Unfortunately, the lighting was just as moody and atmospheric as the sound. Plenty of dark corners and pools of shadow, as Porter searched; looking for a black, maybe a silver shirt; a cropped hairline, softer at the back of the neck, where a tattoo began. Listening for a familiar, filthy laugh as she moved close to the tables and banquettes, in the areas where the music was deadened by walls of glass bricks.
Trying to stay optimistic.
There was a quieter bar at the top of a small staircase. Porter stalked from corner to corner, aware from some of the looks she received that her expression of frustration was perhaps being mistaken for disapproval. It couldn’t be helped.
The barman here was no more help than the one downstairs, suggesting to Porter that her friend probably hadn’t come in yet.
She felt another rush of anger at Thorne. He would say he hadn’t lied, of course, that he’d been protecting her, but she knew that was bollocks. The anger subsided when a man who matched the description of Marcus Brooks walked past her and smiled; as she found herself wondering how many coppers there might be in the place, aside from herself and Kenny Parsons.
On cue, the DS appeared at the doorway of the bar and shook his head. A look that suggested he’d done enough arse-licking for one Saturday night and was ready for home.
They walked out of the bar and down the stairs, with Porter checking a series of small lounges as they went, determined to cover every inch of the place before she gave up. She was on the verge of doing exactly that – wondering what the fuck was going to happen now with Thorne, what she could say to comfort him, should anything happen – when she finally saw a face she recognised.
The man was sitting in the third of the chill-out rooms, near the door, with two other men and a woman. There was a fair selection of bottles and glasses on the table between them.
Porter had no time for introductions, so let her warrant card make them for her. ‘I’ve met you before,’ she said. ‘With Phil Hendricks.’
‘Almost certainly,’ the man said. He ground out a cigarette, blew a thin stream of smoke across the table, then looked up; over Porter’s shoulder and beyond. ‘He’s knocking around somewhere.’
Porter felt something give in her stomach. ‘Where?’
The man’s eyes were still searching. ‘He was with some skinhead type. Getting very cosy.’
Porter turned, looked out through the doorway for any sign of Hendricks.
‘They were here ten minutes ago…’
Porter bolted for the door, with the man and his friends still discussing things behind her. She was scrabbling for her phone as she caught sight of Parsons at the other end of the corridor; dialled as he came running towards her.
‘Tom, he’s here, or he was, and maybe Brooks. You should probably get over.’ She left the address and hung up.
‘Where the fuck haven’t we been?’
‘Offices?’ Parsons suggested. ‘Toilets?’
Parsons rushed towards the gents’ and Porter made for the ladies’ at the other end of the carpeted corridor. Inside, one woman stood at the marbled sink and stared as Porter slammed back cubicle doors. Nothing.
Before the door had swung shut behind her, Porter was moving down to the far end of the corridor. She took a left and found herself in the kitchens; stared past the two waitresses sitting on the counter and backed quickly out again.
There was nowhere else to go.
She saw no sign of Parsons; could hear the music bleeding through the walls, and the rain on the other side of the door ahead of her. She leaned on the metal bar, pushed and stepped outside.
It was a narrow back alley, running forty or fifty yards to a side street that curled around the back of the club from the main road. The water ran from steeply pitched roofs on either side. It fell in sheets, lit in several places by the light from windows or the wall-mounted sodium lamps in doorways.
In one of those doorways halfway down, Porter could see two figures.
She edged slowly along the wall; could hear feet on the floor as someone adjusted their position. She heard something bang against a door. Something like a groan.
‘Phil?’
She took three or four more steps along, then away from the wall, and saw the head that turned towards her, the features in shadow.
Hendricks being pressed back hard against the door.
Hands raised around his neck…
Porter was running then, reaching into her bag, and when the bag hit the puddle her hands were tight around her telescopic baton. She was shouting something as she swung it hard into the back of the man’s legs; pulling and turning him as he fell, then dropping down on top of him.
‘Fuck… Louise…’
She drove her knee down beneath the man’s shoulder blades, grunting with the effort as she gripped the baton at either end and pressed it down on to the back of his neck… as other hands clawed at her own neck and grabbed at her hair.
Then she could hear Phil Hendricks screaming and swearing, his voice jagged, above the drumming of the rain and the roar of her own blood.
TWENTY-NINE
Thorne and Holland were on their way back to the car when the call came.
‘It’s Kenny Parsons, sir…’
Whatever Parsons said next was lost beneath the shouting in the background. Thorne recognised Hendricks’ voice; felt relief scald through him. Then another male voice; threatening.
‘What the fuck’s happening?’ Thorne shouted.
There was a pause before he heard the phone being handed over: Louise clearing her throat.
‘I got it wrong. He’s fine.’ She was buzzing, breathless. ‘I fucked up.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I thought it was Brooks, OK? That Phil was being attacked. I saw it and just thought-’
‘Slow down.’ Thorne could hear Parsons now, telling people to be quiet, raising his voice over theirs.
‘He was getting his end away, for Christ’s sake. Some kid he met.’
‘You sure?’
Louise started to describe how Hendricks had dragged her off the man on the ground; then hesitated, like she didn’t want to say too much else. What else she’d seen. ‘It looked like this bloke was… on him, you know?’
Thorne was walking faster now. ‘Is anybody hurt?’ he asked.
The phone was snatched again, before Louise could answer.
‘Right now, all I want to do is fuck you up,’ Hendricks said. ‘Go straight to Brigstocke and drop you as deep in the shit as I can.’
Thorne knew he had every right to be as angry as Hendricks, and he was. But he fought the urge to sound it. ‘You’d best shut up and listen,’ he said.
Hendricks got the message.
‘It wasn’t a wind-up, OK? You’re a legitimate target, because you gave evidence at Marcus Brooks’ trial six years ago.’
‘Fuck off,’ Hendricks said. ‘I’d barely finished training six years ago. I hadn’t set foot in a fucking courtroom.’
‘The senior pathologist was Allan Macdonald.’
‘So?’
‘Ring any bells?’
‘I assisted him for six months or something…’ Hendricks trailed off, and in the pause Thorne could hear the confidence evaporate. ‘He died a couple of years ago, I think.’
‘Right. Which puts you next in line. Very fucking handy.’
‘I still don’t know what you’re on about. I had nothing to do with that trial. Don’t you think I’d remember?’
‘The prosecution submitted a written statement confirming that Simon Tipper could have been killed during the time that Brooks was in his house. Time of death was the key element of Brooks’ defence. The only element, more or less. Once that medical evidence was put in front of a jury, along with the prints on the glass and everything else, the verdict was only ever going to go one way.’
‘I was just laying equipment out back then. Cleaning out the sluices, doing the paperwork…’
‘You countersigned that statement, Phil.’
Just rain for a few seconds, and muffled voices. ‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah. Fuck.’
Thorne jumped slightly at the touch of the hand on his arm. He followed Holland’s gaze towards the car, still parked outside the Spice of Life. Saw the sticker on the windscreen, then the dirty orange clamp wrapped around the front wheel.
‘Wait there,’ Thorne told Hendricks. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’