Dark Side (13 page)

Elspeth giggled. ‘John gave him a ten-pound note.'

A little later domestic matters took over. Justin had one of his spectacular tantrums and I had to call on Elspeth's help because she and his father are the only ones who can deal with him when he gets like this – apparently she had plenty of practice with Patrick. Then Katie felt ill and was sick all over her quilt cover, and Matthew was sulking because he wanted to go riding on George and my hands were too full already. Even sweet little Vicky was crying, in between shrieking like a banshee, as Justin had broken one of her favourite toys by stamping on it.

The mother of most of this anarchy distinctly felt like a night on the tiles.

Jingles night club was situated in the basement of one of several quite large three-storey houses in a cul-de-sac at the bottom of Landsdown Road. It was not a disreputable area by any means, most of the premises in the rest of the short terrace given over to solicitors' and accountants' offices. There was also the headquarters of Ye Ancient Order of Ferret Masters, which to me sounded distinctly dodgy. (I found out at a later date that it was the jokey name for a real-ale-bangers-and-mash kind of dining club.) The end property, the one farthest away from the night club, was currently being converted into student flats. The entire arrangement, I felt, was satisfactory to all parties, that is, none of the office workers would be around to suffer the consequences of the other establishments.

I knew all this as Patrick and I had explored the area after speaking to Lynn Outhwaite during the morning. It looked quite different now, after dark, the narrow road with its original Georgian paving and ‘heritage' street lamps resembling a film set for an historical TV drama. This visual impression was dispelled utterly by the racket – sorry, music – emanating from the slightly below ground level entrance to the club, the doors of which, I saw as I got closer, were wide open, probably on account of the sultry night air. The rest of the building above it was in darkness.

I had not even tried to phone Patrick as he was breaking our working rules by storming off without making subsequent contact and I thought silence might act as fair comment. I had called Joanna, however, and she had heard from James – she told me she had left a message on our phone at home – who had merely said that he was all right and she was not to worry.

Damn all men.

It was a little after nine thirty and I was not expecting the club to be busy – not yet, anyway. I had made enquiries and established that one had to pay a twenty-pounds-per-head entry fee, my preferred method of getting in to the place as I had no intention of going in waving my SOCA ID card.

Carefully, for I was wearing high-heeled shoes and the few steps were steep and worn, I made my way down towards the entrance. Just as I reached the doorway my mobile rang. I only knew this because it also vibrates and was in my evening clutch bag, at present under my left arm. Swearing, but glad that no one was near to hear me, I climbed the steps again and went a short distance away in order to be able to answer it.

‘It's me,' said a voice I recognized. ‘Where are you?'

‘That's a bit rich seeing as you walked out on me this morning,' I snapped.

‘Yes, sorry,' Patrick replied with not a hint of regret. ‘But where
are
you – at a party? I can hear music.'

‘No, I'm outside Jingles,' I told him. ‘About to undertake a little sleuthing.'

‘Ingrid, for God's sake don't go in there on your own! I know you've ignored my advice in the past and quite brilliant progress has been made in cases but please, this time, listen to me. Don't go in that club. I've been making enquiries about it this afternoon and the findings don't make it a safe place for you to be in alone.'

I counted up to five slowly and then said, ‘My day's been pretty miserable so far. Perhaps if I just have a glass of wine and see if I can spot that girl who—'

‘No! Look, don't go in there! I'll come straight over, but meanwhile please walk back to the end of that road, turn right and then right again at the next road junction and a little way along you'll find a restaurant called Dora's. Have your glass of wine in the bar and I'll meet you there. Have you eaten?'

‘Just a poached egg on toast earlier.'

‘We'll have a meal. The place is Italian and very good. Will you do that?'

I slowly counted up to ten this time.

‘Ingrid!'

‘Oh … all right,' I said, feigning reluctance.

‘I really love you. You know that, don't you?'

‘Yes,' I said.

I put my phone back in my bag and walked away. That had rattled his rivets a bit.

