Midnight's Door

by Robert F Barker

  True, there’s less hard violence on student nights. Something to do maybe with students being more laid back than those who have to earn a living in the real world. They don't get so wound up when someone has a go at chatting up their girl/boy friend. And while I’m not daft enough to think they have less interest in other ‘recreational’ substances, the reality is that most aren't willing to blow good drinking money on the sort of stuff that the dealers try to peddle to those with a regular income. Which means the dealers are less active, and we don’t have to spend as much time looking out for them as we do other nights.

  It all means that, on Tuesdays, our number-one objective is simply to make sure we get them all out through the door safely at the end of the night. However, this still calls for every bit as much of the attention and effort my team puts in on a weekend night, and more. Eve, naturally takes the lead when it comes to dealing with the girls. And while I know she loves her work, I’ve heard her say she hates Tuesdays. I suspect it’s something to do with the fact she spends half the night in the Ladies toilet.

  But this particular Tuesday was different. For a start it was relatively quiet. By now the murders were hanging over the club scene - the whole town in fact - like a shroud. It came as no surprise therefore that as eleven o’clock came and went – the usual time when people start to spill out of the pubs to make their way to their club of choice for the rest of the night – I didn’t need to check footfalls to see that numbers were well down. By midnight, the club was about half as full as normal.

  The other factor, of course, was the police presence. Carver and his team of uniforms and detectives – including a very brusque DS Jess – had turned up around nine. They were loaded down with Witness Appeal Notices, statement forms and clip boards. I grabbed a look at one of the forms. It was basically a pro-forma enabling the witness to choose from a menu of options and it looked like it had been put together by someone well-tuned to police-speak.

  ‘I am/am not a frequent visitor to Midnight’s Night Club.’

  ‘I attended/did not attend Midnight’s on …………….(Insert date).’

  ‘I was/was not personally acquainted with Agnes Moorecroft,’ etc.

  It was only on reading the last that I realised I hadn’t even known Agnes’s last name. It made me feel guilty, though I wasn’t sure why.

  A while later I was in the office when Carver and Jess met with Frank and they talked about being around again on the coming Friday and Saturday. ‘This isn’t the crowd that was in over the weekend,' Carver said. 'They're the ones we need to get to.’

  Frank had no choice but to agree, ‘Of course. Anything we can do to help.’ As I listened to his sympathetic promises of cooperation, I imagined the calculator in Frank’s head working out the hit he was already taking following Agnes’s death and which was set to continue until such time as the police caught someone.

  I hadn’t seen Vicki yet so I went off in search. I found her just about to enter the Green Room. She was carrying a tray of drinks.

  ‘How you doing?’ I asked. I meant generally, as in the flat, and maybe other things if she wanted to mention them. But I was disappointed when either by mistake or design she interpreted it like I was talking about work.

  She nodded through the door. ‘Just a couple of the lads from Freeway tonight Danny. They’re going to do a guest DJ slot.’ I nodded. Freeway were a local boy-band. They were doing alright around the North West but the jury was still out as to whether they were worth a break-out into the big time. Vicki continued. ‘They’re no trouble, but I think they’ll be disappointed with the turn-out.’

  ‘They’re not the only ones.’

  She gave me a half-smile and my soul lit up. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I owe you one for the flat. If the club scene folds I promise I’ll get my Uncle Joe to fix you up with a job.’

  I gave her my best suspicious look. ‘And what does Uncle Joe do?’

  ‘He paints houses.’

  ‘Great.’

  She flashed me a last mischievous look – enough to see me through the rest of the night – and disappeared through the door to continue with her babysitting duties. I headed back to the lobby to see if there were any signs of numbers improving. They weren’t. By now we had about the usual number of non-students in, but it was the youngsters themselves who’d gone AWOL. I imagined mums and dads flooding the phone networks advising their little darlings, ‘Don’t go anywhere near any clubs until the police have caught someone. Especially that Midnight’s place.’

  Towards midnight, Mickey-the-DJ introduced Carver just as he had the previous Saturday. Carver did a re-run of the appeal he’d made then, but referring specifically to Agnes’s abduction and murder, obviously. This time the audience listened in glum silence. My team didn’t have to respond to any incidents of people not paying proper attention.

  When they had finished and I had played my part by making sure Tony-the-Manager fixed Carver and all his team with drinks – not a request for a drop of alcohol between them – I made my rounds, starting with the main dance floor. I can honestly say I’d never seen Mickey-the-DJ working so hard for so little effect. Even with the reduced numbers, there were enough they could have filled the floor, if they'd wanted to. Clearly they didn't. It reminded me of one of those African Serengeti watering holes you see on wildlife programmes where some smart zebra has twigged there are lions lurking in the long grass. No one was venturing near. I found Eric loitering around the edge, arms folded, bored as I’d ever seen him.

  ‘I’ve never seen the floor so deserted,' I said.

  ‘You see,’ Eric said, like it had been a long-running argument. ‘Students do have a serious side after all.’ He turned and nodded in the direction of one of the bars and I followed his indication. ‘At least the bar takings should be up. They may not be dancing, but sure as hell they’re drinking.’

