Behind Dead Eyes (24 page)

Tom's
train into London was half an hour late. It was met by an army of impatient cleaners and station staff keen to shoo the passengers from it as quickly as possible so they could turn it around for the return trip that evening. It hadn't taken Ian Bradshaw long to come back to him with information about Mirage. As Tom had guessed from the business card, it was a ‘Gentleman's Club'.

Places like Mirage had been springing up all over London lately, thanks to the relaxing of attitudes around the sale of sexual services. Stripping in working men's clubs or the back rooms of dodgy pubs had been replaced by more open, respectable and far more lucrative lap dancing clubs like Mirage, which was owned by a man named Andre Devine. He was seen as ‘pretty clean' for that world, with no known connections to organised crime but Bradshaw had stressed the word
known
and warned Tom to be careful. ‘So you're off to conduct research into naked women?'

‘The things I do to solve your cases for you.'

Mirage seemed like just the place for a troubled young runaway like Diane Turner and if she was there maybe she could shed some new light on the disappearance of her confidante, Sandra Jarvis.

Tom stepped out of King's Cross station and made straight for the Underground, taking the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square. He cut through Chinatown with its myriad restaurants and exotic grocery stores before entering Soho from
Greek Street. He knew his way around well enough from a six-month stint on the country's biggest-selling tabloid. Soho was always good for stories.

In any other town, a sex shop with painted-out windows would be relegated to a quiet side street. Here, on Old Compton Street, bondage and fetish gear was openly modelled in shop windows by mannequins with loose morals. However, Soho wasn't given over completely to the sale of sex and the contrast was striking. Ronnie Scott's famous jazz club was just a few doors from a scruffy property with a handwritten sign on a wall that offered a ‘new blonde' in its cellar and the Groucho Club lay opposite an opened doorway which led to a steep staircase promising a ‘model' on the next floor. There was nowhere else like it in England.

Mirage was housed in a large building that straddled a corner of Brewer Street. A big red sign featuring a shapely girl in naked silhouette hung above its door, promising a sexual heaven behind its blacked-out windows. A single finger was pressed to her lips as if to imply Mirage was a secret only a few were permitted to know.

Graham bought Helen a curry. It was to thank her, her editor said, for all of her hard work but he seemed a little nervous and she got the impression he didn't do this sort of thing all the time. He was preoccupied when they ordered but it was a good meal, served at a curry house in a street just off the Bigg Market. They chatted amiably enough and the subjects varied from their families to earlier jobs and he told her some of the war stories he'd accrued during his years in journalism.

‘Were you one of the fifteen million then?' asked Graham during a lull in conversation.

‘Is that how many tuned in?'

‘So they say.'

‘Well, it was compulsive viewing,' she said.

‘What was that line again?'

Helen recited it for him: ‘ “There were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.” '

Graham nodded. ‘Devastating to Charles, wasn't it?'

‘The woman who would have been the next Queen of England admits adultery in a TV interview? Who could ever have imagined it? Apparently James Hewitt could actually be charged with treason for sleeping with the wife of the monarch. He'd have been hanged, drawn and quartered in Henry VIII's day.'

‘So what? The royals have been doing it for centuries. Everybody's at it these days.'

‘Not everybody,' said Helen quickly.

When Graham politely enquired about Helen's boyfriend moments later it put her at her ease again. She liked and respected her editor too much to simply brush it off if he turned out to be one of those men whose wives
didn't understand them
.

It was only after he had asked for the bill that his tone turned serious. ‘I had an uncomfortable meeting the other day,' he confided, and when she didn't know how to respond to this, Graham expanded: ‘The managing director and one of the group's in-house lawyers came down,' he explained. ‘I was being warned off. It wasn't as explicit as that but I could tell they were worried.'

‘Because of the stories I've been writing?'

‘Partly,' he admitted. ‘They were careful not to mention specifics and they stressed that I retain full editorial control, but they were very keen to talk about the future and how rosy it could be for me …'

‘If you didn't rock the boat?'

