by Chris Simms
Chapter 18
Jon was hunched over his pint, enjoying Beth Orton’s tremulous vocals when he heard Rick’s voice behind him. He looked round, relieved to see that he was dressed casually in a striped shirt that hung outside his trousers.
‘Yeah, I’m all right, mate,’ Jon replied. ‘What are you having?’
‘Gin and Coke. Cheers.’
As Rick took the bar stool next to him, a wave of aftershave washed over Jon. ‘So, you all set?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’ Jon picked up his pint and took a sip. They went over the day’s progress, or lack of it. Still no one had come forward to report a missing female who matched the third victim’s description. Missing reports from all over the country had been checked for matches on fingerprints, DNA and dental records, but with no joy.
All the information about Gordon Dean and the tattoo artist from Affleck’s Palace had been entered into HOLMES and a new index on ‘Body Art/Piercings’ opened. Despite Rick’s optimism, it failed to make any cross-connections with Angela Rowlands or Carol Miller.
They saw off their drinks, then headed for Crimson. Down the narrow side street they saw a number of people disappearing into the red glow. Jon thought of moths being drawn into a flame.
A group of three lads – late teens or early twenties – were gathered at the doors. They were wearing jeans, trainers and baseball caps.
‘No chance,’ Rick said quietly as they got closer.
Sure enough, the bouncers were letting other people in, but not those three.
‘Fucking full of poofters, anyway!’ one snarled, realising the type of venue they’d stumbled across. They backed out of the bouncers’ punching range and began hurling abuse.
Jon automatically increased his pace, keen to get there before things escalated.
Rick put a hand on his arm. ‘Let the bouncers sort it.’
One stepped out into the side street and the group shied backwards. They were all mouth. After spitting towards the door and making a last few gestures, the group of three walked straight towards Jon and Rick.
The first held up a hand, face red with excitement. ‘I wouldn’t bother. It’s full of shirt-lifters.’
One of his mates cut in. ‘Sharpy, leave it. They’re probably a pair of bum bandits, too.’
The lad looked at Rick, his expression rapidly turning ugly.
‘You fucking are, aren’t you?’
In the periphery of his vision, Jon saw the lad’s hand curl into a fist and shoot towards Rick’s face in a vicious uppercut.
Jon swung his forearm out in a short chopping movement, knocking the punch away before it even got to chest height. The movement left his hand close to the lad’s throat. Before either of his mates could react, Jon grabbed his windpipe, digging his fingers into the ridged cartilage. Then, locking his elbow, he propelled the lad across the alley, putting distance between him and his mates before slamming him into the wall. A jerk of his arm sent him stumbling away, coughing and gasping simultaneously.
He spun round and faced the other two. Air was pumping in and out of his lungs, the oxygen making him feel light-headed. He stepped forwards, waves of energy radiating through him, every muscle in his body singing. And in that instant he wanted – more than anything in the world – one of them to go for him. Knees slightly flexed, he stared at them, picturing the havoc he could wreak on their faces. ‘Who’s next, then?’
They looked at him uncertainly, neither prepared to make a move. Things hung in the balance as, off to the side, their friend started vomiting down the wall.
‘Listen, mate, no bother, hey?’ one said quietly.
Jon said nothing.
The other took a step back. ‘Let’s go.’
His fists still clenched at his sides, Jon watched as they cautiously helped their friend upright and guided him away. With their retreat the adrenalin drained away and he suddenly felt dizzy. He leaned a hand against the wall.
‘Why did you do that?’ Rick was staring at him, shocked.
‘He was swinging for you. Didn’t you see?’
‘The one you grabbed by the throat?’
Jon held up a thumb and finger slightly apart. ‘You were this close to getting chinned. That would have been you flat on your back – the last place you want to be in a fight.’
Rick shook his head. ‘Shit. I didn’t see a thing.’ Jon dropped his hand and sucked in a deep breath.
‘You all right?’ Rick asked hesitantly.
