Marc wasn't in, so I left my name and number, but no message, with the frighteningly efficient receptionist. I tried his mobile next, but that was switched off. I left a brief message on the answering service, then promptly forgot all about it.
I spent an uneventful day, the calm before the storm. I did the washing, made an initial stab at the ironing. I had a trip round the covered market in the middle of town and stocked up on real vegetables rather than tinned or frozen substitutes. I even finally got round to buying some fresh bread.
In the early evening I went and taught my class at the university leisure centre how to escape from a front stranglehold. I was back in the flat by eight. I must only have been home around half an hour when the phone rang.
I hesitated a moment before picking up the receiver. I suppose I'm just naturally cautious, but a year or so ago I picked up a fascinating gadget that alters the tone of your voice, making it deeper, more like a man's. It was specially made for women who live alone, for fending off obscene calls. I flicked it on and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Good evening, may I speak to Charlie?” A man's voice, the accent neutral. Initially I failed to place where I'd heard it before, but the interesting way he curled my name round didn't incline me to hang up.
“Hang on, I'll get her,” I said. “Who is it?”
“My name is Marc Quinn. She does know me.”
I pressed the secrecy button on the phone and switched off the device. It gave me a moment to think. I hadn't been prepared for him to call so soon.
“Hi, Marc,” I said, speaking undisguised. “I just called you earlier to arrange that appointment you mentioned. I didn't think you'd to get back to me so quickly.”
“Ah, well, when there's something I want, I don't like to wait,” he murmured seductively.
I pulled a face. “In that case, remind me not to have sex with you,” I said waspishly.
He laughed out loud at that. “Touche,” he said with a wry note in his voice. “Not very good at accepting flattery, are you, Charlie?”
“When that's all it is, no, I'm not,” I agreed flatly.
“Hmm, you need the practice, then. So, how soon are you going to come and see me?”
I reached over to the desk and retrieved my diary. It was more of a play for time. I already pretty much knew when my classes were during the week. He suggested a time for the following afternoon at the club. It seemed ironic that the excuse I'd made to Sam was solidifying into reality, even if it was a day late.
I have to admit, I liked listening to Marc's voice. Concealed in the background was the faintest trace of a regional accent. He had obviously worked hard to eradicate it, but on the phone it seemed more noticeable than it had face to face. I tried and failed to place it.
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said as we wound up our conversation, and the line disconnected.
I looked at the dead receiver before I put it down. “I hope you know what you're doing, Fox,” I said, but I wasn't giving myself any answers. I guess I was just obstinate that way.
Five
The New Adelphi Club looked different in daylight. Seedier, somehow. Less inviting. It was certainly quieter than it had been that Saturday, though, which had to be a bonus.
I parked up the bike at the front of the car park. I noticed with approval that security cameras had been installed overlooking the parking area, although I couldn't remember whether they'd been there before. I made sure the Suzuki was covered by one of them.
Even so, I stuck my roller-chain round the rear wheel and swinging arm, just to make sure. The insurance premiums I pay on the bike, considering it's coming up for seven years old, are stratospheric. I don't want them going into low earth orbit because of a theft claim.
The main entrance was locked up tight when I arrived. There didn't seem to be a doorbell, and hammering on the door itself produced no signs of life. After a few minutes I gave up and wandered round towards the rear of the building.
The back entrance was where the old kitchens had once been and nothing much had changed. Where the front of the Adelphi had been grand and sweeping, the back was a hotchpotch of styles. Hasty additions built for function rather than form. It was interesting to see that Marc hadn't bothered spending his valuable money on tidying things up back there.
The old kitchen door was propped open with a broken breeze block, and a Transit van was pulled up close to it. As I approached Gary came out, carrying a crate of bottles, which he dumped into the back of the van. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and looked much more at home in them than he had in his penguin suit of the weekend.
“Nice to see somebody working,” I said by way of a greeting.
He spun round with a start. “Christ, Charlie, you frightened me to death!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, it was your idea, actually,” I told him. “I'm here to see Marc about a security job. You suggested it.”
Gary was pale and sweaty. I think his idea of physical exercise is lifting the arm holding the remote control for the TV. “Marc's coming here this afternoon?” he demanded now. I nodded. “Oh hell, we're way behind today. I was supposed to have all this lot swapped over this morning. Give us a hand, will you?”
Which is how I came to be lugging bottle crates between the numerous bars and the back of the van. I quickly came to understand Gary's breathless and perspiring state. I stripped off my leather jacket and dumped my helmet on a chair, but I couldn't do much about my leather jeans. By the time I'd made half a dozen trips myself I was in pretty much the same state as he was.
“How often do you have to do this?” I gasped as I reached the van with yet another crate of empties.
“Too often,” he grinned back, wheezing.
I picked up one of the bottles from the latest batch. It was vodka, I think, with nearly an inch of liquid remaining in the bottom. “Hey, you got a glass on you? There's still some left in this one.”
“Very funny,” he said, retrieving the bottle and ramming it back into the crate. “The bar optics don't always pick up the last dregs, and it's not worth the hassle of taking them down and pouring them by hand. Not with the amount of spirits we go through here in a week.”
He hopped out and slammed the van doors shut behind him. As we walked back through into the club he caught my arm. “Listen, Charlie, do me a favour and don't mention this to Marc, will you?” he said suddenly. “Like I say, I was supposed to have all this done this morning, and the boss can get really funny if you don't do things by the book.”
“No problem,” I said. “My lips are sealed.”
I collected my jacket and lid, and he led me back through to the main lower dance floor. Without the heavy musical overlay, milling bodies, and the clever lighting effects, the decor just looked tacky, overblown. The smell of last night's cigarettes hung on the air like a leaking gas main.
I perched on a bar stool and watched Gary work. His movements were quick, economic, as he worked his way along the line, fixing new bottles upside down onto the optics to replace the ones he'd taken away. I like watching anyone with such manual dexterity. Plasterers and pastry chefs fascinate me.
There was the sound of locks being worked and a heavy door opening on the split-level above us. It threw a shaft of natural light into the club that had been missing before. I looked up and watched three shadows growing larger as they advanced.
“Look, I better finish off upstairs,” Gary said hastily. “I'll see you later, Charlie.” And he scurried off.
The shadows finally took solid form on the gallery above the dance floor where Clare and I had had our first view of the revamped club. It was Marc, flanked by the two doormen who'd been working that night; the bearded one, and my old mate, Len.
“Charlie? You're early,” Marc said when he caught sight of me.
I glanced at my watch. “No, actually I believe
I saw Marc's head come up at that, surprise tinged with a trace of anger. Well, tough. The job would be