P
atrick was still rattling somewhat when he came, quick march, into Dora's and looked around wildly as if half expecting a hail of bullets from all sides. Then, having caught sight of me, the tension in him visibly ebbed.

I beamed a big smile at him.

‘You're a real cow sometimes,' he muttered, sinking into one of the big squashy orange armchairs opposite me.

‘You can have squid with all the curly bits and suckers,' I soothed, and fetched a glass of Merlot from the bar for him. This was noble of me as it makes me feel queasy having to sit close to someone devouring a creature that's like a cross between a spider and a jellyfish, fried.

‘Do you know if Joanna's heard from James?' Patrick went on to ask.

‘Yes, she has. No details, though. What have you found out about the club?'

‘I did some research on the registered owner. He has a criminal record – a British national originally from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, name of Nicholas Hamsworth.'

‘You clever, clever man,' I whispered. ‘But how did he get a licence?'

‘Pass. There's an address, a council flat in Ealing, the one already in Records. That's why you couldn't find the name locally. But he's not there – no one is, the place is boarded up after what a bod from the local authority described as a small fire.'

‘You asked the Met to take a look at the place, then?'

‘I did.'

‘Wasn't there an address in Glasgow?'

‘Yes. Strathclyde Police are investigating that one. What we mustn't forget is that this character is reputed to move around all the time, which makes it very difficult for any one police force to keep tabs on him. That's where SOCA comes in.'

‘So do we get the police here to raid the club?'

‘I don't really have the authority to instigate that. My instincts tell me to report to Greenway and
then
inform DI Campbell. But I'll wait and see what our Scottish colleagues have to say first.' He picked up the menu. ‘Yes, it has to be squid. Splendid, it's the pasta recipe using the ink.'

Ye gods, black pasta in black goo with things looking like entrails poking out of it. Perhaps I could eat my meal in the ladies' toilet. Or just have a brown paper bag.

I registered that Patrick was gazing at me over the top of the menu, eyes fizzing with amusement. Then he said, ‘Actually, I'd already decided on the chicken on the specials' board.'

‘You're a real pig sometimes,' I told him.

‘We can go and have a drink in the club afterwards – just passing by.'

‘Are you
serious
?'

‘Why not? We might even bump into Cooper and Mallory there, and if we do I'll take a photo of them with my mobile.'

It turned out to be impossible to decide whether either man was present due to the gloom and the fact that most of the population of Bath now appeared to be on the premises. I was having second thoughts by this time as the bouncer on the door into where it all happened looked as though he had been fashioned by the JCB factory. But Patrick blithely showed him our entry tickets and we were waved within.

Sticking close I went with Patrick to the bar, which was in a far corner and constructed in a naff version of thirties Hollywood style. A blonde leaning on it gave him a wide smile which faded when she saw me, and then she turned her back to us. Just then the music started up again. From what I could see there was no live band, just a DJ kind of set-up in the other corner of this end of the room.

Patrick handed me my drink, a large bright pink creation with fruit, leaves and various inedible bits and bobs such as glittery twirly sticks and parasols, pointing as he did so – it saved shouting – at a notice promoting the ‘house special cocktail'. I had an idea he was carrying on with his revenge for winding him up earlier as I hate sickly sweet drinks. He just had whisky and water.

Against all the odds we found a table in a corner, having with difficulty made our way around the people clutching at each other, swaying and stoned on heaven knew what, on what must be assumed to be the dance floor. There was no actual space to dance and the different coloured strobe lights gave the unsettling impression that everything was taking place in slow motion. And no, I have never been a fan of night clubs.

I removed the impedimenta from the top deck of my drink and employed one of the twirly glitter sticks to impale the fruit so I could eat it. The first strawberry was soggy and tasted stale, as though it had been reused, several times. My partner was meanwhile sipping his whisky, gazing around outwardly nonchalantly, but in reality highly alert and trying to get a glimpse of the girl photographed with James Carrick.