  He was right. Along the bar, a queue of lads waited to be served. Turning back I saw that around the floor those tables that were occupied were strewn with glasses. Groups of boys and girls were leaning over, shouting across to each other so they could make themselves heard over the music and Mickey’s increasingly desperate pleas to ‘Get onto the floor and shake those asses.’ No prizes for guessing what they were talking about, I thought.

  I shook my head. ‘Frank won’t like it. If it keeps up, it’s going to put people off coming even more.’

  Across the room, I saw Vicki arrive with her young charges and begin to shepherd them up to the podium. I sensed something embarrassing about to happen and decided I might be needed elsewhere.

  I spent the next hour seeing Carver and DS Jess and the rest of their team off the premises and touching base with the team. Before they left, Carver told me they had got little from their visit. A lad had come forward with a tale about a friend of his who had been in on Saturday night and had talked of seeing a young girl who may have fitted Agnes’s description on her way home in the early hours of Sunday morning in the company of an older man. It was all pretty vague and needed following up and, unusually for him, Carver didn’t let himself sound too hopeful. It made me wonder what sort of pressure he and his team were coming under.

  I headed back to the main dance floor. As I came through the door and looked down on the floor I was surprised to see people actually dancing. In fact the place was almost jumping like a regular Tuesday. Eric was still where I’d left him and I made my way across.

  ‘Okay,’ I shouted in his ear. ‘What did you spike their drinks with?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Nowt to do with me.’ He cocked his head towards where a group was gathered in a semi-circle around one of the lower podiums. They were all clapping and slamming as they followed the gyrations of a dancer I couldn’t see properly through the throng.

  ‘Check it out,’ Eric said, a strange smile growing.

  Intrigued, I made my way round to where I could get a better view through a gap in the mass of cavorting bodies. A girl I didn’t
recognise as any of our regular dancers was going through a series of full-on rolls, whirls and struts that was as energetic and - no denying it - slinky-sexy, as anything I’d seen in a long while. My view was still being blocked by bodies so I moved further round. As I got closer I saw she was tossing and whipping her hair in a way I’d last seen someone do in a Manchester pole-dancing club. ‘Hell,' I thought. 'Who’s this?’ By now Mickey was back in charge – I could see no sign of Vicki’s young guest DJs - and his laser light-show was turned up to max. As I tried to focus in on the girl on the podium it was like trying to make out someone’s face through a strobe-light. Every now and then I caught a flash of face that seemed a little familiar, but each time I tried to catch it, it disappeared again, lost in the flashing lights or because she’d turned away.

  Later I would remember how realisation crept up on me in stages.

  She actually looks a bit like-

  Hang on, is that-?

  It can’t be-

  Holy shit, it IS..

  It’s VICKI.’

  As it finally hit home that the body I’d been admiring and which had succeeded in waking the club up and working a good part of it into a frenzy, belonged to the young woman I’d shared a bed with a few nights before, I must have resembled nothing as much as a goldfish. Eventually I realised someone was standing just off my right shoulder. I turned. It was Eric. The strange smile I now understood was still there.

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ he said.

  I nodded, dumbly, still too surprised by what I was seeing to voice my thoughts. In fact at that moment so many thoughts and feelings were coursing through me I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Part of me was still struggling to accept the truth of my own eyes.

  It was Vicki. Cool, calm, professional VIP Hostess, Vicki. Vicki, who doesn’t let herself go, (not in public at least, I thought, remembering another place altogether), and who in my memory has never, ever, been seen on the dance floor. Vicki who’s now shaking it like she was born to dance the podium.

  Then there was also a whole other set of thoughts. Not as clearly defined as the others, they revolved around feelings I can only describe as broadly negative. Some of it was discomfort, arising from the fact that the woman I’d long ago placed on my own pedestal was now cavorting on a public one - and for the delectation of a bunch of people who not only didn’t know her, but who were probably harbouring thoughts that were even more salacious than some of those I’d allowed myself on occasion. Also, there was an undefined feeling of apprehension, bound up with the knowledge that the women who had been murdered were all known for their ability to dance, exactly the way she was now doing.

  I turned to Eric, ‘What made her..’ I let the question tail off, still distracted by her performance.

  ‘Frank was having a go at Mickey, blaming him for not getting everyone going. She said she was going to help out. I thought she meant by going up top and winding the kids up. But she went straight up onto the podium and, well, you can see for yourself. I never knew she had it in her. Did you?’

  Not sure if there was something hidden in his innocent sounding question I turned to him, but his face was on Vicki. I’m getting paranoid, I thought. ‘No,’ I answered. ‘I didn't.’

  I had a look round. Eric and I weren’t the only passive watchers. Around the floor there was another half-circle made up of mainly men who had drifted over to take a look at a sight they might never see again. As my gaze roamed the crowd I forced myself to relax. Where’s the harm, I thought? Besides, I’ve no rights when it comes to what she does. And if she’s doing it with the best interests of the club at heart, well good for her. But even as I tried to steer my negative thoughts away, my gaze fell on a familiar figure.

