Death Message

The DJ in The Adam was trying and failing to be Fatboy Slim, but though the music wasn’t to Porter’s taste, she could see that the clientele were enjoying themselves. She noticed that Parsons was nodding his head in time as he moved among the crowd, clocking everyone. She also saw some of the looks Parsons was getting in return. He was a tall, good-looking black man, and though to Porter he looked every inch a copper, none of the men eyeing him up seemed to notice. Or perhaps they did, she thought. Maybe that was part of the attraction.

The club was spread over two floors and they took one each. It was less crowded than it had first appeared and they managed to sweep the place in fifteen minutes. They spotted a few people who matched the most recent description of Brooks, but no Phil Hendricks.

They began to question the staff, and, after only a few minutes, Porter glanced up to see Parsons beckoning her across to a corner. He continued to wave as she pushed her way across the dance floor. Next to him, a waitress was perched on a small leather cube. Porter wasn’t sure if it was a stool or a foot-rest. The girl’s ridiculously long legs were emphasised by stockings and a pink tutu. She had dark spiky hair and huge breasts.

Parsons nodded towards Porter. ‘Tell her what you told me.’

It was reasonably quiet where they’d gathered and the girl had no need to shout. Her voice was hoarse, though, as if she had been doing a good deal of shouting earlier. ‘The bloke he was asking about? He was in here a while ago. He comes in here a lot.’

‘Tonight?’

‘I didn’t see him leave, but, yeah, he was here an hour or so ago. Northern bloke, right?’

‘Was he with anyone?’ Porter asked.

She ran a hand through her hair; teased up the spikes. ‘He was talking to a couple of people, I think. A few of them left at the same time, so maybe he was with them.’ She looked harder at Porter. ‘I’ve seen you with him, haven’t I?’

‘Any idea where he might have gone?’

‘Sorry, love, not a clue.’ She pushed herself up, grabbed a silver tray which she’d dropped by the side of the chair. She had heels on, but even without them she’d have had a foot on Porter. ‘Right, tits and tips…’

‘Thanks,’ Porter said.

The girl’s image was as camp as Christmas, but Porter guessed that the tits were probably wasted on the majority of the club’s punters. She took a few steps, then came back. ‘I heard some people talking about this new place across the bridge,’ she said. ‘He could have gone there, I suppose.’

‘Where?’

‘Waterloo, just along from the Old Vic, I think. I don’t know, ten minutes’ walk?’

When they came back up on to the Strand, Porter checked her mobile for messages. Hendricks hadn’t shown up at home, and the second officer had struck out at the club in New Cross. He wanted to know if there was anywhere else she wanted him to visit. Porter called back as she walked, asked him to get across to Brixton. Hendricks had mentioned going to a gay night at The Fridge once, and, unlikely as it was, it seemed a shame to send any of her team home when he was still out there.

Saturday night, we’ll have a laugh, he’d said.

When they reached the car, Parsons suggested that it might be quicker to walk. ‘There’s no right turn on to the bridge. I’ll need to go round the Aldwych.’

Porter yanked at the door handle. ‘So, go round it fast.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

One of the things prison did was change the way you waited.

However long you were inside, and whatever you did while you got through your sentence, you were killing time. Which meant that you never did anything for its own sake. A game of pool was fun or it wasn’t, but it was always half an hour’s time done. Which meant that you looked forward to things in a different way, or at least he had. Being impatient, getting pissed off because a class got cancelled or whatever, was pointless because always, while you were waiting for something to pass the time, it was passing anyway.

Obviously, it depended on what you had on the outside. Some people were pretty calm as it went, but there were always blokes likely to kick off if you looked at them the wrong way. They were usually the ones who didn’t care how quick it went, because they had sod all waiting…

He waited differently now.

It made him irritable, same as everyone else, and the tiredness didn’t help. He’d snapped at Tindall the day before, which he knew was out of order, all things considered.

He’d never bothered with a watch inside; there were always plenty of bells and smells to tell you what time it was. Now he had one, he looked at the thing every few minutes. Feeling every second stagger by on its knees.

Rolling his neck, and swinging the plastic bag.

There were bigger clubs than Beware, Thorne knew that. G-A-Y and Heaven, with thousands of people and four or five different dance areas in the same club. But this was big enough as far as he was concerned. Big enough for Hendricks too, who had told him that the huge places freaked him out. ‘The music’s better in the smaller clubs,’ he’d said. ‘Plus, there’s not so much competition when it comes to eligible men.’

‘Not so much to choose from, either.’ Thorne had gri

‘I only need to find one good one,’ Hendricks had said.

There were three, maybe four hundred people in the club, the strobe lighting making it hard to be any more precise. The sound level made the place he and Holland had just left seem intimate. He had no idea what it was called, and couldn’t have cared less, but it was not the sort of music you needed when you were as tense – as scared – as he was.

‘Not going to be easy,’ Holland said.

Thorne shook his head. He looked up at the lighting rig, at the huge mirrors and the rough sea of reflected heads, and for a few disconcerting seconds he lost a sense of where he was and why he was there. It was as though the noise, the pressure of it, was starting to squeeze out the simple thoughts; fuck around with the functions.

He wondered if he’d even know Hendricks if he saw him.

He lost sight of Holland within seconds, as he began to push through the crowd. Ignoring the elbows, and the shoes that scraped his ankles, as he looked at faces and studied the backs of necks.

Christ, it was loud. And hot.

He struggled between two tall men, turned to get a good look at the one with the shaved head. Got glared at by both of them.

The sound pulsed up through his feet and pounded in his head like a hammer wrapped in cotton wool.

Hitting and pressing and sucking away the air.

Shtoompshtoompshtoomp…

Getting smashed over the head, with a hammer, apparently.

Don’t joke about it…

Thorne took off his jacket. Craned his head to look for Holland. Caught light gleaming off the metal in a face, and on a jacket, and stared until the man danced away again.

Shtoompshtoompshtoomp…

Eyes open, eyes closed as they danced. Putting on a show or lost in it. Face after face and body after body; the shape usually more than enough.

Fuck, Phil…

A big man wheeled into the side of him, gri

Fuckfuckfuckfuck…

He could taste his own sweat and other people’s. At the corner of his mouth; diluting the tang of adrenaline.

Salt and metal.

Pushing into warm, wet air and sweaty backs; shoes searching for space on the polished floor; ugly and dull among the Adidas and Nike. What would Phil be wearing?

Trainers, surely; those flashy white and silver ones.

You couldn’t dance in biker boots.

Shtoomp…

A voice behind, a man he’d just struggled past, telling him to watch where he was fucking going. Thorne stopped and sucked in a hot breath; squinting as a beam of light moved back and forth across his face. Fighting the urge to swing round and lay the twat out.