by Bo Brennan
India shrugged. “Don’t tell me, I don’t work here.”
She stepped away from the counter to peruse the e-fit of Mr Potato Head, tacked to the bank wall. Some eagle-eyed customer had scrawled ‘try Toys R Us’ across the bottom. She wished she’d thought of it first, might be a lead worth pursuing.
The security door to her left buzzed. The branch manager cautiously peered out through the reinforced glass panel before beckoning her through. “Good news, I hope, detective,” he said showing her into his office.
“Not really. Your customer service sucks,” she said, settling into a chair opposite his desk. “So does your security. You’ve only got one cashier working again today.”
He smoothed his ugly tie as he settled into his seat. “There’s been an accident on the ring road. Half my staff have been stuck in traffic all morning.”
“That’s convenient,” India said.
“Not for me it’s not. Your colleagues’ inability to organise suitable diversions has left me short staffed.”
India stared at him. “That’s the same excuse you used last month when someone stuck a sawn-off shotgun in Melody Fletcher’s face. She around?”
The manager cleared his throat and clasped his hands together on his desk. “Unfortunately, Miss Fletcher’s no longer with us.”
“Well, I know he didn’t pull the trigger so I’ll hazard a guess that means you don’t employ her anymore. Was that her choice, or yours, Mr O’Neal?”
“It didn’t work out.” He spread his hands and sighed. “She was on a trial period at the time of the robbery. She spent most of it off sick.”
India raised a brow and inclined her head. “You don’t think that might’ve had anything to do with her being traumatised?”
The manager smiled. “That will be for the courts to decide. She’s suing us for personal injury. Apparently, she’s been unable to work since.”
“I’ll look forward to giving her legal representatives my statement, in due course,” India said.
“I’m sure you will.” He leaned back in his chair, casually crossing his legs. “Have you caught him yet?”
India slowly shook her head, as much in response to his question as his attitude to staff welfare. “Nope.”
The bank manager pursed his lips. “And what about an update,” he pressed. “Anything I can take back to the board?”
“Same as last month: update your security and increase your staff numbers.”
“About the robbery,” he said.
“That’s it. Spend a little profit protecting your people, Mr O’Neal. Consider yourself updated.” India rose from her seat. “I’ll swing by Miss Fletcher’s place and update her too. Maybe get those details of her legal reps.”
“Then you’ll be wasting your time, as well as mine,” he said. “Miss Fletcher won’t be at home, detective. She’ll be at work. Wildcatz, Gunwharf Quays. She’s the Monday matinee.”
India jerked her head in surprise. Wildcatz was a well-known strip joint, or whatever they called them these days. She couldn’t imagine the timid, traumatised bank cashier getting her kit off for cash, no matter how hard up she was. “And you know this how exactly?”
The bank manager pulled a file from his drawer and smugly handed it over. “Insurance investigators.”
The file looked well-thumbed, the bank manager pretty pleased. India flicked through the surveillance pictures of scantily clad women, not entirely sure who she was looking at. “Which one’s supposed to be Melody Fletcher?”
“All of them,” he sneered. “The woman has quite a repertoire. Doesn’t look very traumatised, does she? I’d think twice about giving that witness statement if I were you.”
India pushed her jacket aside to reveal handcuffs attached to her belt. “That sounded suspiciously like a threat, Mr O’Neal.”
“Every woman is two pay cheques away from Miss Fletcher’s position, detective. I think it’s worth bearing in mind.”
“You’re a banker, Mr O’Neal. Two transactions away from a cell. You continue to put your staff at risk, and I’ll make sure you’re in one. Bear that in mind.”
When her phone rang, the bank manager flinched. “I’ll see myself out,” India said. “Have a nice day.”
One corner of her lips curved as she saw Mr Moody had moved up the queue. They flatlined when she pulled her phone from her pocket to see ‘Sangrin’ flashing on the screen. “What?” she growled, stepping onto the high street.
“Where are you?”
“Where you sent me. The Central Bank.”
“Still? I thought you had nothing to tell them.”
“I don’t. Now I’m going to Portsmouth to tell Melody Fletcher nothing as well.”
Sangrin tutted. “Time management, Kane. Do it on your way home.”
“Portsmouth’s not on my way home.”
“Who cares,” Sangrin said. “Got a job for you. My blackmailer has coughed a list of victims. Get your arse back here and locate them for me.”
India gritted her teeth as the snide bastard hung up. She wouldn’t have to play this game for much longer. Slipping into the driver’s seat of her car, she visualised Sangrin’s head wedged in the door jamb. Then reached out and yanked it shut so hard the vehicle rocked.
Standing in the middle of the road, one hand at his brow shielding his eyes from the low afternoon sun, the other holding his fire jacket loosely at his side, Gray Davies cut a lonely figure. His long, lean shadow spilling across the asphalt behind him provided little company as he gazed after the blue lights of the departing ambulance.
The gas and air had made her woozy, and talkative. Very talkative. Some of the things she’d said were enlightening. Others were still rattling around his brain now, making absolutely no sense at all. Despite his continual reassurances that she was going to be okay, Shayla Begum was a woman preparing to meet her maker. She’d divulged her deepest, darkest secrets to him, and like a priest taking confession, Gray had promised to keep them.
She’d seemed lucid enough. He had no doubt the bicycle helmet had saved her life, and once it was off he could find no external bumps, cuts or abrasions that indicated trauma. But maybe he’d got it wrong. Perhaps she had suffered a head injury after all.
