through the double doors at the front. The interior was dark and spacious with tables facing down on to the dance floor on three sides. At the opposite end of the room was a long bar lined with stools. A woman stood on the serving side of it with a pen in her hand, looking down at some papers in front of her. She appeared to be the only person in the place. She looked up when she heard our footfalls on the wooden floor.
‘Sorry, we’re closed,’ she shouted out, going back to her papers. ‘We open at twelve for lunch.’
‘We’re police officers,’ I said loudly, crossing the dance floor with Berrin in tow. ‘Here to see Mr Fowler.’
‘He’s not here,’ she shouted back.
‘He should be. He’s expecting us. We’ve got an eleven o’clock meeting.’
‘Well, he’s not here.’
I strode up the steps to the bar and stopped in front of her. She carried on making notes on the papers on the bar. ‘Perhaps, then, you can tell us where he is.’
She looked up with a faintly bored expression on her face. ‘I don’t know. He should have been here more than an hour ago.’
This one had an attitude, all right. I gave her a quick once-over. Early thirties, slim with well-defined features, a nose that was maybe a little too sharp, and a vaguely Mediterranean appearance, particularly the olive-coloured eyes. She was definitely attractive — very attractive — but in a hard, don’t-mess-with-me kind of way, with the cynical confidence of someone who’s not afraid of a fight. If we’d been Nazi stormtroopers, we wouldn’t have intimidated her. My ex-wife’s all-time favourite film is
‘Is he likely to be at home?’ I asked her.
‘I told you, I don’t know where he is.’
I sighed ostentatiously. ‘But I presume you’ve got his home phone number?’ She nodded. ‘Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d phone him then and tell him we’re here.’
‘Look, I’m very busy.’ She motioned to the notes in front of her.
‘So are we, Miss …?’
‘Toms. Elaine Toms. I talked to a couple of your officers the other day.’
‘Well, we’re very busy too and it would be greatly appreciated if you could phone Mr Fowler and see if he’s at home for us. It won’t take a minute.’
My tone was even but firm, the kind that says I’m going to keep going until I get some co-operation. It always works in the end, but you’d be amazed how many people take a long time getting the message.
Without a word she turned and walked over to a telephone pinned to the wall in the corner, and dialled a number. I was a bit pissed off because I’d been preparing for this interview for close to a day now. We’d talked to Fowler once but only briefly to ascertain his position within the nightclub, what his relationship was with the deceased, and whether he could throw any light on what had happened. He’d come across as very keen to appear as helpful and as friendly as possible, but hadn’t actually managed to tell us a great deal. Predictably, he’d denied knowing anything about Matthews’s involvement in drug dealing. He’d claimed that as Arcadia’s owner he didn’t tolerate drug use on the premises but was aware that it did occur. ‘I’m looking at ways to combat it,’ he’d said, and had talked about installing cameras in the toilets. ‘That’s where most of it goes on, I’m sure,’ he’d added — a fairly logical assumption. Neither Berrin nor I had found the interview very helpful, mainly because there was something not quite authentic about Fowler’s answers, and since then it had come to light that he had a conviction for conspiracy to supply Class A drugs in the late 1980s and that one of his co-conspirators at the time had been Terry Holtz, the late brother of a notorious local crime figure. He’d also been done for driving under the influence of cannabis a couple of years back, and the club had been raided on two separate occasions by the Drugs Squad in an effort to take out suspected dealers, the last time eighteen months ago, although it had to be said that on neither occasion was any contraband found. More promisingly, there was also a rumour doing the rounds that, although Fowler’s name was on the deeds of the club, he wasn’t what you’d call the real owner. That man, it was claimed, was one Stefan Holtz, the same local crime figure whose brother Fowler had once been involved with.
The feeling in the station’s CID was that the motive for this murder was almost certainly drug-related and that it might possibly be something to do with a disagreement between Fowler and Matthews. Since Fowler apparently owned the club, and was almost certainly lying when he said he didn’t tolerate drugs on the premises, and Matthews appeared to have been the chief dealer, it was probably down to an argument about something mundane like the split of profits. All this was conjecture, of course, but DCI Knox, the head of the investigation, specialized in conjecture. Me, though, I wasn’t so sure, not least because I didn’t think Fowler would have used an obscure poison to rid himself of a troublesome business partner. But I did think there were plenty of questions he could provide an answer for, particularly regarding the possible involvement of the Holtzes, and I was keen to hear them.
But it seemed I was going to have to wait a little longer.
‘He’s not there,’ said Elaine Toms, coming back to the papers on the bar. ‘Either that or he’s not answering.’
‘Have you got his address?’ She nodded, and wrote it down on a piece of paper. I took it, thanking her, and put it in my pocket. It was local. ‘And what’s your position here, Miss Toms?’
‘I told you, I’ve already been interviewed about the murder.’
‘Well, we’re talking to you again. I’d just like to refresh myself of your account.’
‘It was a DI I talked to.’
‘DI Capper. Yes, I know. Now, if you’ll answer the questions.’
‘Have you got any ID?’
She was trying to be difficult but I wasn’t going to argue about it, so I took out my warrant card and showed it to her, as did Berrin. She inspected them both carefully, paying particular attention to mine. ‘It’s not a very good photo of you,’ she told me.
‘With me, the camera always lies,’ I said. ‘Now, your position?’
‘I manage the place.’
‘And how long have you been here for?’
‘Just over a year. I joined last July.’
‘You knew Shaun Matthews pretty well, then?’
She sighed theatrically. ‘Yeah, I knew Shaun Matthews pretty well. You know, I’ve said all this before.’
‘Humour me. I presume you knew he dealt drugs?’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’
‘I’m asking you.’
She shrugged. ‘I heard that he did some dealing here and there and that he might even have done some in this place, but I never saw him do any and I never saw anyone else take any stuff either. Occasionally you get someone off their face, but if they get like that we don’t serve them and we chuck them out. They’re certainly not sold the stuff in here. I only heard Shaun was meant to be this big-time dealer after he died.’
‘You’re sticking to the party line, then? That Arcadia’s pretty much drug free and that you don’t go in for that sort of thing here.’
She glared at me. ‘We don’t. Now, if you’ve finished …’
‘Does Stefan Holtz own this place?’
‘Who?’
‘Stefan Holtz. You must have heard of him.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s a well-known local businessman, to use the term very loosely.’
‘Look, as far as I’m concerned, Roy Fowler owns this place. That’s who hired me and that’s who pays me.’
‘Are you sure the name Stefan Holtz means nothing to you?’ asked Berrin.
‘Oh, it speaks,’ she said with a smirk.
Berrin looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Just answer the question,’ he persisted, trying not to be intimidated by her, but not making a particularly good job of it.
She slowly turned her head, faced him down, took a breath, then spoke. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ She turned back to me. ‘I don’t know a Stefan Holtz.’
‘Mr Fowler was going to get us a list of casual door staff who’ve worked here over the past six months,’ I
