by MA Comley
“Sounds good to me. Are you going to be long here?” her father asked, already setting off for the gate that led out of the compound.
“Another half an hour or so, why?”
“I’m making pancakes for breakfast. Thought I’d give my girl a treat on her first day back at work in the real world.”
At the mention of pancakes, Lorne’s stomach grumbled. “Sounds great, Dad. Lashings of apricot jam for me, please.”
After her father left, she took the setter inside and placed it in a kennel with fresh water and a bowl of food. The dog attacked the food as if it would disappear into thin air at any moment if he didn’t.
That was the trouble with strays. They tended to bolt their food down, remembering what it was like to go without for days on end.
“Hungry boy.” Tony’s voice startled her.
“I hope he finds a home soon. He’s crying out to be loved by a kind family. I must remember to place an ad in the local over the weekend. John said he’d run one every week for free, providing he has the space in the column. It’d be daft not to take him up on his kind offer. Do you want to give me a hand?”
Lorne continued to exercise the dogs one by one, while Tony cleaned the kennels and replenished the water and food bowls.
Twenty minutes later, they walked through the back door of the house to the wonderful smell of freshly made pancakes. Lorne eagerly eyed the pile sitting on top of the range. Tony and she scrubbed their hands then tucked into the pancakes, the pile decreased rapidly one by one.
“Yum! You still make the best pancakes in Kent, Dad.” Lorne wiped the side of her mouth where the apricot jam had oozed out of the pancake.
Her father joined them at the table. “Flattery will get you everywhere, love.”
Tony nodded and swallowed his mouthful. “I can vouch for that, Sam, I’ve never tasted pancakes as good as these.” He turned to Lorne. “What’s up first, this morning?”
“I need to do an ad for the English setter. Dad, if I leave you the number for John, will you phone it through for me?”
“Of course. I’ll be making a few calls today, as we discussed. One more won’t make a difference.”
“What’s this?” Tony asked.
“I’ll tell you in the car. I want to start making discreet enquiries about Gibson. We need to go to the club, but I don’t think there will be anyone there until this afternoon. Maybe we’ll head into the city first thing and see if we can find Gibson. Until I find out some gossip about him, it’ll just be a case of surveillance to begin with, and I’d like to see if I can track down the ex-girlfriend later.” Lorne popped another forkful of pancake into her mouth.
Tony nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense to keep the guy under observation for a few days. Are you going to ring the girls to see how Blackie has settled in?”
“Thought I’d do that about lunchtime. Eat up, and we’ll set off before the traffic starts to build up.”
The traffic heading into London wasn’t just bad—it was absolutely nightmarish. After paying the congestion charge, Lorne and Tony made their way into the heart of the money sector. At two minutes to seven thirty, she parked her father’s car in a space close to Gibson’s place of work and waited.
Tony looked at his watch. “I doubt he’ll turn up until five minutes to nine.”
He leaned his head against the headrest, and Lorne got the feeling he was about to sneak a quick forty winks. “We’ll see. You could always make yourself useful and try to find us a coffee.”
He reluctantly opened the car door and walked up the high street. Her wait was uneventful. He returned with two disposable coffee cartons and handed her one.
She took a sip and immediately screwed up her face. “Yuck! That’s black and very strong.”
“The guy said he was out of milk.”
Lorne got out of the car and threw the carton in a nearby rubbish bin. When she returned to the car, she pointed out the side window towards the office block they were keeping an eye on. “That’s him.”
“Dressed to impress, I see.” Tony retrieved his binoculars from the back seat.
Lorne nodded and watched as Gibson, walking with three young women who seemed to be hanging on his every word, laughed as they made their way towards the building. “Well, he doesn’t seem to have a problem attracting the ladies, does he?”
Tony’s expression was full of disgust. “If that’s the case, then why does he have to go out and rape women?”
“That, dear hubby, is what I intend to find out. Maybe we’ll get a better idea about what makes him tick this afternoon, when we try to track down his ex.”
“Where to now?” Tony asked as the group they had been watching disappeared through the front door of the building and out of sight.
It was too early to go to the nightclub. Lorne mulled over her husband’s question for several seconds. “I know. We’ve got a few hours to kill. Why don’t we track down a printer and get some cards made?”
“Cards? As in business cards? For the PI business or the kennels?”
Lorne smiled at him and started the car. “Both, I suppose. Although I think we should concentrate on the PI business first, until Dad finds out if we can take in boarders or not.”
The driver of a red sports car motioned for her to pull out in front of him, into a gap in traffic. Lorne acknowledged him with a quick wave and headed into town.
She parked on the third level of the multi-storey car park, and they took the stairs down to the shopping precinct.
“Here you go. I don’t really think we should be spending out a fortune on top-quality printing yet, just in case,” Tony noted as they stopped outside Kall Kwik, the printers.
Lorne raised a sceptical eyebrow. “And why’s that, sweetheart?”
He smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “Just in case, you know.”
She tutted and walked into the shop before him, not bothering to hold the door open. She heard him swear under his breath when the glass edge of the door connected with his forehead. Take that, big guy, for doubting me and my new business.
