When Isaac returned, Livingstone noticed the bouncer’s attitude had undergone a subtle change and he seemed marginally less truculent than before, which seemed to confuse Andre. ‘If you go and wait by the door, someone will be out to collect you shortly,’ he told Livingstone, indicating for his brother to move aside and let the smaller man go past.
A few moments later, the VIP door opened inward and, as the sound of music escaped, he found himself staring into the chest of a bald-headed black giant who was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. The giant didn’t bother Livingstone with pointless questions about who he was or why he was here. ‘Follow me,’ he simply said, and immediately headed back into the club without waiting for a response.
Livingstone followed the man through the VIP reception area, which was bigger and plusher than he’d expected it to be.
His guide, who appeared to be in a hurry, led him past a cloakroom staffed by a smiling attendant, a couple of fancy looking restrooms, and several plush sofas where well-dressed guests nursing their drinks sat chatting. The further into the club they went, the louder the trashy music became.
Up ahead, another gorilla in a dinner jacket was stationed by a set of doors that led into the club’s interior, ensuring that only the entitled got in. They never got that far, though, because the giant suddenly veered off to his left and keyed open a heavy wooden door marked “Private – staff only”.
‘The manager’s office is the third door on your right,’ he informed Livingstone, impatiently waving him on as he paused to close and re-lock the door that they had both just passed through. ‘Wait in there.’
Livingstone did as he was bid.
The manager’s office was a good size, well-lit and comfortably furnished. The walls were bare, but the magnolia paintwork looked clean, and the grey carpet was thick underfoot. Directly in front of him, a big mahogany desk dominated the room’s centre. Apart from two telephones it was devoid of clutter. A regal looking gold framed King-Throne chair, complete with ornate carvings and a plush covering of red velvet, stood behind it, while three cheap looking Wing-Back chairs with dark blue plastic upholstery had been arranged in a semi-circle at the front of the desk.
Behind the desk was a solitary window; it was barred, making the room feel more like a prison cell than an office.
There was an informal seating area to Livingstone’s right, which consisted of a three-seater leather sofa and two matching armchairs arranged around a large glass-topped coffee table. Beyond this was a long, granite-topped, bar with three padded swivel stools in front of it. A floor to ceiling cabinet, full of expensive looking bottles and an array of different shaped glasses, was secured to the wall immediately behind the bar.
The room’s left-hand wall was home to several banks of CCTV monitors, each providing different internal and external views of the club. Beneath these, a steel table had been bolted to the wall, and this housed a large hard drive and the various toggle like controls for moving the cameras around and zooming them in or out. It was an impressive set up, allowing the manager to monitor everything that happened inside the club without ever having to leave his office.
Various feeds – some colour, some infrared – were currently showing. Livingstone could see live-time images of people gyrating under the strobe lighting of the packed dance floor; groups of animated guests standing around on the mezzanine level above them, cocktails in hand; the different themed bars within the club, all of which looked to be doing a roaring trade; the main foyer, where some of the people he’d seen outside were now paying to get in; the VIP reception and lounge he’d entered the club through; the staff only corridor he had just been shown along; both the VIP and regular customer entrances, still respectively manned by the Eastern Europeans and the Africans, and the car park at the rear, which contained several parked cars, all of which looked to be high end models.
The final camera showed what appeared to be a large empty basement, and Livingstone found himself wondering why anyone would need to have a live CCTV feed from there. Perhaps it was in case the club was burgled out of hours, or to deter light-fingered staff from helping themselves to stock on delivery days?
Suddenly feeling in need of a stiff drink, Livingstone crossed to the bar to see what it had to offer. He was just pouring himself a large glass of eighteen-year-old Macallan whisky when the door opened and the black giant from earlier entered the room. Strutting over to the desk like he owned the place, he flopped down in the throne and hoisted his size fifteen feet onto the desk, setting them down with a loud thud.
‘Ah, I see you found the drinks cabinet, Mr Livingstone. Good, good. Now, please have a seat and let’s get down to business.’
Livingstone chose the middle of the three chairs facing the desk. Sitting down slowly, he crossed his legs, tugged at a small crease that had appeared in his trousers, and took a sip of his drink, savouring the full-bodied taste. ‘My compliments to the owner, bruv,’ he commented, raising the glass appreciatively. ‘He has good taste in whisky.’
The giant grinned broadly, revealing gold capped canines that made him look like a gangsta vampire. ‘I agree, but then again I would – I am the owner.’
‘Is that right?’ Livingstone said, sounding totally uninterested. ‘No offence, blood, but my time’s precious, and my business is of a sensitive nature. The middleman I went through told me I
