‘If I know this, I let you straight in. Why you not show me?’
‘Look at the card,’ I said, suddenly emboldened by the memory of a small detail that I never thought would come in handy. ‘It has my name, photo and number. What’s missing?’
Russki surveyed it, his narrowing eyes dragging his brow into a full-on frown.
Suddenly I felt in control. ‘It doesn’t have my date of birth, does it? That’s what you asked me for. ID for proof of age. That doesn’t provide it.’
Russki handed it back to me nodding.
‘I see,’ he said finally.
‘Besides,’ I added, still a move ahead, ‘we’re not encouraged to broadcast the fact we’re cops, especially on a night out. It can put us at unnecessary risk.’
‘When he says we …’ blurted Fintan, ‘I’m not actually a cop of any sort.’
Russki ignored him.
‘You will be safe here tonight, detective,’ he said solemnly, standing aside, ‘I can assure you of that.’
These words sounded about as reassuring as the last rites.
As I walked through, Fintan turned to Russki and said, ‘You do know that every single ounce of Semtex in the world comes from your old Eastern Bloc. Ironic, isn’t it, that it’s now shitting you all up here in London.’
I floated down the ornate staircase on a current of relief, into the carnal-red, cabaret-style club. Fintan quickly caught up, riding a very different wave.
‘Fucking hell,’ he gasped, ‘I can’t believe you brought your warrant card on a job like this. What were you thinking?’
‘I hadn’t planned on showing it to anyone, Fintan. Did you think we’d get searched? Of course you didn’t.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t bring my press card. I’d never take it with me on a job like this. Because I’m not a fucking idiot.’
‘We could’ve walked away until you opened your big mouth,’ I pointed out.
‘What?’
‘They could smell your bullshit. That’s when they started getting heavy. Until that point, we could’ve turned around and walked off. Instead they made you produce your driving licence.’
‘Yeah, but if you’d shown them your driving licence, instead of your warrant card, we’d be in the clear now. They’d have our names but no idea what we do for a living. Now they know you’re a copper, they’ll be watching our every move. They’re probably on the phone to Reilly right now, as we speak, telling him about you and some other professional busybody turning up at his club.’
We both stopped dead in our tracks. Until now, neither of us had dared to properly acknowledge what we might be getting ourselves into here. Suddenly Jimmy Reilly felt too real, too close.
‘What if Reilly turns up?’ I rasped, ‘Starts asking questions.’
Fintan’s cheek muscle flickered. He squinted to see things clearer in his mind.
‘We’re safe until the first edition lands,’ he said, ‘but when they see my by-line on that story, then our cover is blown. He’ll realise we came here to check him out.’
‘What time does that happen?’
‘The first batch lands at King’s Cross around midnight. That gives us almost two hours. But we need to be out of here literally on the stroke of 12.’
‘I’ll come and find you Cinders,’ I said.
‘No, you won’t,’ he muttered, ‘we leave separately, and not the way we came in.’
He felt my confused glare.
‘Check out the lenses,’ he said, his eyes shooting up.
About a dozen pillars propped up the ceiling, each one a four-eyed CCTV monster.
‘Forty-eight cameras. I bet there are 48 tables, one trained on each,’ he said.
‘Makes sense,’ I agreed.
‘They can watch us all night. If we both get up to leave suddenly, they could intercept us in the foyer for another chat. No thanks. Don’t look now but there’s a fire exit about 50 feet to the right of the toilets. Before it gets to 12, tell the lady you’re with that you’re going to the loo. On the way, veer right, go through that door and don’t stop.’
‘Until …’
‘We’d better not hang around the West End. All the nightclub and taxi radios are on the same bandwidth. The goons here could have every bouncer and cabbie in Soho looking out for us in seconds. Head to Tottenham Court Road but keep north of Oxford Street. Those roads will be quiet by then. I’ll see you at the Troy on Hanway Street, about 12.30.’
‘Why don’t we just scarper right now?’
‘Will you quit staring at that fire exit? Check out the stage instead. Everyone else is. Then let’s try to look like we came here for a good time.’
The club’s focal point was a glass platform about the size of four snooker tables, shimmering three feet above a sparkling blood-red floor. Little red circular tables, each dimly lit by a single lamp, jostled hungrily around it, like piglets around a sow’s nipple board. Silhouetted men sat alone in scarlet retro armchairs, waiting for the next floor show, studious, smoking and bereft.
‘10.09pm and not a cock in the house stiff,’ announced Fintan. ‘Bit gynaecological sitting that close, wouldn’t you say, Donal? Jesus, they might as well put them in stirrups.’
‘Ringside, quite literally.’
‘I think we’ll do better over here.’
He led me around the island of ground-level tables and chairs, up two steps to an elevated area, also wall-to-wall red velveteen.
‘Good job we didn’t wear red,’ he quipped, taking a seat at a front table, ‘they might never have found us again.’
I took the chair next to him as a waitress swooped in. ‘What can I get you gentlemen?’
‘The house champagne will be fine tonight, thank you,’ said Fintan, trying to sound like he usually quaffs the Dom Perignon.
‘Anything to eat?’
‘Just a portion of fries please, for now,’ he said, uncharacteristically frugal for a man who loved nothing more than splashing out on expenses.
‘Jesus, look,’ said Fintan in wonderment, nodding towards a dark corner behind the stage, ‘the livestock, in their holding pen.’
Inside a roped-off zone, a dozen or so fake-tanned, black-eyed girls sat bored and restless in their scanties, waiting to splay their orifices to the assembled pervs.
‘They all look orange, like Sooty puppets,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘By the looks of it, tan isn’t the only fakery going on.’
‘Hey, looking on the bright side, you still get to ram your hand up their holes later.’
‘Jesus, Fintan! They might just be dancers. Maybe that’s all Liz did here.’
‘Why do you always have to idealise women? It must be because you’ve never actually known any, not properly. Listen, if dancing is all Liz did, then she must’ve been better than Anna fucking Pavlova, to rent a flat like that.’
‘Why didn’t she scale down, rent somewhere cheap, then she could’ve stopped working here?’
‘They get hooked on the lifestyle. A lot of these women have several properties, kids at private school, membership to Chelsea health clubs, all achieved