A young man in his late teens with a bad case of acne approached them. “Can I help you?”
Lorne looked around at all the equipment in the shop and at how many of the assistants were busy working, churning out printed letterheads or photocopying coloured flyers. “We’d like some business cards.”
“Certainly. If you’d like to follow me.” He walked through the shop to a table at the rear, which had several bulky sample books spread across its surface. “These are the cards that are outsourced, as we call it—a better quality product that our printers make off-site. The delivery is seven to ten days on those. Or we could quickly create you something on the computer and have them printed up on card within an hour or so.”
“Sold. The latter option is fine by me. I—sorry, we—really need them today.”
“No problem.” The assistant left them and walked behind the expansive counter. He returned a few seconds, later carrying a laptop. “I’ll just pull up the templates.”
Lorne stared at the screen, agog at the hundreds of choices available. “Crikey, I wouldn’t know what to choose. There is such a thing as too much choice, you know.”
Tony gently moved Lorne to one side. “Right. We want plain white cards, nothing fancy. This font, Times New Roman. This size for the heading, and this one for the rest.” Tony then wrote down the details the printers needed for the card and handed it to the young man. He glanced sideways at Lorne and winked at her.
She felt glad and relieved that she’d brought him along. She had a feeling the whole process would have taken her hours not minutes to sort out, otherwise. She nodded at the assistant. “That’s what we want.”
Amused, the assistant tapped away at the keyboard for the next five minutes, then swivelled the laptop in their direction.
When Lorne read the card, pride overwhelmed her, and her eyes unexpectedly misted up.
Tony flung an arm around her sho
ulders. “I take it you’re happy with that?”
The words stuck in her throat and refused to pass her lips, she simply nodded her approval.
“Perfect. We’ll be back in an hour or so,” Tony told the assistant. “Come on, Mrs. Warner. We’ll grab a coffee while we wait.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
An hour later, armed with their newly printed batch of business cards, Lorne and Tony headed through the city back out to where the nightclub was situated.
“How are we going to handle this?” Tony asked. She saw him cringe out of the corner of her eye as she grated her way through the gears after pulling away from the lights.
“Nicely, at first. I’m going to be up front with them. Tell them that we’re PIs investigating an attack on their premises. Let’s see what type of reaction we get. I’m sure the police have already questioned the manager about the incident; I’d be very surprised if they haven’t.”
“Did Katy say they had?”
Lorne looked at him. “I forgot to ask, to be honest. We’ll soon find out, anyway.”
They parked in the club’s large car park at the rear and knocked on the back door. Lorne glanced at her watch; it was almost eleven. No response.
Tony banged his fist on the door and placed his ear against it. “Well, someone’s in there; I can hear music.”
“Shall we try round the front?” Lorne asked, looking over her shoulder.
When they arrived, they couldn’t find any sign of a bell beside the big leatherette cushioned door, so Tony banged on it hard with his clenched fist, but it proved to be pointless.
Just when they were about to give up, a young woman walked up behind them. The blonde, in her twenties, was dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut red top.
She gave them a puzzled look and abruptly asked, “You want something?”
“To get in would be nice,” Lorne replied with a smile. It was hard for Lorne to judge the way the blonde was appraising her; disdain came to mind.
“Why?” The girl’s gaze turned to Tony. She looked him up and down with the same disapproving look.
Lorne smiled sweetly. “I’ll tell the manager that, if you don’t mind.”
The blonde hitched up one of her shoulders. “He ain’t in.”
If you want to play games with me, sweetie, you’re gonna have to do better than that. “And you’d know that how?”
“Sorry?”
“I just wondered if you had some kind of magic powers that allowed you to see through, what, a six-inch door?”
The girl gave her a disapproving glare. “I just know. He don’t tend to arrive until middayish.”
Lorne glanced at the clock on the church tower up the road, it was twenty minutes before midday. “Is that so? We’ll come in and wait then, if it’s all right with you.”
The door swung open, and a scrawny guy with a short goatee beard cautiously eyed Lorne and Tony. “Mindy, good to see you. Come in, babe. And who are you?”
Tony took a step forward, but Lorne latched onto his forearm to stop him. She withdrew a newly printed card from her bag and handed it to the guy. “We’re private investigators. We’d like to speak to the manager or owner of the club.”
Mindy walked through the door and whispered something in goatee beard’s ear.
He attempted to shut the door on them, but Tony was quicker. Yanking the door out of the guy’s hand, Tony ushered Lorne before him and into the club. He stood a few inches in front of the man, resorting back to his MI6 intimidation tactics. “Thanks for the invite, pal.”
The guy received the message and instantly backed down. “Go through to the bar. I’ll give the boss a call.”
Tony and Lorne waited, both sipping a glass of orange juice, on one of the violet velour banquettes in the main bar area. The nightclub looked as though it had recently been refurbished.
Lorne admired the designer’s expertise in creating a sumptuous atmosphere. The blend of violet, chrome, and glass had given the club a truly decadent feel. She’d need to come back at night with all the disco lights working, just to see if the designer had pulled off the desired effect he or she had tried to accomplish.
