really want to know.
“I don’t want you doing any more digging on your own, Charlie,” he said. He gripped my shoulders and I couldn’t help but stare up into those compelling pale-coloured eyes. “I don’t want you taking any more risks alone, OK?”
“OK.” I just had time to murmur my agreement as his mouth came down onto mine. Hard, fast, demanding.
I let go of everything and drowned in the sensation.
***
Marc left at around three the following morning, slipping into his clothes and out of the flat quietly, leaving me dazed and exhausted.
As I slid into sleep, I realised that I felt safer than I had done in days. Safer for the knowledge that I wasn't fighting this battle single-handed any more.
Twenty
When I went in to the New Adelphi Club that Friday evening, ostensibly to pick up my pay packet for the Saturday before, I'd been racking my brains for a way to get the subject of the security tapes into casual conversation. In the end, I needn't have bothered trying to be so devious.
As I walked in through the back door, the capture and subsequent arrest of Tris Shelseley was the main topic under discussion. I knew there was something up the moment I arrived by the way most of the security team stopped talking and turned to stare at me.
“What?” I demanded. I paused, hands on hips. “Do I have something in my teeth?”
“Most of that Shelseley bloke's knackers, by all accounts,” one of them said with a grin. “Proper little terrier, aren't you, Charlie.”
I pulled a face, dumping my helmet and gloves down on the bar top where Gary was sorting bottles into the appropriate return crates. I should have taught a class at the Lodge earlier that day, but it hadn't seemed right, in the circumstances, so I'd rung round as many of my regular students as I could and cried off. I couldn't help wondering, once the news about Tris got out, whether any of them would want to go back there, in any case.
Dave, I noticed, was eyeing me now with that sly smile. He was sitting in the midst of the group, relishing his role as storyteller, and I wondered what embellishments he'd added to the tale. In particular, about his own role in the proceedings.
“So, they reckon it's the same bloke as got that girl who was here as well, eh?” another of the doormen commented. “He must have been here that night, then. We might all have seen him.”
“Well, they'll know better in a few days, won't they?” I said casually. “When they've had chance to look at the tapes properly.”
It was Len, bless him, who bit. “What tapes?” he growled.
“The ones from the internal security cameras,” I supplied helpfully. I was watching Angelo while I said it, but he just bent his head to light a cigarette with calm deliberation. Then he looked at me through the smoke, slowly, almost in challenge.
His lip was inflamed, I noticed, and remembered what Dave had said about Marc hitting him. There was also a nasty cut just below his right eye, just scabbing over, which Dave hadn't mentioned. Was that work, I wondered, or pleasure?
“But they said there wasn't anything on those tapes,” Dave objected.
I remembered Terry's client book. There wasn't a DC for Dave Clemmens listed under the number for the New Adelphi, which surely meant that, if Dave wasn't hiring out blue movies from Terry, he was in the clear. There was a GB, on the other hand. Gary Bignold, possibly? There was no L either, although I didn't know Len's surname. I made a mental note to ask Marc later, just to be sure.
For now, I shrugged as though the whole thing was of minor importance. “Don't look at me,” I said. “All I know is, they're bringing in some spotty computer nerd tomorrow to look at that weekend's tapes, and he reckons he can get something out of them. Why don't you ask the boss about it, if you're so worried?”
“He's not in tonight,” Len said, grumpy. He pointedly checked his watch. “And that doesn't mean you lot can slack off. Get your kit and let's get this place opened up on time, right?”
I hung around while everyone collected their walkie-talkies, then moved up one of the spiral staircases and made my way surreptitiously to the manager's office on the second floor.
I tapped on the locked door. Marc came to let me in, then went back to his desk to complete a phone call. He waved me into one of the leather chairs opposite, and I took it to wait until he'd finished.
Behind him was a bank of half a dozen television monitors, showing black-and-white pictures from the security cameras around the club. The outside ones covered bits of the car park, including the main entrance, and round the back where I'd tucked the Suzuki away.
I looked round the office as Marc talked on. It was furnished in a fairly spartan, modern style, limed oak cupboards and minimalist light fittings over abstract paintings. Through a partially open doorway I could see a private toilet and washbasin. Just so the manager didn't have to mix with the proles, not for any reason.
Marc's desk was large, with curvy sides and a fashionably modern matt-finish surface. The chair behind it was a high-backed leather swivel job, in the best James Bond villain tradition. There was a low suede sofa against one wall that looked like it had been designed purely for its stylish appearance, with no regard to comfort.
Over on the cupboards was a stainless steel coffee machine, with half a pot of coal-black liquid gently steaming. The smell of it was enough to set my mouth watering. I looked at it longingly and Marc caught my gaze.
He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Help yourself,” he murmured, smiling. “Two sugars in mine.”
I poured for us both, discovering a small built-in fridge containing the milk behind one of the cupboard doors, like a hotel mini-bar. All mod cons.
Marc finished his call and sipped his coffee. “So,” he said, “Are we all primed up and ready?”
“I think so,” I replied. “None of them seem to have cottoned on to the fact that you're here, and Len took the bait beautifully.”
Marc nodded.
“D'you think – if it is Angelo – he'll bite?” I asked, frowning. My nerves were jittering and I was so taut it was making my head ache.
“I don't see how he can't,” he said confidently. “If he's been responsible, and he's got away with it so far, how can he fail to be burnt up by the fact that there might be some evidence he's overlooked?”
He put down his cup and moved smoothly round the desk, perching on it in front of me. His black suit and dark hair made him suddenly look like Lucifer. His fingers were cool on my face, making me jump. “Don't worry, Charlie. If it's him – he’ll come,” he promised solemnly. “And if he does, we’ll get him.”
I didn’t reply to that, just drained my cup and put it back by the coffee machine. Marc went to check the office door was secured, removing the key from the mortice lock.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I queried as he dropped the key onto the desktop. “What if he comes and tries the door, finds it’s locked, and simply goes away again.”
“The office door is usually locked when I’m not here,” he said. “It would be more suspicious for it not to be. Besides, Len leaves his keys in his locker. It wouldn’t be that difficult for someone to get hold of them, if they really wanted to.”
I nodded, appreciating the logic. “So, what do we do now?” I asked, on edge.
Marc turned off all the lights except a small desk lamp. “Now,” he said, smiling whitely in the semi-darkness, “we wait.”
***
We waited for three hours.
Three hours during which time the clock slowed to half-speed, while my heartrate alternately over-revved or stopped altogether, in line with every unexpected noise from outside the door.
We heard the club opening up, the music getting under way. The melody was indistinct through the various walls and floors between us and the source. Only the beat of the bass came through.