  I’d seen Elvis round and about a few times through the evening. My last sighting had been in the upper bar where he was trying hard – doomed to failure I’d judged – to chat up a well-endowed woman by the name of Gloria Pearce. Gloria is one of a group of not-so-young-anymore mothers - all former clubbers - who show up a couple of times a month to let off steam and pretend they are still single. But right now Elvis was on his own. He was standing away from the rest of the onlookers, pint in hand, staring at Vicki and drinking in her performance. Only there was something about Elvis’s stare that, to me, put it in a different category to the others. Most were watching with smiles on their faces. The smiles may have been lustful – which is par for the course - but they were still smiles. Or they were nodding their heads in time with the music in a way that suggested that while they may not have been joining in bodily, mentally they were right there with her.

  But Elvis wasn’t smiling. Nor was he nodding in time with the music. Instead he was just standing there, staring at Vicki with an intensity that made me uncomfortable, like he was harbouring thoughts a lot darker than just admiring a beautiful young woman letting herself go on the dance floor.

  Right then a shiver ran up my spine and a shudder of something – revulsion? – rippled through me. It was brought on by the memory of something Carver had said when he left an hour or so before. A report of a possible sighting of Agnes the night she was killed - in the company of an older man.

  CHAPTER 20

  What a revelation, thinks The Man Who Likes to Watch. And how opportune. Only last night he'd got himself all worked up, stressing about how he would get through the next weeks with no new project in development and nothing to show for his latest apart from memories, and even those were now tainted. Then, right out of the blue, appears the answer to his problems. Who'd have thought?

  Of course he'd always been aware that Vicki Lamont was gifted in the looks department. You only had to see her to know that as far as appearance goes, she can hold her own against anyone, particularly the sort who like to show off what God gave them and with whom you don't need to get into a conversation to appreciate. But ever since he'd first come across her, soon after he started coming to the club, watching her going about her business, he'd always seen her as distant. A bit up herself. A stuck up bitch in fact, not to put too fine a point on it.

  But right now, he was seeing her in a whole different light. Not only was she talented at what she was doing, it was clear that she knew, exactly, the effect she was having on all those watching - and he means, all. Which, for all her snooty ways, makes her no different to the others and, therefore, most suitable for his purpose.

  The only issue is time. She doesn't usually show herself this way, and for all he knows it may be some time before she does so again. In which case, when that time comes, he may have to move fast. No dragging things out for a few weeks like he has done in the past, enjoying the watching, building up to it, slowly.

  No, he is decided on the matter. When Miss Vicki Lamont chooses, if she chooses, to display her talents again, he will make sure he works to a shorter, tighter deadline.

  But that isn't a problem. Like many creative types, he enjoys a challenge, and he is nothing if not flexible.

  CHAPTER 21

  By the time Mickey’s dance-medley ended and Vicki stepped down off the back of the podium, I was feeling distinctly uneasy. During its last few minutes, I hadn't been able to stop myself looking to see if Elvis was still drooling. He was, right to the end. Worse, his semi-catatonic staring set me off wondering about others in the crowd. A kind of paranoia crept into me as I began to think that several of the smiles I’d previously noted, masked dark, possibly dangerous, thoughts. Even so, my gaze kept returning to Elvis. As everyone showed their admiration for Vicki’s impromptu performance by clapping and cheering, I watched as he gave her one last, long look, drained his pint glass then turned away to slink off towards the bar. It was all I could do to stop myself following after, dragging him to some dark corner and getting him to tell me exactly what he’d been thinking during his silent vigil.

  ‘She’s worth her weight in gold, that one.’

  It was Frank’s voice and I turned to find him standing off my right shoulder. Like Eric beside me as well as e
veryone else, I’d been so wrapped up in what was happening I hadn’t noticed he’d joined us.

  ‘Dead right,’ Eric agreed.

  Still distracted by thoughts about Elvis, Vicki, everything, all I could muster was a pensive, ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Eric said. ‘Nothing else to say?’

  I dragged myself back to the here and now. ‘About what?’ I said.

  He looked at me like I was a moron. ‘Er, weren’t you just here? I’m talking about that.’ He thumbed towards the now empty podium, as if a shadow of her still lingered.

  ‘Oh that,’ I said. ‘Yeah. She was good.’

  ‘Good?’ Eric said. ‘Fuck me Danny, she was frigging brilliant.’ He turned to Frank. ‘You need to get her on the podium more often. She’s a knockout.’

  ‘NO,’ I said, too quick and loud. They both looked at me sharply so I tried again. ‘What I mean is, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  But Frank was ready to run with it. ‘No, I think Eric’s right. I’ll have a word with her, see what she says.’

  A sudden panic welled within me and I just managed to stop myself grabbing Frank by his lapels. ‘Vicki's not a podium dancer. That was a one-off. I think you should leave it at that.’

  Frank gave me a dismissive look. ‘That’s not for you to say, Danny. I actually think she’d be-’

  ‘FRANK.’ He jumped and had to lean back as I brought my face close to his. ‘Believe me on this one. Vicki is not to do that again. Ever. Right?’

  He blinked, several times before swallowing. As he stared up at me I saw the fear that had entered his face. He tried to speak. ‘I- I-,’ Couldn’t get the words out.