A couple of minutes later I noticed a closed circuit security camera tucked into a corner of the ceiling near where we were sitting, pointing directly at me. Surreptitiously looking about me I saw others, but no more than one might expect in similar establishments. It was the one almost above our heads that bothered me, staring like an accusing eye. Or perhaps I was getting neurotic.

It occurred to me that we had done nothing yet to investigate the two men who had given their names and addresses when interviewed in connection with the attack on Patrick and James. There was no reason why we could not question anyone else who lived near their addresses.

The pink drink was disgustingly super-sweet and probably meant for teenage girls with an IQ in direct proportions to the length of their skirts, I inwardly grumbled. Then I saw the girl for whom we were looking between a gap in the dancers. She appeared to have just entered, having emerged around a corner of the bar. Patrick's attention was elsewhere – she was probably not visible from where he was sitting – and my immediate problem was to draw her presence to his notice without making it obvious to whichever security wonk was watching his monitors somewhere behind the scenes. But at that moment – and I have a theory that telepathy really does happen – Patrick looked at me. Fortunately, just then the particular music track ended and I was able to whisper in his ear, also telling him of the existence of the camera, which was behind him. He nodded imperceptibly and a few moments later got up and went into the throng.

Almost immediately and somewhere out the back, a smoke alarm went off. This was followed in the next second by the wail of a fire alarm, rapidly cut off. A voice boomed into the room over a public address system.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you please evacuate the club in an orderly manner. There is no cause for panic and the emergency exits will be opened. Your money will be refunded. Please do not run and risk people being hurt.'

Some people did run, knocking over chairs in their haste to get out; others slouched towards the exits. The rest, including me, stayed right where they were. You are far more likely to be trampled to death in these circumstances than die from smoke inhalation or burns. Besides which, I did not think there was a fire at all. They knew who we were and how to get rid of us. I could not see Patrick.

After a couple of minutes the room had mostly cleared and staff began to chivvy those remaining who were either too drunk to care or, like me, thought it all a Big Lie. The very large bouncer came in my direction and I rose from my chair and set off, definitely not running, on a course that, if he stayed on his, meant we would not meet. Somehow I knew that he would change tack and he did. Not liking the cut of his jib at all by now I performed a hard left turn, pushed my way into a group making their way out through a side door and, having climbed a few stairs, quickly found myself in the street, or rather an alleyway that sloped quite steeply downhill. Still imagining The Hulk right behind me I turned left again to see another door some yards away and tried the handle. It opened and, moving as quietly as possible, I went back into the building. There was a large lock on the inside with a key in it that would not have looked out of place in a church. I turned it, but doing so did not engender any warm feeling of security.

I was in some kind of utility area, a starkly-lit white-painted wide passageway in what must be a sort of cellar below what was already a basement. It was lined with shelves on the right-hand side which were filled with teetering stacks of mostly junk. A vacuum cleaner was stored there together with buckets and mops, a couple of broken chairs and other general rubbish, rather a lot of it. There was a bad smell of drains that appeared to be emanating from a sinister dark damp patch surrounding a rusting manhole cover in the floor.

At the far end of the ‘room' was a door but, far more interesting, a narrow tightly-spiralled but quite short stone staircase was situated just to my left which, when I leaned around to look, had a heavy curtain drawn across at the top. Through it I could hear someone talking, a voice I thought I recognized.

Sliding my evening bag into the pocket of my silk jacket – I had already turned off my phone – I mounted the stairs, walking on tip-toe and glad there was a hand rail. Stopping just below the top I paused to listen, carefully moving my feet squarely on to the step in order not to lose my balance. I did not have the right kind of footwear for this kind of exercise.

I felt a stab of alarm as something cannoned into the outside door below and then again, as though a shoulder had been put to it. All the man, if it was the same one, had to do was go back inside the club and open the inner door, which had had no key or bolts on my side. How long would it take him? A minute at the most. Not having anticipated real problems this evening I had not come armed with the Smith and Wesson that Patrick has never quite got round to handing back to MI5. Besides which, it's too big to go in my evening bag.