Grinning, she gestured to her cleavage. It took him a moment to realise she had a different idea, intending for him to place the note in between her breasts. Dutifully he obeyed, trying to avoid appearing overly lecherous as he did so, but allowing his fingers to graze the soft silk of her flesh lightly, as he deposited the note.
Giving him a flirtatious look she turned her back to him, bending over in the opposite direction this time so as to give him a view of her derriere instead, a rather nice derriere he thought. He decided that for all the superficial artifice she was actually rather attractive, quite beautiful even. When her dance time eventually finished and she came to mingle with the clientele as was expected, it was him she gravitated to, approaching his chair with a bright smile.
"Hi, how are you doing tonight?"
“I’m good, much better now,” he replied, smiling at her.
“Saw you watching me. You’re new here aren’t you, haven’t seen you in here before?”
“Yeah this is my first time here. I don’t usually make a habit of this sort of thing actually but-” She laughed, interrupting him.
“That’s what they all say but I must say you make a nice change from the usual clientele in here.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the usual clientele then?”
“Oh you know, fat, balding, the wrong side of forty,” she laughed again, a little more nervously this time, she was unsure of what he was thinking.
“Hope you liked my show?” she said, arching an eyebrow as she looked at him.
“Oh I did,” he grinned, “it was very…entertaining.”
“I’m sure it was,” she giggled,“ maybe you’d like to get to know the “star” of the show a little bit better?” She indicated to the chair beside him.
“Want some company?” He knew the drill, she would expect him to order her a drink from the bar, preferably something expensive.
“I’d love some. Let me get us something to drink?” He made as if to get up.
“Ooh yeah, thanks. Champagnes my favourite do you mind? No need to get up though, Chelle’ll be over to take our order,” she said, motioning to the blonde behind the bar, as she signalled for her to come over.
He ordered one of the bottles of overpriced, oversweet champagne from the bar and they drank it as they chatted. Sitting close to him, her legs crossed, she allowed her thigh to occasionally brush against his, a teasing promise intended to convey what could be, if he permitted himself to continue to be a willing wallet.
Chatting to her, he learned she was studying beauty therapy at college, which would explain the artificial nails and the eyelashes at least, and that she was single, not looking. She told him she worked as a hostess at another club part time, in Mayfair. She asked what he did and he told her he worked in the city as a sort of stockbroker cum trader. Experience had taught him this generally tended to go down rather well in these kinds of environments, noting with satisfaction how her eyes lit up as he imparted this information.
"A city boy eh? Lucky lady who’s got you down the aisle then," she said, giggling slightly.
“I’m not married actually, I don’t even have a girlfriend at the moment.” She pretended to look surprised, cooing at him.
"Really? Handsome and doing well for yourself an all, can't believe they ain’tt all queuing round the block for you," she said, laughing again, slightly tipsy from the champagne. Taking another sip from her glass, she tipped her head back, exposing temporarily the tender flesh of her neck, which for all the other artifice had only a hint of false tan on it.
Realising she was getting a little drunk, he eyed the almost empty champagne bottle, a couple more and he could get quite a bit more information out of her, all the information he would need in fact.
“We should get another bottle in for good measure,” he said. Her eyes widened; she was obviously impressed by that.
"Can give you a lap dance if you like or we can go for a private if you prefer?" she asked him, her large green eyes fixed on him, communicating the promise of some kind of sexual satisfaction if he said yes. Not wanting to refuse he nodded.
“Lap dance sounds good.”
"Here then?" she said and he nodded again, he quite enjoyed the whole performance of a dance. It was the theatre of it, the almost jealous like attention you got from the other punters, as a naked or scantily clad woman writhed in your lap.
Oh it was all fake of course, he knew. He knew they lied, you could see it barely concealed in their eyes even as they offered up their bodies so seductively, but he didn’t care. For a moment he could pretend it was real, and anyway he wasn't particularly discerning when it came to feelings.
Her real name was Marilyn he learned, she didn’t have a stage name like some of the other strippers he’d known had done. It was an apt name for such a pocket Venus.
Marilyn was good at faking it too, as she danced, her bare breasts thrust in his face, her scantily clad crotch grinding hard against his own. So good, that he wondered for just a second if perhaps she wasn't faking it at all, could that look in her eyes that communicated how much she wanted him be genuine perhaps? Three lap dances later and four hundred pounds poorer than he’d gone in, he left the club.
A little sexually frustrated, but with all the necessary information that he needed, he grinned to himself as he made his way to the tube, traces of her perfume clinging to his shirt, the memory of her soft flesh still underneath his fingertips.
CHAPTER NINE - DEACON
Deacon looked up as Doyle approached his desk, carrying a polystyrene tray containing the Starbucks he'd ordered. She’d offered to do the drinks round which was somewhat out of character, since Doyle never offered to go and get the daily caffeine fix. Still, it was welcome and he accepted the cup of steaming liquid gladly, taking a large swig from it as she stood there grinning at him.
"You've got something haven't you? I can tell, you're always like this when you’re mulling over something you think might lead somewhere.”