He held his hand up again. ‘Yeah, just give me a second.’ He concentrated on taking regular, slow breaths and after a few seconds his heart rate levelled out.
By now the trio had reached the end of the alleyway. The two who could speak turned and shouted a quick chorus of
‘Does he take it up the arse?’ before running away.
Shaking his head, Jon pushed himself upright. ‘Let’s get a beer.’
When they reached the door, the bouncers waved them straight in with a smile, and one of them said, ‘Good to see a bit of bashing back, mate.’
Fucking great, thought Jon. They think I’m gay, too.
The upstairs area was dominated by the bar spanning the back wall. The lighting was subdued, small spotlights directed on the swathes of red velvet that hung down the bare brick walls. The same material was draped round marble pedestals on which stood full-length nude male statues. Apart from the figleaves over their groins, they were styled like Michelangelo’s David. Cascaded over the material at the base of each pedestal were piles of fresh oranges, lemons, apples, tomatoes, melons, grapes and peppers.
‘Is that all real?’ Jon said, trying to make it out in the half-light as he headed for the bar.
‘Absolutely,’ Rick replied. ‘It’s based on this amazing bar in Majorca apparently. The display gets changed every night. I think it helps that Miss Tonguelash’s brother runs one of the biggest grocers at Smithfield market.’
As Jon watched, a barman plucked a few lemons from the top of a pile and threw them to a colleague preparing cocktails behind the bar. The place was about half full, with many people heading down a staircase to the floor below.
‘What are you drinking?’ Rick asked.
‘Pint of strong lager,’ Jon replied.
They found a space at the end of the bar next to more glass bowls of the same safe sex packs he’d picked up in Taurus. Jon leaned against the counter and looked around. Immediately he spotted a group of transvestites at a nearby table. Seeing their big shoulders, square faces and bad wigs, he remembered an end-of-season party at his previous rugby club where drag was the obligatory costume. The rest of the clientele looked fairly ordinary, though dominated by men. Rick was talking to the barman and Jon had to concentrate to make out their words over the music floating up from downstairs.
‘That’s great. Thanks for your help.’ Rick slid a pint across to Jon.
‘What did he say?’ Jon asked, ducking his head and taking a massive gulp.
‘He remembers Dean. A bit of a regular. Says he often saw him in here chatting to various people.’
Jon knew more was to come. ‘What about the night in question?’
‘Usual thing, floating around up here, went downstairs for a bit.’ Rick smiled. ‘But thinks he saw him leaving at the end of the night with a working girl who sometimes pops in to grab free condoms off the bar.’
‘Any description?’
‘Shoulder-length reddish hair, five feet eight, slim build.’ Rick held up his drink and they clinked glasses. ‘I reckon if we ask about in here, we could find out more.’
Jon looked around. ‘I’ll let you do the honours.’
Rick gave a little snort. ‘Coward.’ He walked over to the nearest table, the photo in his hand. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw heads shaking.
Five minutes later Rick returned. ‘Nothing. You know what this means?’
Jon finished his drink. ‘Time to go downstairs.’
There was a small counter at the bottom
of the steps. After flashing their warrant cards to the woman behind it, they showed her the photo of Gordon Dean, but she couldn’t remember seeing him.
Rick peered through the windows in the double doors before them. ‘Not too busy yet.’
Inside was a lot darker. A glitter ball hung over the dance floor and several couples were milling around to ‘Dancing Queen’. In the DJ box was a tall figure with a hairdo like Marge Simpson’s. She was wearing a satin dress covered in what looked to Jon like a collection of luminous ping-pong balls. As he and Rick made their way round the edge of the dance floor the song came to an end. But rather than another starting up, a beam of light swung across the room and settled on Jon.
Shielding his eyes, he squinted at the DJ box, the figure now barely visible behind the spotlight’s glare. ‘Fuck me, this one’s new in town.’ The voice was high, the words drawled. ‘Look at the size of him, girls. He can slip up here and butcher my snatch any time.’