‘You catch on quickly, young lady,' Graham told her. ‘We must have stepped on some very important toes lately and that invites scrutiny from worried investors. No one is entirely immune from that in journalism, even us, especially us, since our parent company is losing money hand over fist these days.'

‘What did you say?'

‘I said they needn't worry about me. I'm in it for the long haul. I said I knew what I was doing. They didn't seem convinced. The stakes are getting higher,' he told her and for the first time he looked genuinely nervous. ‘Editors can be dispensed with for any number of reasons. I've seen it happen.'

So this was the reason for the curry and more than an hour's idle chit-chat. Graham was finally coming to the point.

‘What do you want me to do?' She expected he would tell her to back off then. Unlike Helen, he had a wife and family to worry about.

‘Nothing, for now,' he told her, ‘you carry on being our top investigative reporter; just make sure that you're right, that's all – or we could both be out of a job.'

‘Right,' she said.

So much for print and be damned.

Tom must have looked respectable enough, as the doorman let him in unchallenged. Getting beyond the girl who took his money was harder; he had to pay her twice. There was a membership fee then a one-off admission charge before he was even admitted to the club. This place was a licence to print money.

The sight that greeted him was a surreal one. Aside from the bar staff, the only men in the place were dressed in suits and surrounded by a large group of girls who played the room. The girls were all dressed in elaborate lingerie but nothing else. A handful of them marched straight up to Tom and encouraged him to buy a private dance before he even had time to order a drink.

‘Not just yet.' His refusal was greeted by disinterest or outright hostility from the girls.

‘You can't just sit here,' one of them told him, as if he planned to enjoy the view without paying for it.

He ignored her, went to the bar and ordered a single bottle of beer, which cost him a fiver. This was going to be an expensive night and he doubted that DCI Kane would allow any of it to be claimed back on expenses.

Tom sipped his beer and watched the girls coldly. He had no interest in their hustling of the businessmen or the gyrations that followed. He was looking for Diane Turner but none of these girls looked anything like her.

A girl approached him then. She was a strikingly attractive brunette who was less direct than the others. ‘Taking your time?'

‘I'm looking for a girl …'

‘Then you're in the right place.' She smiled.

Tom took a chance. ‘I'm looking for
this
girl.' He slid the photograph of Diane Turner from his pocket, keeping his hand over the image of Callie so she wouldn't confuse the two.

Her smile vanished. ‘You a copper?' The accent was harsher than before, betraying her East End origins.

‘No,' he said, ‘I'm just …' But she was already leaving and he thought he detected a look she had given someone.

Seconds later, Tom's instinct was proved right when two huge doormen appeared out of nowhere, blocking his path. ‘Can I help you?' asked one as if that was the furthest thing from his mind.

‘Possibly …' offered Tom, who was unsure of the best tactic to employ if he was not going to be thrown out on the street, or worse.

‘Show me,' demanded the man and he held out a hand. He must have seen Tom show the picture to the girl.

‘I'm looking for her.' He handed it over.

The doorman glanced at it for a moment but did not say whether he knew either of the girls and he held on to the photograph. ‘Why are you looking for her in here?' There was a definite hint of menace in his voice as if Tom had brought trouble to the establishment.

‘I heard she might be working for Mr Devine,' said Tom, ‘and I'd like to speak with him if I may.'

‘And who the fuck are you?'

‘I'm a journalist and I'm investigating the disappearance of a young girl. I think Mr Devine might be able to help me.'

‘Doubt it,' said the doorman. ‘You wait here.' And he walked away, taking the photograph with him, to Tom's alarm, since he didn't have a copy. The other doorman remained, towering over Tom, who took a long drink from his expensive bottle of beer. He had a feeling that, either way, he wouldn't be standing with it there for much longer.

Moments later Tom was in a first-floor office with his arms outstretched while one of the doormen ran his hands briskly up and down his body. ‘First time I've been patted down before an interview,' said Tom, ‘but I suppose you can't be too careful.'

