'The cafes, the bars, the clip-joints,' Finn continued. 'In the bookshops, too, there's something familiar about them, every one of them. Even the same punters, it seems.' He chuckled. 'I was flicking through a couple of magazines at that last place.' He smiled. 'More cunts than a meeting of the Arsenal supporters' club.' The DS shook his head, still grinning.
Gregson didn't return the smile. He merely sipped at his strong coffee and ran a hand through his hair.
'Yeah, the places look familiar and the answers are starting to sound familiar, too,' he said wearily. 'No, never seen him. Never heard anything. Didn't see anything.'
'I wonder if any of the other blokes are having better luck.'
'Are you serious? This whole fucking area is sewn up tighter than a nun's crotch,' Gregson grunted.
'Then why are we here?'
'Because it's our job.'
Finn sucked gently on his cigarette and looked across the table at Gregson, who was peering through the window into the street beyond.
'You knew it was going to be like this, Frank,' he said. 'You knew that no one around here was going to help us. Why call a search in the first place?'
'Procedure,' Gregson told him.
'Bullshit,' Finn said, smiling thinly. 'What do you know?'
'I know that we should be asking questions instead of sitting on our arses drinking cups of tea,' the DI told him, pushing his half-empty cup away.
'Come on, tell me the truth,' Finn persisted. 'You owe me that. We've been working together long enough. If I had a hunch or an idea about these killings I'd tell you.'
Gregson smiled thinly.
'The idea I had was crazy,' he said slowly, 'illogical. Impossible, even. I checked it out. You remember I said to you that the only thing any witnesses could agree on about the first bloke who killed himself was his staring eyes?'
Finn nodded.
'I checked the files, because that rung a bell somewhere. We arrested a bloke called Peter Lawton for a series of armed robberies. Remember me telling you?'
'Yes, I do,' said the DS. 'He's banged up, though, isn't he?'
'In Whitely Prison in Derbyshire. Yeah. He has been for the last six years.'
Finn looked vague.
'The second killer, the one who murdered the girl, I checked out his MO because that sounded familiar, too.'
'And?'
'It matched with the MO of a guy called Mathew Bryce who was also arrested over eighteen months ago. He's doing time in Whitely as well. What conclusions can you draw from that?'
Finn shrugged.
'That someone copied them,' he said.
'Or that they both escaped and duplicated the crimes they were originally arrested for.' Gregson smiled when he saw the look on Finn's face. 'See why I didn't mention it before? It's fucking crazy. We know they didn't escape because we would have heard, the whole country would have heard. They're still inside Whitely.' The phrase on both the files he'd read re-surfaced in his mind.
'That still doesn't explain why they torched themselves,' Finn observed.
Gregson shrugged.
'On that point,' he said, 'your guess is as good as mine.' The DI got to his feet and headed for the door. The other occupants of the cafe watched him go. Finn left some money for the tea and coffee on the table, then fed change into the cigarette machine and pulled a packet out. He joined his superior at the door, pulling up the collar of his jacket as they stepped out into the street.
'Where to next?' he said, cupping his hand around the Marlboro he was trying to light.
'Over there,' said Gregson, nodding in the direction of the neon-shrouded building opposite.
The lights formed the word 'Loveshow'.
FIFTY-TWO
'Scotty. Police.'
Zena Murray emphasised the last word with distaste, stepping back to allow the two plain clothes men into Jim Scott's office. Gregson was the first in and he looked across at Scott indifferently as Finn entered, smiling thinly by way of a greeting.
'What can I do for you?' Scott wanted to know. 'The licence is in order, we haven't had any trouble on the premises and, as far as I know, my boss is bunging the back-handers in the right places. So, what can I help you with?'
'A comedian, eh?' said Gregson, flatly. 'Everyone's a fucking comic when the law arrive, aren't they?' The two men locked stares for a moment. 'You're Jim Scott, right? Manager of this… place?'
Scott nodded.
'Ray Plummer owns it, doesn't he?' Finn added, looking around the office.
'Actually it's a tax dodge for the Prime Minister,' Scott said smugly. 'What does it matter?'
'Look, Scott, we don't want to be here any more than you want us to be here,' Gregson told him. if I wanted to wade around in shit I'd go for a walk down a sewer. We just want to ask you a few questions and get out. We've already spoken to your staff. The quicker you answer our questions the quicker we'll be out of your hair.'
Scott glanced at each of the policemen in turn, then motioned to the chairs close to his desk.
'Have a seat,' he offered.
'No thanks,' said Gregson, wrinkling his nose.
'It's no problem, I can get it disinfected afterwards,' Scott told him.
Gregson met the other man's gaze and pulled a small photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket. He dropped it on to the desk in front of Scott who picked it up, studying the outlines of Paula Wilson's face.
'That girl was killed a couple of streets away from here the night before last. Have you seen her around here before?' the DI wanted to know.
'We don't get many girls coming in here as spectators,' Scott said, tossing the photo back across the desk.
'She might have come in with a boyfriend. This is supposed to be a show for couples to watch too, isn't it?' Gregson observed.
'Never seen her. I'm usually in here. I don't go out front much.'
'This is the nerve centre, is it?' Gregson said, smiling, scornfully. 'Where all the big decisions are taken?'
'I told you, I don't know the girl. I can't help you. Why don't you piss off? And don't forget to shut the door on your way out.' Scott sat down at his desk and turned his attention to the ledger he had before him.
'How many staff have you got here?' Finn asked.
'It varies. Between six and eight,' Scott told him.
'And you're in charge of all of them?' Gregson said with mock respect. 'What it must be to have responsibility, eh?'
Scott glared at the DI.
'I don't remember you showing me any fucking ID.' he snapped.
