Music, occasionally muted, blaring mostly, emanated from the licensed premises, betraying their characters: heavy rock, disco, jungle or pop. The smell of greasy fast food invaded Henry’s nostrils as well as the acrid scent of grass.
Everyone was ecstatic. There was not the ever-present lurking atmosphere of violence that was so apparent in other big cities. People were out here to enjoy themselves, though maybe the highly visible cops played their part too.
Henry threaded his way through the city centre until he arrived at the front door of ‘Angel’s Silver’ off Cross Street. It was close to midnight and a long queue waited patiently for admission into the night club. Some people had a horrendously long wait ahead of them as the doormen were allowing only a couple or three people in at a time. Henry knew this was a good club and had he been twenty-odd years younger, he would have meekly joined the queue.
Frank Jagger did not have the time to hang around.
He sauntered down the line, aware of eyes following him, mostly angry ones because they could sense he was about to jump the whole lot of them and walk straight in. He ignored the looks, keeping a thin smile on his face.
When he reached the front, he waited patiently as the doors were opened and a giggling couple admitted. The doormen turned out towards the queue, both dressed in black trousers and dark red T-shirts, probably to hide the bloodstains, Henry thought.
They looked formidable. Non-nonsense bastards. They sneered down their noses at Henry, arms folded across their chests, aware that they could make or break people’s nights out.
‘ What?’ one said. He had a shaved head, goatee beard, earrings and forearms as thick as car tyres, plastered with very tasteful tattoos. He did not wait for an answer from Henry. ‘The back of the queue is that way.’ He raised a forefinger. ‘So fuck off and find it. There’s no favours here, pal,’
Henry moved in close to him. The guy tensed up, expecting violence. ‘I’m here to see Gary Thompson and Gunk Elphick. They’re expecting me. I’m Frank Jagger.’
The bouncer deflated and opened the door with a quiet, ‘Sorry.’
Henry entered the club, accompanied by cat-calls from the patient queue. He gave them a middle-finger salute.
In the steamy seaside resort of Blackpool, someone else was entering a night club at exactly the same time as Henry.
Danny Furness had attended the evening debrief and listened intently as investigating officers brought the SIO team up-to-date with progress so far. In a nutshell there had been none. Although Danny knew she should not have been pleased by the news, in a wicked sort of way she was glad everyone else was getting nowhere. Just like her.
She had been very tired and had made a commitment to herself that she would go straight home to bed.
Her willpower was tremendous.
At the very moment one of her fellow detectives asked her if she wished to join him and a few others for a bevy in a local pub, her resolve to go home came down faster than the Berlin Wall. She said yes. All of a sudden her taste buds were demanding that a cool Stella Artois and lime should be showered over them. Once that image was fixed, there was no turning back for Danny.
It was about time she went out with a group of people from work, she justified to herself. Up to now, since Jack had killed himself, she had only been out with close friends on sour, introverted nights, often ending in tears. She had never let her hair down, hiked up her skirt and had a good laugh.
Danny needed a bit of a bender. She had to move on, stop thinking about the past, stop moping about Henry Christie, get on with her life, get it lived.
And the way to kicks tart it might just be a couple of drinks, a few ciggies, and a belly laugh or two at some inappropriate jokes.
Even before leaving the police station, her intended alcoholic intake had doubled. Still, what was the harm? A couple or three halves
… she could easily drive home on that. Well under the limit. No problem.
The Murder Squad were in good fettle. Despite their lack of progress they were all buoyant and cheerful. It was early days, there were so many things to go on and all were confident of a quick result. And a good team-building session was exactly what was needed to keep the momentum going — that and the fact that for at least another week, overtime was not an issue.
By the time Danny had consumed her fourth half-lager, moved on to dry white wine and soda and fired up her sixth cigarette on the trot, the determination to keep consumption down had disappeared into the smoky atmosphere. She was well into the dynamics of the session, which looked like being a good one and she didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone or anything other than getting ‘rat-arsed’, going to a club for a dance and then getting a mouth-charring Vindaloo.
Which is why she found herself, surrounded by half a dozen male detectives, heaving her way to the front of a queue outside a night club in the resort, ignoring shouts from the people who were waiting, huddled against a fierce biting wind swirling in from the sea and being allowed in on the production of what is affectionately referred to as the ‘International Club Card’ — otherwise known as a warrant card.
The fact that every other detective was a man, each one of them with designs on getting into her knickers, did not put Danny off at all. She was going to thoroughly enjoy the night and tease all their pricks and egos if need be… unless one of them really took her fancy and she did more than tease.
Colin Hodge was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. The fear gripped him like a beast, tearing at his intestines and his chest. He was literally shaking with it. He even held his hand up to confirm it; it vibrated visibly. He reached out and clicked the bedside light off, plunging the room into total darkness for a moment or two before his eyes adjusted.
He rolled off the bed and stood up. His legs were weak. He walked slowly towards the window and pulled the curtain back half an inch. Outside was the garden, big and well-tended. Beyond a line of lime trees was a high wall, illuminated by upward-facing lamps set into the ground. Several lines of razor wire ran along the top of the wall, keeping people in as well as out.
His eyes focused on the ornamental bars just outside his window. It was possible to open the window, but there was no way to climb out and drop the fifteen or so feet to the gravel path and escape.
A movement in the garden caused him to raise his eyes. He frowned as he caught sight of a dark shape moving slowly through the shrubs and trees. Hodge watched the figure carefully, then clocked another figure padding along close behind. A man and a very large dog. The man — Hodge recognised him as the driver of the Mercedes from earlier — clutched something across his chest. A gun of some sort.
Hodge winced. His heart surged and a pain shot across his shoulder, then was gone. Indigestion caused by stress. He let the curtain slip back into place.
He walked across the room, tried the door handle again.
Locked.
He returned to the bed and sat down, dropping his head into his hands.
A prisoner.
The booze and the atmosphere turned Danny into a flirt. She danced shamelessly with each of the men in her party, moving her butt and breasts provocatively to the rhythm of ‘Disco Inferno’ and other such classics. Often she draped her arms around the neck of her dancing partner. Often she ground her pelvis against their hips. In a fairly short time she got every one of them thinking they were in with a chance. The truth was, not one of them did anything for her.
And then she spotted Detective Rik Dean across the other side of the dance-floor. He was watching her antics with a wry smile on his face. Danny knew Rik had a mega-reputation as a seducer of policewomen and she knew why: he was charming, good-looking, with dark eyes which reminded her of Elvis Presley, a nicely toned body with a rear end she would have loved to dig her fingernails into, and (reportedly) he always let the lady come first.