‘You claim you're a journalist,' answered Andre Devine from behind his desk, ‘but I cannot afford to believe everyone I meet.'

‘It's still dangerous to own a club in Soho? Well I'm not carrying a weapon, only a pen.'

Devine was a big man with silver hair, which made it difficult to age him. He spoke with a slight accent; he could have been German or Swiss but his English was perfect. ‘The pen is mightier than the sword,' he said, ‘but not as dangerous as a gun. Sit down, Mr Carney, and explain to me what a journalist is doing in my establishment. This is no brothel. My competitors are the Windmill Club and Paul Raymond, not some low-grade titty bar or coin-in-the-slot peep show. We are high end. I run a respectable place with very lovely girls. There's full nudity, sure, but absolutely no sex on the premises and no soliciting from the ladies off-premises either. Go back out there,' he urged Tom, ‘try and get one girl, any of them, to come back to your hotel room tonight for money and see how far you get.'

‘I don't doubt it – but I'm not writing a story on prostitution in Soho, or anywhere else. I'm not actually writing a story at all in fact.'

‘A journalist who does not write stories?' Devine raised his eyebrows.

Tom explained how he had travelled from the north-east to investigate Sandra Jarvis's disappearance and her link with Diane, though he did not admit he was working with the police. He was a private contractor, hired by concerned relatives in Newcastle. Tom realised the bouncer had given Devine the photograph, which was face up on the man's desk. ‘I'm trying to find the girl on the right.'

Andre Devine surveyed the photograph then said, ‘I do
not recognise her,' and he frowned. ‘This girl is far too young in any case.'

‘Even with false documents?'

‘You think a fake ID will get her through this door? They would send her away. Nobody works here who is under twenty-one. If you want a teenager to dance for you, we send you a girl who is older but looks younger – and there are plenty of girls to choose from because the money is very good. We have too much to lose using underage girls. They would close me down. Tell me why I would do it? For one punter maybe who likes them very young? No, not here.'

‘Then why would she have your business card in her jacket pocket?' asked Tom.

‘I don't know,' Devine said. He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe someone gave her the card and she tried for a job but was turned away?' He handed the photograph back to Tom. ‘Or …'

‘Or?'

‘Someone wants to make trouble for me. Isn't that the most obvious possibility?'

Tom didn't make a habit of betraying his inner thoughts but for once he felt there was no harm in it for he was angry now about his wasted trip. Devine wasn't acting like a man with something to hide. ‘I'm beginning to think that it is,' he said. ‘Thanks for seeing me. Please call me if she does turn up here.'

Tom knew that Devine could have been lying to him and that Diane might be hiding out back somewhere or just enjoying a night off. She could even be held in the building against her will, but he seriously doubted that. Devine sounded credible and his logic was irrefutable. He was making shedloads of money operating legitimately. Why would
he jeopardise all of that to accommodate a teenage runaway?

‘Mr Carney,' he said as Tom was making to leave, ‘it's still no deal.' When Tom narrowed his eyes at that, confused, Devine said, ‘When you are back in Newcastle, tell Mr McCree it's no deal.'

‘What?' asked Tom. ‘Is Jimmy McCree trying to buy you out? You're a long way from his usual stomping ground.'

‘Forget it,' Devine said and he spread his palms as if it was all a misunderstanding. ‘My mistake.' He left his desk so he could see Tom to the door and place him in the care of the doormen. ‘Safe journey home, Mr Carney. I hope you find the girl you're looking for.'

When he said that, Tom realised exactly what had been going on here.

Meadowlands
was veiled in a fog rendered almost impenetrable by the street lamps. Their yellow glow served only to illuminate the moisture in the air, making it thicker and more ghostly. Bradshaw could make out little beyond the building's shape. Meadowlands was a boxy eighties construction that could have been a small school or community hall. It was set back from the road, with a thick barrier of laurel bushes placed between to protect the residents – or possibly the outside world, depending on your point of view. From his car, which was parked in a residential street, Bradshaw could see through the metal gate that kept the entrance secure. The building's windows all had blinds drawn down over them and a single light above the main door illuminated the entrance.