“I might have to go somewhere this afternoon yeah,” he said glancing at the clock on his computer. 11.30 am, nearly lunchtime.
“This something to do with the Randall girl?”
“Might be,” he coughed ,”actually yeah it is.”
“Oh?” she cocked her head with interest.
“Yeah, I managed to pull up her mother's address from the database and ran it. She's still alive, though not living at the same address she was when Sally was found murdered. I’m planning on paying her a visit this afternoon, see if she can enlighten me as to her daughter’s whereabouts.”
“Told you so,” she shook her head smiling, “you remind me of a hound on the scent when you get that look about you, like you’ve been thinking so much you haven't slept properly." Standing up, he raked a hand through his hair self-consciously.
"Jesus I'm really looking that bad eh?" he said, grinning. Though it was true enough, he hadn't been sleeping well recently. He hadn’t had much sleep at all for a long time, not since it was clear they had a serial killer on their hands. A killer who was still out there and they had almost no discernible leads. No suspects. Coupled with the fact things weren't going great with Maria it was enough to seriously stress him out.
Doyle’s generous mouth curved in to a smile.
"Hey, don't beat yourself up over it though, you’ve got to take care of yourself too," she said, patting him on the arm. He nodded, grateful for her concern. They'd known each other for the past ten years, since she'd first been placed under his command as a 23 year old rookie. A whole decade and the two had been through a lot together. Doyle was a bloody good cop too.
"Thanks Jen, I appreciate it," he said, returning the pat with a friendly one of his own to her shoulder, before sitting back down at his desk and sifting through some paperwork. She turned to walk away, but then, remembering something, he called after her.
"Doyle, wait, I need a favour." Turning back she looked at him quizzically.
"Yeah, what is it?”
/>
"Right, well while I’m interviewing the mother I need you to see if you can locate Louise Randall for me. I've been trying all morning but the last address I have for her is now a bloody Italian restaurant." He thrust a sheet of paper adorned with several scrawled jottings of barely legible handwriting towards her, and she took it from him, her eyes glancing over it.
"Here, this is the address Louise lived at when the Brooks girl was found murdered. Her date of birth and NI number is written underneath there too,” he gestured to the paper she was holding.
She looked at him, “nothing else on record?
He shook his head.
"Nah it’s really odd but the paper trail seems to stop as soon as she hit 19. Check she's not dead too.”
“What about the father?”
“He was a junkie, overdosed ten years ago. I'll search some more when I get back but I’m going to talk to the mother. Hopefully she can tell me where her bloody daughter is now."
Hitting the power button on his desktop computer he stood up, still clutching the plastic coffee cup with his right hand, while his left fumbled for the jacket he'd slung over the back of his chair.
She nodded at him, "alright I'll find out for you as soon as," she said, taking another glance at the paper before folding it deftly in four and placing it in her pocket. She turned to go then turned back, as if she remembered something.
“Oh almost forgot, we pulled up CCTV on One Financial where Louise Wheeler was found in the elevator, and guess what?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing, cameras weren’t working that day, hadn’t been working for most of the week. Team that was supposed to fix them was being slack, apparently, that’s what the buildings head of maintenance said. Maintenance sent a staff email out to all the employees to let ‘em know about the broken cameras two days before the murder, apparently that was routine procedure.”
Well that was just fucking typical wasn’t it. A murderer strikes on the day the cameras just don’t happen to be working. Was it a coincidence? Or merely the perfect opportunity?
“Doyle have a look into the companies that work there will you? I want company and employee lists, staff rotas of who was working on the day Louise was killed, and I want you to set up an interview with her immediate colleagues. She nodded.
“Find out if anyone saw anything and find out more about who might have wanted her dead,” he continued, his expression determined.
“You thinking it could be a copycat?”
“Doubtful but we’ve got to cover every angle,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
***
Standing outside Mrs Randall’s small terraced ex-council house, he reached up to press the brass button that would ring the bell, hoping she was at home. The house was located in a not particularly salubrious part of the town and a bunch of kids on bikes lounged around by a lamp post opposite, smoking cigarettes. One of them - a slightly overweight looking, lad with wiry brown hair that seemed to be growing out in all directions – eyed the parked police car, shouting out to him cheekily.
"Ello ello ello. You gonna nick us then Officer?" Grinning he shook his head, none of them could be more than 12 years old. Kids, he thought wryly, he was probably a brat like that when he was a boy.
He was brought back to the present by the sound of a latch being undone, and the front door creaking open a notch. An elegant looking blonde, who at first glance looked to be around his age, peered at him through the crack. He remembered the records had said she was 55, older than him by ten years then though she didn’t look her age.
"Mrs Randall?" he asked, flashing his badge at her. Nodding, she adjusted a tendril that had escaped the chignon she’d drawn her hair into, looking slightly startled. Well most people would be surprised to see a policeman standing on their doorstep unannounced wouldn’t they? He smiled hoping to reassure her.
"Mrs Randall, I wonder if I might come inside a moment?" he asked. Lowering his tone, he added, “I wanted to talk to you about the Sally Brooks murder of 15 years ago?"
