businessman.
Tom got off the Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road tube station. He showed his warrant card and wished he’d brought a waterproof jacket when he saw the footpath glistening in the reflected glow of streetlights. Raindrops were hitting a muddy puddle which had formed in a gutter dammed by rubbish. He walked down Oxford Street, which was still crowded with tourists and night people, coming or going to and from pubs and clubs. This part of the city was just coming to life.
Soho still clung to its reputation for sin and sleaze, but the truth was that the strip joints, brothels and sex shops were slowly but surely losing ground to bistros, restaurants, trendy bars and cafes. A new wave of businesses, largely fuelled by the pink pound, had also grown up in Old Crompton Street. What remained of Soho’s salacious past — at least, what was still visible to passers-by — was hemmed into a warren formed by Berwick, Walker and Peter streets. On Berwick he passed a shop with leather corsets and restraints in the window and ignored the urgings of a tout to come inside and see his fully nude girls.
A grey-haired man in a suit ducked out of an adult bookstore and looked guiltily both ways before darting into the passing throng of people. A group of a dozen lads in their late teens and early twenties sang the chorus of an old Rolling Stones song — badly — as they weaved down the narrow thoroughfare. A tourist couple paused in front of him, blocking the footpath, to check their London A-Z. Tom kept his impatience in check.
‘Been in a fight?’ the bouncer asked him as he descended the stairs from Peter Street.
‘Walked into a cupboard door,’ Tom said, unconsciously fingering the glass cut above his eye. He’d forgotten about it.
The bouncer looked him up and down and, deciding he wasn’t drunk, said, ‘All right. Don’t think I need to check your ID to see if you’re underage.’
The music he heard as he walked past the doorman had a beat he could feel in his chest. Slow, grinding. Music to disrobe to.
‘Ten pounds, please,’ the girl behind the reception desk said.
Tom wished he had told Shuttleworth about his informal investigation now. There was no way he’d be able to claim entrance to a strip club on his expenses if he wasn’t officially working. He didn’t want to flash his warrant card to the girl, which would cause a panic among the club’s workers and patrons and have them all start disappearing. He’d put money on a few of the girls being illegal immigrants.
‘Ta,’ the girl said as he handed over his money. She wore a low-cut mini-dress that left little to the imagination.
A man in his fifties, heavy set and bald, stood to one side of the counter. Extra security, Tom assumed. A skinny red-headed girl in a lime green Lycra skirt the width of a hair band and a matching boob tube tottered past on black platform-sole shoes with five-inch heels, leading an overweight man in a suit by the hand. The couple walked past reception, through a door. Tom watched their progress, then glanced back at the girl behind the cash register.
‘You been here before?’
‘No.’
‘Private shows are out the back. Just talk to any of the girls — they’ll be more than happy to oblige.’
He nodded and walked into the club. The air was heavy with a cloying mist of disinfectant, cigarette smoke and perspiration, all masked by cheap perfume. A girl dressed in white stay-up stockings and matching bra and pants smiled at him as she brushed by, carrying a tray of drinks.
In the centre of the room was a square podium, joined to the black ceiling by two brass poles. There were seats for maybe twenty people around the stage, though there were only four punters there now, up close, ogling a brunette who was naked except for a brief G-string, black patent leather high heels, nipple rings, and a garter stuffed with notes. She, too, smiled at him as he took a chair opposite the other men.
The girl turned her back to Tom and knelt in front of the men. ‘Show us everything,’ one of them said, loud enough for Tom to hear over the grinding music. She shook her head and he didn’t catch what the girl said, but the man who had spoken got up and returned to his table. His comrade got up soon after and joined him, leaving just two patrons. Tom watched them, beyond the girl’s flawless back. They had shaved heads, football shirts and too much bling. If they were crims — and judging by the spider-web tattoo on his neck, at least one of them had done time — they were small-time.
The waitress in bridal white came to Tom and he ordered a Beck’s. He also paid thirty quid for some plastic money to stuff in the girl’s garter. She was on her knees, but bent backwards until her hair brushed the stage. She was looking at Tom, upside down, and he smiled back at her.
Not getting any joy from the other two men, the girl used the pole to pull herself to her feet and, after climbing and swinging as she slid down again, crawled on all fours to Tom’s side of the podium. She grinned and winked when Tom held up a bill. She turned side on to him, so he could slide the money between her garter and her bare thigh. The transaction sealed, she leaned over him, allowing her long hair to fall around his face. Her nose was half an inch from his. She moved her mouth to his ear and blew in it.
‘Hello, my name is Ivana,’ she whispered.
‘Hello, my name’s Detective Sergeant.’
The smile vanished from the girl’s face as she rocked back on her haunches. Russian, maybe, or Ukrainian, or Latvian, or Lithuanian. It didn’t matter. He’d put a hundred quid on her being an illegal immigrant. She looked over her shoulder towards the distant reception counter.
‘Don’t worry, Ivana, the management doesn’t know I’m a copper.’ The waitress deposited Tom’s beer in front of him.
She closed her legs. ‘What do you want?’
‘World peace, job satisfaction and a lasting relationship.’
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I have nothing to say to police.’
‘Fine then, we can have a chat at the nearest nick, if you prefer. We can stop by your home and you can collect your passport. We’ll need to check your identity and residency status.’
‘I am not illegal, and I can prove it.’
Tom sipped his beer, then shrugged. ‘Says you. I can be back in half an hour with a couple of uniformed officers. That should do wonders for business.’
She looked over her shoulder again. ‘I finish dance in a few minutes. We can talk then. But I tell you now, policeman or not, no sex.’
Tom nodded. Ivana returned to the other side of the stage to try to milk a few more quid out of the football hooligans, and Tom found a table in a dark corner of the club.
Ivana finished her dance and stepped down from the stage, to a smattering of token applause from the score or so of other customers sitting at candle-lit tables. She shrugged into an abbreviated vinyl interpretation of a nurse’s uniform and walked over to Tom. The waitress returned and Ivana looked pointedly at the other girl, then back to Tom.
‘Oh, all right. What’ll it be?’
‘Double vodka and tonic.’
Tom ordered a second beer and winced when the girl told him the price. He shelled out some notes, wishing again he had done this by the book. The waitress left them.
‘If you are police, show me your identification.’
Tom pulled out his wallet and showed his warrant card.
‘Furey? It means madness?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Why don’t you tell the owner who you are?’ she asked him.
‘Where’s Ebony tonight?’
The girl leaned back in her chair and sipped her drink. When she put it down, she said, ‘What are you, another stalker or something?’
‘Another?’
Ivana said nothing.
‘Is she working tonight?’
‘This is not official business, I think.’
Tom checked his watch. ‘Like I said, it can be, very easily.’
