.” I put the rucksack down between us and sit down on the other office chair, identical to the first. It smells like new, but I decide not to mention it. “Got some evidence from the FTO incident the other day for you. Camera film I took at the scene, and something taken out of a livestock casualty they thought was a wooden tent peg. Thought you might want to have a look at them in Forensics.”

  “Cheers.” He opens the top of the rucksack and feels inside, taking out the clear plastic hygiene bag from the vet’s, and turning over the now dried-out bloody contents. “Yeah, looks familiar. You don’t process your own film any more, then?”

  “Not for a long time. Besides, it’s colour.”

  “Won’t be a problem.” He puts the evidence bag on the shelf next to him. “Not a lot for us two to look at on here at the moment. Just recording vehicle registrations for back trace, and identifying any unfamiliar faces on site. Stick here, I’ll get us a coffee.”

  He gets up out of his seat and smiles at me, giving my straightened blonde ponytail a bit of a tug through his fingers in passing, on his way out. I’m used to that. Doorman Harry used to do it all the time when we first worked together, like checking it was my real hair. Then I took it as a form of hello, until eventually I found out he did talk, but his stock greeting was simply to announce that he wants to punch somebody. I don’t know where he learned his social skills, and even less about how he managed to get married.