As laughs of disbelief at the joke’s poor taste erupted all around, the spotlight was cut and the next song kicked in. Despite his embarrassment, Jon recognised the trumpets building in strength before the drumroll started. ‘Lola’s Theme’. Whoops of delight came from the dancefloor and a group of transvestites started sashaying around singing, ‘I’m a different person!’
When he reached the bar, Rick grinned at him and said, ‘That was Miss Tonguelash.’
Jon could feel his face was still burning. ‘I see how she gets her name.’ He looked around uneasily and saw Fiona Wilson staring at him. A slimy-looking creep was standing next to her. She lurched over, her large gin glowing faintly under the ultraviolet light mounted behind the bar.
‘Fiona.’ Jon nodded. ‘Enjoying yourself ?’
She raised a forefinger and tapped him on the chest. ‘You never checked that room. I spoke to the receptionist. She told me.’
Jon noticed that Rick was looking totally bemused. ‘Rick, this is Fiona. She works with my girlfriend. Fiona, Rick, my partner.’
Her eyes slid unsteadily towards Rick. ‘You’re his what?’
‘We’re partners,’ Rick replied with a grin. She looked lost.
‘In the police,’ Jon added.
She started giggling. ‘For a moment there I thought you meant—’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Jon interrupted.
The slimy creep appeared behind her. Jon instantly saw that he was trying to appear friendly and inquisitive but couldn’t hide the look of concern that his shag was escaping him.
‘Martin Mercer,’ he said, extending a hand towards Jon.
‘Jon Spicer.’ Briefly, they shook.
‘Fiona’s certainly got an interesting taste in night venues. One minute we’re in a place on the main road, next she’s dragged me in here!’
Jon looked away from his shining teeth. ‘So, Fiona, what are you up to?’
‘Trying to find out what happened to that girl. You know, the one you couldn’t give a shit about.’ She was tilting towards aggression again.
Taking her elbow, he guided her towards the corner of the room, out of earshot of the creep. ‘Fiona, Alice mentioned you’ve been making enquiries. You need to be careful.’
Fiona curled her lips in distaste. ‘Someone’s got to try and find out if she’s OK. No one else is.’ She took a large gulp of her drink.
‘What did the woman at Cheshire Consorts say?’
‘She had an Alexia come and try to get a job with her. But she thought she was on drugs. Sent her packing.’
‘And now you’re trawling round the red-light district, searching for her? Fuck, Fiona, it’s not safe. Specially at the moment.’
Fiona leaned against the wall and rolled the back of her head against it. ‘Not just trawling. I was told she comes in here sometimes. But no one’s seen her since the night I heard someone being killed.’ Abruptly, she tipped the last of her drink into her mouth, spilling an ice cube down her front. ‘Bollocks,’ she said, leaning forwards and shaking her top so it fell to the floor.
Jon glanced at the creep. He hadn’t moved an inch, unwilling to walk away from his claim. ‘Who’s the bloke?’
Fiona’s head lolled in his direction. ‘An old acquaintance.’
‘Is that right?’ Jon didn’t believe her.
‘See you around, Mr Spicer.’ She tottered away.
The salesman whispered something to her, and they moved off towards the stairs. As they went past, Jon pointed at his own eyes then at the man’s face. I’ve clocked you, the gesture said. Next instant, they were gone.
‘She’s heading for the mother of all hangovers,’ said Rick.
‘I hope that’s all she’s heading for.’
‘So what was she on about?’
‘She’s the one who thought she heard a prostitute being strangled in the next room at that motel. She thinks the girl worked for an escort agency and now she’s trying to track her down.’
‘Sounds dodgy.’
‘Exactly,’ Jon replied. He looked around. ‘I need a piss.’
The red bulbs lighting the toilets made the narrow room disorientating. Jon peered around in the half-light for any urinals, but saw only safe-sex posters lining the walls. He realised there were only cubicles. He took an end one and started emptying his bladder. Halfway through he noticed a waist-high hole in the partition wall between his cubicle and the next. At first he thought it was where the toilet roll holder had been ripped off. But the hole was properly drilled and, besides, the toilet-roll dispenser was mounted on the back wall.