A curious look crossed her face and she looked up at him. He thought for a moment she was going to deny his request, but then she nodded brusquely, motioning for him to come inside, the pearl drop earrings she wore swinging back and forth as she bobbed her head.
Following her into what he guessed must be the sitting room, his eyes took in the small joyless space. The only redeeming element seemed to be the authentic red brick fireplace that stood at the back of the room. At one side of the fireplace a little wood axe was suspended by its handle from a hook, which had to be for show surely, he couldn’t quite imagine her as the type to chop her own kindling. A pair of brass tongs hung from the hook on the other side of the fireplace.
A beige slightly worn looking sofa, flanked by two mismatched armchairs, one green, one the same shade of beige as the sofa, sat in the middle of the room. Some of the stuffing seemed to be leaking out from one of the sofa’s seat cushions.
Looking about him, he saw there were four or five photographs of a blonde haired boy propped up on the mantelpiece that was overlooking the fireplace. Photographs of Mrs Randall's son when he was younger? One of the pictures showed a soulful looking dark eyed girl playing on a beach with the boy, that must be Louise. There was a cluster of white tea light candles around the pictures almost like it were some sort of shrine, the type people make around photos of loved ones they have lost. She gestured to the armchairs.
"Please sit down Inspector?" Obeying her instructions he chose the green one, settling into it with a hearty plop.
"Can I get you any refreshment?" she offered him. Declining he shook his head, and she arranged herself on the sofa instead, crossing her legs at the ankle. Her calf length grey wool pencil skirt displayed her still shapely ankles.
He noticed she was wearing black leather stilettos on her feet and that her teal coloured silk blouse dipped down low to reveal a hint of one of her elegant shoulders, as she sat there, looking at him, waiting for him to explain the purpose of his visit. At 55, but looking considerably younger, she was certainly still a very attractive woman.
"I hope you don't mind if I smoke Inspector?" she said, turning to him. He knew that somehow she wasn't really asking, but he shook his head anyway.
"No not at all, go ahead."
Smiling she reached forward to retrieve her cigarettes and lighter from the glass coffee table. Flicking open the packet she withdrew a cigarette, placing it between her lips and sparking the lighter, guiding the cigarette to the flame with her mouth. Taking a long drag, smoke curled from her thin nostrils as she leaned forward to pull the small glass ashtray in the centre of the coffee table closer. She flicked the cigarette, the ash crumbling away from it as she held out the still open packet to him, "would you like one Inspector?" He shook his head again.
"No thank you, that's very kind of you Mrs Randall but I don't smoke anymore."
He'd finally kicked the habit five years ago, after having smoked twenty a day for nearly two decades, and he felt all the better for it. Though in times of extreme stress he was sometimes tempted, he'd not succumbed, yet.
She smiled again.
"Oh good for you Inspector, I do wish I could say the same but, well, I'm a bit of a chain smoker these days I’m afraid.” Licking her lips she eyed him and he cleared his throat. Now they had got the pleasantries out of the way he had better address why he had come here in the first place.
"Mrs Randall, I wanted to talk to you about your daughter’s friendship with Sally Brooks. I understand at one time they were quite close and wondered if you could tell me where I might be able to find Louise so I could speak with her about Sally?" She frowned, her mouth pursing.
"Inspector I couldn't tell you where my daughter is. I know she’s living in London somewhere but I really couldn't tell you where, she doesn't give me her address.”
“You don’t know where your own daughter lives?” He raised his eyebrows incredulously.
“No, we, we had
a falling out a number of years ago, and since then to tell you the truth I’ve only seen Louise very occasionally. We speak on the telephone sometimes, I can give you her number if you’d like?”
“Yes that would be helpful please Mrs Randall,” he said, taking out his notebook from his pocket. She dictated it to him before continuing.
“We do occasionally meet but that’s as far as our relationship goes. We’re not close Inspector," she said, taking another heavy drag on the cigarette. She turned her head away from him, slightly defiant.
"Well I expect it's fairly usual for mothers and daughters to fall out," he replied, hoping to reassure her but not knowing quite what to say. His hopes had sunk a little when she'd said she didn't know where her daughter was, but he decided to probe her some more.
"When you do meet up with your daughter Mrs Randall does she happen to mention her place of work at all? Any boyfriend’s names she’s happened to mention? It's just that I do urgently need to speak with Louise about something she may hold vital information about." He looked at her earnestly. Sighing she rolled her eyes slightly.
"Look I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t know where she works. She said she’s doing well now, something in the City, in finance, I think. My daughter, she's always been difficult Inspector, very wilful and determined to go her own way, despite whatever I might think, and well, even more so now it seems." She pursed her lips again. What did she mean by that last comment?
“So she didn’t talk about any boyfriends then?” he tried again, hopefully.
"No Inspector she didn't mention any…" she paused slightly, to spit the word out, "boyfriends," her lip curled in distaste. Slightly confused he frowned, this lack of information was not what he wanted to hear at all. She continued, her tone bitter, "Louise doesn't like boys Inspector, that's always been part of her problem I believe. I always wished she could be easier… more like my son Brynn." A distant expression came into her eyes then and she turned her head away from him.
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