‘Go on. Pull the other one.’
‘I mean it, Inge. Let’s give it a go. See those two?’ He was looking across the street at the bouncers outside Moles, Bath’s oldest nightclub. ‘It’s a fair bet they spoke to Harry at some time.’
She still didn’t like the suggestion. ‘I won’t be popular with the queue. They’ll think I’m trying to sweet-talk my way in.’
‘The guys on the door will know you’re serious as soon as you show them Harry’s picture. I’ll watch from over here.’
There was sense in what he was saying. She gave way with a sigh, adding. ‘At the next place, it’s your turn.’
‘Okay, but I don’t have your advantages.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Knickers.’
She raised a smile, gave him a dig in the ribs and crossed the street. In the timeline of popular music, Moles, at over thirty years old, was not quite as venerable as the Rolling Stones, but it had had some biggish licks. Its small stage had hosted The Cure, Primal Scream, Tears for Fears, Radiohead, Blur and Oasis as bands on their way up the charts. Ingeborg’s visits didn’t go back that far, but she was a regular and knew the interior nearly as well as the CID room. Even so, bouncers tend to change and neither of these two recognised her.
‘Hi, guys.’ She gave them her playful smile and a sight of her warrant card. ‘Just checking that it’s all okay tonight.’
‘What’s all this?’ the bigger of the two asked. ‘You expecting bovver on Cheese night?’
She laughed. The Big Cheese was a midweek institution here, cheap drinks and cheesy tunes everyone knew the words to. Trouble was rare. ‘I’m trying to get some background on the officer who was shot last weekend.’ She held up Harry’s picture. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Poor sod, yes. He’d stop and have a word sometimes.’
‘What about? Last night’s TV?’
‘No, darling. He was doing his job, telling us to keep a look out for drugs and that.’
‘And were you able to help?’
He shook his head. ‘We know who the bad lads are, anyway. They don’t get in when we’re on.’
‘You wish!’
‘Like that one across the street making out he’s nothing to do with you. He’s got bad lad written all over him.’
She didn’t turn to look at Paul, but the comment amused her. She’d save it up for later. ‘I can tell you’re smart. Harry would have looked to you two for the inside story.’
The one who hadn’t spoken, shorter, wider and with more tattoos, said, ‘He didn’t need no inside story. This was his manor.’
‘He controlled it, you mean?’
‘He had his methods.’
The taller one’s t-shirt tightened against his pecs. ‘The lady doesn’t want to know that.’
‘Pardon me, the lady does,’ Ingeborg said, alerted.
He shook his head. ‘We’re not in the business of shopping people, ’specially dead people.’
‘You wouldn’t be shopping anyone. You might be helping to find his killer.’
‘Some chance.’
‘And if you withhold information, you could have blood on your hands.’
The wider and shorter of the pair looked concerned and said, ‘You could try asking in the Porter next door.’
He was talking about the pub where patrons tanked up before using the club. It was said to be owned by Moles.
‘Who would I ask?’
‘You could start with a black guy called Anderson if he’s there.’
The tall one cut in and actually put out an arm to ease his mate aside. ‘Leave it.’ To Ingeborg he said, ‘Anderson doesn’t know a thing. My mate is talking through his arse.’
‘But I’m listening.’
‘Lady, you’re wasting your fucking time, and ours.’
Ingeborg would be the judge of that. She’d heard of Anderson before. He was well known in Walcot. She returned to Paul Gilbert and told him she’d learned nothing concrete from those two, but there were hints of illicit goings-on. His turn had come now and he might get lucky.
The Porter had a history of retailing liquor going back almost two hundred years. Much extended since it originally opened in Miles’s Buildings, it was a favourite pub of students and the young, a warren of a place, always noisy, busy and reeking of beer. On popular nights like this one, the clientele spilled out onto the alley that separated the pub from Moles.
‘Try downstairs in the cellar bar,’ she told Gilbert. ‘A tall black guy called Anderson may know something. He’s well up with what goes on.’
‘Anderson who?’
‘Jakes. Surname Jakes. No one has ever pinned any major crime on him. But be careful. Make it clear you’re not accusing him personally of anything. I’ll be waiting in the front bar at street level.’
‘What’s the angle here?’
‘Try underage drinkers. Anderson is a grown-up. Harry must have been round here checking a few times.’
Gilbert pushed his way through the crowd, descended the stairs and found an even bigger crush in the vaults. Joining a group would be no problem. It was like rush-hour on the London underground, but darker and noisier. All the cubicles along the walls were taken. Getting anywhere near the bar would be a major achievement.
‘D’you mind?’ a redhead said regardless of the fact that she’d just backed into him. He’d pressed his hand against her to prevent her four-inch heels impaling one of his feet, True, he’d felt the curve of warm flesh under the smooth silk of a miniskirt. People had been arrested for less, but in this situation it was inevitable.
‘Sorry.’
She squirmed around to face him and now the contact was breast to chest. Fumes of some musky perfume wafted from her cleavage. She looked about fifteen, if that.
‘Do I know you?’
‘Paul.’
‘Polly. You’ve parted me from my friends.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t keep saying that. Be nice to me.’
That stumped him. ‘Er, what do you suggest?’
‘What do I suggest?’ she mimicked his voice. ‘It’s no use offering me a drink, is it? You’d never find me again in this crowd. Got anything else on you?’ She showed him the tip of her tongue and curled it upwards.
‘Sorry, no.’
A sharp, stricken sigh. ‘Are you here for the comedy, Paul?’
‘Is there any?’
‘Some pathetic stand-up any minute now. If you haven’t come for that, what are you doing here, apart from groping me?’
The truth had to emerge at some stage. ‘I’m a police officer looking for information.’
She thought that was hilarious. ‘Oh, yeah? Why aren’t you in uniform?’
‘I’m CID.’
‘K — I — D, more like. Prove it, then.’
‘I would if I could reach my warrant card in my inside pocket.’
‘Nice try! Put that groping hand of yours anywhere near my boobs and I’ll knee you in the balls, I warn you. You’re not really one of the plod, are you?’ She gasped. ‘Christ, I know who you are. You’re the comic trying to reach the stage. My big mouth. I wasn’t being personal just now, honest.’
‘No, I really am a cop. Are you in a job, or still at school?’