He re-zipped his fly and bent down for a closer look. He could see straight through into the next cubicle, where an identical hole had been cut in the next partition wall. He realised he was looking through a series of holes that ran the entire length of
the toilets. The music got louder suddenly as someone entered the toilets. Jon quickly straightened up.
Back in the main bar he was shocked to see Rick sitting at the bar talking to Miss Tonguelash herself. Resisting the urge to flee up the stairs, he walked over and picked up his pint.
‘Jon, this is Miss Tonguelash.’
She swivelled round, one leg crossed over the other, a slit running up to mid-thigh. ‘Call me Andrea.’ Absurdly long eyelashes fluttered and the back of a hand was proffered, fingers pointing down.
Not prepared to kiss it, Jon grasped it lightly. ‘Hello.’ Looking mildly disappointed, she said, ‘You’ve just been holding your penis. I do hope you used the sink afterwards.’ Jon hadn’t. ‘Of course.’ He put his hand in his pocket.
Rick looked amused. ‘I was asking Andrea about the night we’re interested in.’
‘Mmmmm,’ she said, sipping her cocktail through a long straw, talon-like nails giving her fingers a more feminine taper.
‘He was larking around down here with some little hussy on his arm.’
‘A slim girl with brown hair?’ Jon asked.
Miss Tonguelash nodded at the people on the dance floor.
‘What colour hair do you think they all have?’
Jon looked. Banks of lights flickered on and off, bathing the dancers in a succession of colours. ‘OK, I take your point. But you’d say this girl had darkish hair?’
‘Girl? I used the word “hussy”.’
‘OK, hussy, then. But why call her that?’
‘I imagine she’d only come in her to help herself to free condoms before her next trick. Looks like this Mr Dean was it.’
‘You mean she was a prostitute?’
‘Absolutely, darling.’
‘And you don’t mind prostitutes roaming around in your club?’
‘Not if they’re in here to pick up condoms. I’m all for safe sex, whatever form it may take. Aren’t you, Mr Spicer? In favour of safe sex?’ She brushed her lips over the end of her straw and fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Jon gave a businesslike smile. ‘Of course. And did they leave together?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but it seemed pretty likely.’ He
looked at Rick. ‘Is that all we need?’
Rick nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, Andrea.’
‘Not at all,’ she answered, eyes still on Jon as they turned to the door. ‘Oh, one more thing.’
They stopped and turned back.
‘You two make a lovely couple.’
Out on the street Jon breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Christ, that was embarrassing.’
Rick chuckled. ‘I thought you handled her very well.’
‘Her or him?’
‘Her when she’s working.’
‘But him at other times?’
‘I don’t know. Probably.’
Jon shook his head. ‘And another thing. The partition walls in the toilets all had these holes cut in them.’
‘Glory holes. Surely you’ve heard of them?’
Jon rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, it’s just I’ve never imagined them to be fitted as standard. What a place.’
‘But worth going. Now we know he didn’t leave alone.’
‘Yup.’ Jon took the credit-card company’s report out of his pocket. ‘From here, he headed to the twenty-four-hour garage up near the Apollo. Two transactions. Cashpoint for £150 and the petrol station itself for £9.99.’
‘OK, let’s head there.’
They walked up to Minshull Street, Rick looking with surprise at the number of women hanging around. ‘Jesus, do Vice realise it’s got this busy along here again?’
‘I’m sure. But until enough people start complaining, what’s the point?’
‘Bring on licensed brothels,’ Rick said, dismissing a hopeful girl with a wave of his hand. ‘Save everyone a load of hassle.’
They hailed a cab on Whitworth Street and pulled up on the petrol station forecourt a few minutes later. Jon tried the door, but it was locked. ‘Intercom service after ten,’ he said, reading the notice. ‘I hate this.’