After twenty minutes, Tony’s patience ran out of steam. He drummed his fingers on the glossy black table. “What the hell is taking him so long?”
“Not a strong suit of yours, is it?” Lorne said amused.
“What, patience? Not really. Guess I tend to think people are pulling a fast one when they delay meetings.”
Lorne shook her head and glanced at Mindy behind the bar. “Trouble is, we don’t know where he lives, Tony. His house could be out in the sticks, somewhere fifty miles away. Or he could’ve been in a meeting or something. I’m going to ask the charming Mindy a few questions while we wait.”
“Huh! Best of luck with that.”
The girl saw Lorne approach and busied herself with cleaning the already sparkling bar. Lorne perched on a stool in front of her. “Been working here long, have you?”
“A year or so,” Mindy replied tersely.
Lorne nodded and played with a coaster. “So you know quite a few of the regulars then?”
“Kind of.” The colour rose in Mindy’s cheeks.
Hmm…My guess is she knows a few of the regulars more than a little bit. “Do you have a boyfriend, Mindy?”
The girl’s expression turned to one of confusion. “What’s that got to do with you?”
“Doesn’t it go with the territory? You must get chatted up all the time, don’t you?”
The girl shook her head as she wiped the bar faster. “Yeah, like on a daily basis. It gets tedious after a while. Still not sure where you’re heading with your questions.” She paused and carefully studied Lorne.
“Have you had any dealings with a Graham Gibson?”
The girl’s eyes went wide, and she began rubbing at the bar again, faster and harder, as she shook her head in denial.
Lorne placed her hand on top of Mindy’s. “Something tells me that you have. Come on, Mindy. What do you know?”
The other woman’s eyes moistened, and she nervously looked around the club. “I can’t say.”
Lorne lowered her voice and leaned towards her. “Why?”
She backed away from the bar and scraped a nervous hand through her hair. “Please, I just can’t. I’ve said too much already.”
“But you haven’t told me anything, yet. Has he hurt you, Mindy?”
Before the woman could answer, a thickset man appeared beside Lorne. Mindy left the bar, her head bowed as if ashamed.
“And you are?” The man eyed Lorne with disdain.
“Lorne Simpkins. You?” She offered her hand, but he ignored it. Sensing trouble, Lorne motioned with her head in Tony’s direction. “And he’s my partner.”
Slowly the man turned to face Tony, whose mouth stretched into a menacing grin.
A half-smile replaced the man’s sneer. He offered his hand.
Lorne shook the offered hand, regretting it when he gave an intimidating squeeze that made her wince.
“Ted Owen. I own this place. The doorman said you’re a PI?”
“That’s right. I—sorry, we—wanted to ask you a few questions about an incident that took place last week outside your club.”
Owen dropped on to the stool next to Lorne. “The incident that the police have already asked me about, you mean?”
“Probably. The rape incident.”
He shrugged. “I can only tell you what I told the boys in blue. Afraid I know nothing about it.”
Lorne had expected that response. She kept her voice calm, despite the frustration building in the pit of her stomach. “What about CCTV. You do have that, don’t you?”
“Of course.” His tone had turned cocky, and his eyes were smiling. “Unfortunately, we had a glitch in the system that evening.”
Lorne raised an eyebrow. “A glitch? Or did someone turn the machine off?”
Owen laughed and looked over at Tony. “Your partner
here has a vivid imagination.” His gaze returned to Lorne. “It was a definite glitch. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a few calls to make.” He got off the stool and thrust out his hand again for her to shake.
Lorne decided to push him further. “I’m guessing one of those calls is going to be to Graham Gibson.”
For a fraction of a second, he glared at her before his half-smile returned. “And why would I do that?”
“You’re not denying that you know him, then?”
“He’s a regular punter. Why would I deny that?”
Lorne slipped off her stool and took a step toward him. “I don’t know. Maybe covering up for a friend of yours—though why anyone would want to be friends with a scumbag like that is beyond me.”
His brow furrowed. “Scumbag? You have one bitch’s word that he did it. You do know he’s well off, don’t you?”
Lorne laughed. “You know what, Mr. Owen? Sometimes his type are the worst. Often they think just because they’re wealthy, they can have anything that takes their fancy—by force, if necessary.”
“Says you.”
“Says me and ten years’ experience in the Met, dealing day in and day out with the likes of him. Criminals come in all shapes and sizes, and from every conceivable background, Mr. Owen. None of them have it engraved on their foreheads—although if I had my way, I’d ensure they did. I’ll let you get on with making your calls, and if you should happen to ring Mr. Gibson, be sure to let him know I’m on his case, won’t you?”
Owen smirked. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
Lorne and Tony left the club.
Outside, she told Tony, “I hate it when they throw the ‘you know he’s rich, don’t you’ card around. If I wasn’t determined before to nail Gibson, I bloody well am now.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fiona arrived home from work to find Ami staring at Blackie. The dog was busy chomping his way through a rawhide bone that Lorne had left for him. “Everything all right?”