I put another 50p piece down.
'Always glad to help a man get out of bed.'
'Looks to me like you want him to stay there the whole day.'
I sighed and took out my card. 'I tell you what, why don't you pin this to his teddy bear. If he's got any information about Evans the Boot, we can discuss terms then.'
She picked up the card and examined it.
'You're a gumshoe!' she said, her face lighting up. 'That's what I'm going to be when I grow up.'
'Good for you!'
She slid the card into her breast pocket and slipped off the stool.
'I'll be in touch.'
Two things struck me when I got back to the office in Canticle Street: the light was flashing on the answerphone; and the office had been ransacked.
Chapter 2
THERE WAS NO sign to indicate the presence of Wales's most notorious night club. Just a plain black door, standing quietly amid the Dickensian bow windows of Patriarch Street. On the one side were the shops selling Welsh fudge, slate barometers and paperweights made out of polished fossils from the beach. And on the other, the Salvation Army second-hand clothing store, 'Army Surplice'. The door to the club itself was featureless except for a Judas window and the number six in scarlet and only if you looked closely at the doorbell on the right would you see the simple words: Moulin Goch, Boоte de Nuit. When I arrived shortly after 10pm Mrs Llantrisant and Mrs Abergynolwen from the Sweet Jesus League against Turpitude had just started setting up their stall.
'Evening, Mr Knight!'
'Evening, Mrs Llantrisant! You're looking very glamorous tonight, new hair-do is it?'
'Guess again, Mr Knight, new something else.' She lifted her left heel and did a pirouette to show off her wares. I studied her keenly; what was new?
'Go on! Can't you tell? Honestly, you men!'
'It's those orthopaedic boots, isn't it?'
She beamed and bent forward to look at them. 'Got them this morning; imported from Milan they are: calfskin with sheepskin lining — hypo-allergenic, as well, so's the cat doesn't get a cough.'
Mrs Abergynolwen came over. 'Going into the Club, is it?'
'I thought I might.'
'Like a nice little sedative to put in your drink, Mr Knight? You'll need it.'
'Not with my luck, ladies.'
'Just in case now. Keep the lid on those raging hormones. Better safe than sorry.'
'Honestly, it would be like locking the stable door when you haven't got a horse!'
The Club was a dimly lit basement made up of adjoining cellars knocked into one. The theme was nauticaclass="underline" fishing nets hung from the ceiling and other maritime bric-a-brac littered the room. To one side there was a small dais that acted as the stage. It was edged with sequins that glittered in the spotlights, and an unattended microphone stood in the middle. Nearer to the stage there were closely packed wooden tables, each with an oil lamp on top, while further back there was more elaborate seating made up of coracles and rowing boats sawn in half and padded to form intimate sofas. In the far corner there was an entire fishing boat washed up behind a crimson rope, accessible only to Druids and high-ranking party functionaries. Between the tables a sea of dry ice billowed, dyed blue and turquoise by the luminous plastic fish entangled in the ceiling nets. The effect was wonderful and outshone only by the club's most famous assets of alclass="underline" the Entertainment Officers, or, as we all affectionately knew them, the Moulin girls. Their job was to keep everybody happy; their uniform, anything to do with the sea that they could dig up from Dai the Custard Pie's fancy dress basement. There were cabin boys and pirates; captains, smugglers and mermaids. And also, inexplicably, a girl in Welsh national dress and two Marie Antoinettes.
I was shown to a table near the front by a door officer in a dinner jacket. Myfanwy was advertised as coming on at 8pm, but never appeared before 11pm, so I ordered a rum and pondered the significance of my ransacked office. The man from the Orthopaedic Boot shop said he'd seen a group of men leaving the premises hurriedly and driving off in a mauve Montego with blacked-out windows. Only one group of people drove cars like that - the Druids. I thought of how completely the tentacles of their organisation now encircled our town; how they reached into every nook and crevice, and controlled all aspects of life - the public affairs and those goings-on that dare not show their face to the sun. How they organised the crime and also those people put in office to stop it; and how they took a cut from both. It was so familiar now it was easy to forget that it hadn't always been like this. There was a time when they just organised the Eisteddfod, licensed the application of spells and judged the poetry. When I was in school we would eagerly push ourselves forward outside assembly to have our hair tousled by the Grand Wizard when he came from the temple to deliver an address. When did it change? When did mothers start pulling their kids into shop doorways as the men of the shroud passed? When did they become gangsters in mistletoe? Was it the time they started wearing the specially tailored surplices? That day when the usual sheets, pillow cases and Wellington boots painted white with emulsion no longer sufficed? Or was it when Lovespoon the messianic Welsh teacher became Grand Wizard? And the high-ranking officers started staining their cloaks red and black to distinguish the hierarchy like the Daleks on TV? Now, of course, they eschewed sheets altogether in favour of sharp Swansea suits and silk handkerchiefs.
I ordered another drink and pondered the damage to my office. What had they been searching for? Did it have something to do with Myfanwy's visit? Nothing had been stolen. Admittedly there wasn't much to steal, but there were a few things in the attic that I didn't want disturbed. The attic still connected to the main building of the public library and I had secreted a store of cash and a disguise up there as an emergency escape route.
* * *
And then there was the message on the answerphone. Short and to the point: a boy with an Italian accent claimed to have information to sell about Evans the Boot and told me to go to the 24-hour Whelk Stall tonight at lam.
The girl in the Welsh national dress appeared in front of me, blocking off the light.
'Hi, handsome!'
I looked up warily. 'Hi.' At close quarters I could see her outfit was only a faint echo of Welsh national dress: a basque, fishnet tights, a shawl and a stovepipe hat sitting at a jaunty angle on a mass of black curls.
She held out her hand. 'I'm Bianca.'
It would have been ungracious not to shake her hand, but I knew that once shook, that arm would act like a drawbridge enabling her to gallop across and sack the citadel of my wallet whenever she pleased. I hesitated which made her wiggle her hand impatiently in front of my face, grinning. Reluctantly I took her hand and shook. There was no resisting these girls, and if you wanted to - went the unvoiced accusation in their mocking smiles — why bother coming in the first place? She grinned and spun round excitedly before seating herself on the empty chair opposite me.
'Myfanwy told me to look after you.'
My heart fluttered unaccountably. 'She did?'
'Mmmm,' she giggled. 'She'll be along later, so she made me her deputy; only she didn't give me a star — boo hoo!'
'Are you sure she meant me?'
'Of course. You're Louie aren't you?'
I opened my mouth to speak but only managed a croak. She reached across and tousled my hair. As she did so, her basque slipped forward and I stared into the shadowy abyss of her cleavage. I groaned unintentionally before finally dragging my eyes back up to the safety zone of her face. But the damage was done: the cheeky expression poised halfway between a grin and a smirk made it clear she had registered the kill.
'Naughty boy!' she said and flicked my nose.
She moved her stool closer so we were sitting side by side, arms touching and her hair spilling out on to my shoulder, tickling my face. Her skin was hot next to mine and the moist animal scent of hair filled my nostrils like incense.