Joseph raised a scarred eyebrow. ‘Fascinating.’ Then back to me. ‘Constable Henderson: do you, by chance, have something for me?’
A figure appeared at Joseph’s shoulder. Tall and broad, curly ginger hair tied back in a ponytail, broken nose, huge moustache with matching tuft below the bottom lip. He took off a pair of John Lennon sunglasses and slipped them inside his leather jacket. Small pink eyes. He gave me a stiff little nod. ‘’Spector.’
I nodded back. ‘Francis.’
Joseph took a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. ‘Tell me, Francis, is our friend Constable Henderson on our list for today?’
The big man produced a notebook and flicked through the pages, his forehead all creased up, tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. ‘Nah.’
‘Oh …’ Joseph frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’
Thank Christ for that.
‘Oh well, perhaps tomorrow.’ He winked at me. ‘It seems Lady Fortune is smiling upon you this evening, Constable Henderson. Perhaps you should consider paying off your debt to Mr Inglis, before it becomes necessary to arrange a late-night home visit from our fiscal management services?’
Francis sniffed. ‘Our boy’s off tae the bogs.’
A thin man with a rectangular bald-spot was lurching his way towards the toilets. The door swung shut behind him with a thump. Francis set off after him.
Joseph stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. ‘Actually, the Nazi Party didn’t come into being until 1920, so they can’t have been the recipients of Oldcastle’s gaseous emissions … Ah. Francis has liaised with our friend. Excellent.’
Francis hauled the balding bloke out of the toilets.
The guy was fumbling with his trousers, still doing up his flies. ‘Please, I can explain, I didn’t think it was due till next week, I mean I’ve got the money, I never said I didn’t have the money, did I?’
Francis dragged him past, making for the entrance.
‘I can get it tomorrow, when the banks open, that’ll be OK, won’t it?’ Out onto the cobbled street. ‘Really, I’ve got the money, it’s not a problem, we can—’
The door clunked shut.
‘And now, the girl you’ve all been waiting for, the one, the only, the incredibly sexy: Kayleigh!’ The lights dimmed and ‘Bad to the Bone’ thumped out of the speakers. Amateur hour was over.
Joseph flashed his teeth again. ‘Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Do enjoy the show.’
Shifty waited until Joseph joined Francis outside, before turning to stare at me. ‘How much do you owe Andy Inglis?’
I turned back to the bar, pulse pounding in my ears almost as loud as the music. Christ, that was close. I signalled Steve for another water. ‘The Birthday Boy might have lived near Cameron Park when he was a wee boy. You’re going to have to go back a lot further than nine years.’
‘Ash?’
Up on stage Kayleigh showed everyone how it was done, hanging upside down, thighs wrapped around the pole, spotlights glittering off her sequined bra.
‘Enough. Too much.’ I ran my tongue over the two loose molars. ‘More than I’ve got.’
Retching noises echoed out from one of the toilet cubicles. I splashed water on my face, took a deep breath, and stared at myself in the mirror. Fucking halfwit. Another splash of water, scrubbed away with a handful of green paper towels that smelled like sour milk. It went with the rank perfume of piss-soaked floors and bitter vomit.
I checked my watch – half ten. Susanne would do her last set soon, then we could get the hell out of here. Before Joseph and Francis came back.
Time for some fresh air.
The fire exit had one of those, ‘THIS DOOR IS ALARMED’, signs on it, but it was open anyway – a brick stuck in the gap to keep it that way, so the staff could nip out for a sneaky cigarette. I pushed through into a gloomy alley. The security light bolted to the wall above the loading bay didn’t come on, just fizzed and crackled, never quite getting there.
A siren wailed in the distance, the rumble of a late-night bus, a singing drunk, two women fighting, the thump-thump-thump bassline of whatever song was playing inside. The fumbling moans of a couple going at it, hidden in the shadows of a recessed doorway on the other side of the alley.
I took a deep breath, hauling in cold air, letting out a cloud of white.
Should have kept on driving to Newcastle.
More moaning from the snoggers.
Still could. Car was parked outside the club: get in and bugger off before they dump my mangled body in a shallow grave somewhere. Like Rebecca.
‘Fuck …’ I scrubbed a hand over my face.
I wasn’t going anywhere. What was the point of struggling through the last four years, only to give up and run away before we’d caught the bastard?
I pulled out my phone and called Rhona. She picked up on the third ring. A diesel generator rumbled somewhere in the background. ‘Guv?’
‘Any news?’
A yawn drowned out everything else. ‘Yeah, sorry … I was about to call you: ground-penetrating radar think they’ve got a fourth burial site. No way he’s getting away this time, right? Four bodies down, seven to go.’
Eight. But the only people who knew that were: Henry Forrester, me, Rebecca, and the bastard who killed her.
‘Any ID on the other girl?’
‘Hold on, I’ll check …’
From the doorway opposite came the sound of a zip being undone. A knee-trembler in the alley behind a lap-dancing bar. Talk about romantic.
I stuck the phone against my chest. ‘Hoy, you two: get a room.’
‘Fuck!’ Frantic scrabbling, and one of the figures lurched out of the shadows. Andrew: the Silver Lady’s head doorman, hauling up his flies. ‘I was … We …’ He cleared his throat. Flexed his shoulders. Chin jutting out like a slab of freshly shaved granite. ‘You tell anyone about this and I’ll snap your bloody neck. Understand?’
He grabbed a bottle from one of the recycling bins. A sharp tap against the wall turned it into a multi-bladed weapon. ‘I’m no’ kidding, you hear me? One fucking word!’ Jabbing the broken bottle in my direction. Trembling.
I backed off a couple of steps, palms out. ‘OK, Andrew, I hear you. Our little secret.’
He licked his lips, glanced across at the shadowy doorway, then dropped the bottle and charged through the door, back into the club.
What the hell was that all about? Doormen got hand jobs from star-struck women every evening. Friend of mine once told me it’s the bow tie that does it: reminds the ladies of James Bond. But then he always was a bit of a prick.
Back to the phone. ‘Rhona?’
‘I was about to give up on you.’ She sniffed. ‘It’s not confirmed or anything, but we think number two might be Sophie Elphinstone, went missing from Inverness four years ago.’
‘They doing a dental chart match?’
A small pause. ‘Can’t. He tore all her teeth out.’ Another yawn.
‘Go home and get some rest. You’re no good to anyone knackered.’
I hung up, scrolled through my contacts list, and