The detective had driven down here on a whim to check the place out but there was really nothing to see, particularly in this fog. He thought of Tom then. The reporter would be in London now, checking out Mirage, and Bradshaw ruefully imagined his friend surrounded by semi-naked girls while he shivered alone in his car. ‘Short straw again,' he told himself.

He could have flashed his warrant card and gone in but he didn't want anyone to know that Meadowlands was attracting renewed police attention just yet. Instead he watched and he waited. Half an hour later, Bradshaw was just about to give up and pull away from Meadowlands when he was
startled by a sudden thump on his side window. He turned to see a young girl peering down at him and wound down his window.

‘Two packs,' she told him.

‘What?'

‘Of cigs,' she said, but he was none the wiser. ‘And a bottle of vodka.' She grew impatient with him then, as if he was supposed to understand her meaning. ‘Look, if you ain't got them you can buy them at the shop.' She waited then seemed to get annoyed. ‘If you
want
something, go to the shop first. You can't just park here.' Bradshaw belatedly realised his presence in a static car had been misunderstood.

‘No,' he told her, ‘I'm not looking for that.'

‘Ain't you here for …?' She looked flustered then when she realised her mistake. ‘What
are
you here for then?' she demanded angrily.

He wasn't about to let her know he was a police officer. ‘I was waiting for my girlfriend,' he said as he started the ignition, ‘not that it's any of your business.'

‘Yeah,' she sneered, ‘she stood you up then, didn't she?' She was amused by this but Bradshaw was happy for her to accept the lie. She sauntered off then without a care in the world and when he saw her slim figure more clearly now that she stepped away from his car, he wondered if she could be any older than fourteen.

Bradshaw watched her before driving away. A moment later she reached the bottom of the street and swung the metal gate open so she could walk into Meadowlands.

‘We've been taken for mugs, Helen,' Tom told her almost before he was through the door of her flat. ‘I've been thinking about it all day.' And he had, apart from an hour's doze
on the train back from King's Cross, which partially made up for a sleepless night. The cheap hotel he had chosen was too close to the station and trains had rattled by it constantly. ‘Someone has played us.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘I've been an idiot,' he said and he told her about his meeting with Andre Devine. ‘That farce with Callie and Susie.'

‘You think it was staged?' she asked. ‘It looked pretty bloody real to me.'

‘I think the fight was real,' he said. ‘Callie would have to be Meryl Streep to fake that level of anger and the violence was all too real, but think about it. Susie said Diane gave her the jacket when she left for London months before, even though Callie said it was Diane's favourite. Callie just happens to see Susie wearing it for the very first time on the day we visit and, predictably, flies off the handle, but Dean quickly intervenes. He puts Susie in her room with you and drags Callie away, leaving me with the jacket.' Tom shook his head at his own stupidity. ‘He must have known I'd look in the pockets and he knew what I'd find there.'

‘Because he planted it? What makes you so sure?'

‘I've been lied to by experts, Helen, including at least one cabinet minister, but this fellah was baffled by my presence in his club. There was I, expecting to see young girls like Callie and Diane being exploited while everyone turned a blind eye, but it wasn't like that. The place was … I don't know, not
classy
exactly but upmarket and expensive. There was no shortage of beautiful women in their twenties hoovering up cash from business types with more money than sense, and I don't think anyone was being coerced. He doesn't need to use underage girls, the stakes are too high for him to risk it.'

‘Maybe Diane tried to get a job there and they wouldn't let her in?'

‘Perhaps, but I reckon a girl like Diane would have the street-smarts to know she ain't gonna get near the place.'

‘So Dean sent you on a wild-goose chase?'

‘Dean – or someone who controls him.' And he told her Devine's parting comment about Jimmy McCree.

Helen opened her mouth to speak, but her answer was lost in the loud crash as a window violently exploded.