He was still lost in his thoughts when Sergeant Trevor Marshall of Hampshire Constabulary’s Traffic Division appeared next to him, notebook and pen at the ready. “Right then, mate. The sooner we get this down on paper, the sooner you can go get that crap scrubbed off.”
Gray glanced down at his hands; they were black from years of grime that had built up underneath the shiny public façade of the bus. Her blood was still visible under his clipped nails. “There’s not much to say, Trev. Her name’s Shayla Begum and she didn’t want anyone notified.”
“C’mon, Gray. You know the drill. I need the ins and outs of a maggot’s butthole.” Trevor tapped his notebook with his pen. “Start at the top.”
“I’ve already told you,” Gray murmured, watching the fast fading blue lights grow ever more distant. “Her name is Shayla Begum. No notifications.”
“You were stuck under a bus with her for four hours, and that’s it?” Trevor said incredulously.
Gray shrugged into his jacket as the ambulance lights finally disappeared from view. He wanted the coffee skinned woman with the giant almond shaped eyes to know her secrets were safe with him. “Yep. That’s it.”
“I’ve got fourteen witness statements, all saying the van deliberately mounted the pavement to take her out, narrowly missing two prams and eight pedestrians in the process,” Trevor said. “We’re bloody lucky this wasn’t a massacre.”
“Sounds like you’ve got plenty to be getting on with then.” Gray rubbed his hands together against the sudden cold and frowned when the sergeant glared at him. “What? There’s nothing I can add, Trev.”
“We’re treating this as an attempted murder investigation, Gray. This’ll end up with your mates in CID, so how about you start taking it seriously,
eh?” Trevor Marshall tapped his notebook again like a stern school master. “Let’s try again, shall we?”
Gray Davies set his jaw and rounded on him. “I tell you what, Trev, while you’ve got your little notebook open, write this down – I’m fed up with my team being used as stand-in plod because your lot can’t balance their bloody books.”
“Gray –”
“I haven’t finished yet, keep writing,” he snapped, jabbing his bloodied index finger at the sergeant’s pad. “Today, my team have had to secure your scene, take care of your traffic control, and deal with gawker pissing crowd control. We were left with three bodies to get a fucking bus off a woman today. It’s not good enough! And we don’t even get a fucking thank you for doing it! Even the sodding ambulance took twice as long as usual to get here.”
Trevor snapped his notepad shut and returned it to his pocket. “Wow. For a minute there I thought I was talking to your sister,” he said dully. “Feel better?”
Gray winced at the comparison and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Not really,” he huffed, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Sorry. Long day.”
Trevor raised a shoulder. “Gonna be in the Nag’s Head later. I’ll stand you and the crew a drink if you’re around. You know, as a thank you.”
“Cheers. They’ll appreciate that.” Gray stifled a yawn and looked across at his crew as they energetically loaded the mangled pieces of chopped up bus onto pallets. “It’s a shower and early night for me though. Just pulled a double shift.”
Trevor laughed. “Lightweight. It’s a woman in the shower and an energetic night you need.”
“You must be joking. I’m still paying for the last one.”
The thought stung. It stung even more when Trevor sighed and patted his shoulder. “Count your blessings, mate. At least you found out before the wedding. I got turned over twice. Once on the bloody honeymoon. Got the Decree Absolutes and a mortgage the size of my telephone number to prove it, too.”
Gray’s shoulders slumped. Swimming against a rising tide of relationship breakdown debt was something he was well acquainted with. But he was a strong swimmer. Keeping his head above water had been exhausting, but worth it. A year on he could finally see the shore.
“That you or me?” Trevor asked, rummaging through his stab vest as the sound of a ringing phone filled the air.
Gray pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and stared at the caller ID, his heart in his mouth, his thumb hovering between the reject and accept buttons as he tilted the screen towards Trevor.
Trevor sucked air through his teeth and shuddered. “Talk of the devil. I’ll leave you to it, mate. Gotta get this road open. Catch you after for that full statement, yeah?”
Gray nodded, and watched Trevor – older and wiser, with two bitter divorces and lessons learned wedged firmly under his belt – stroll back to his squad car shaking his head.
Gray swallowed hard and dropped his eyes back to the screen. It didn’t change the fact that on days like today he still needed her.
Taking a deep breath, he answered the call.
Chapter 4
WildCatz Gentlemen’s Club, Gunwharf Quays, Hampshire
A bald headed man the size of a tank led India through a reinforced security door and into a depressingly dingy corridor. The tank’s broad shoulders brushed against the walls as she followed him, wrinkling her nose at the odious air trapped in their tight confines.
Backstage was a far cry from the opulent gold, red and matt black decor which greeted horny patrons. Behind the scenes, WildCatz was officially a shithole. Half the overhead lights weren’t working, the remainder flickered wildly, turning her escort’s lumbering steps into a strobing robotic staccato. The claustrophobic corridor walls reverberated with a steady pounding baseline that threatened to cave the whole place in at any second. No doubt the rhythmic underlying throb was deemed sensual and erotic club-side, designed to arouse and make punters part with their cash, but backstage it was headache inducing and caused the moisture in the sweating walls to run and pool on the uneven concrete underfoot.
In the dim light, she stumbled and pressed her hand against the bare wall, preventing a face-first dive into stagnant puddles of God-only-knows-what. The undulating throb pulsed under her palm, quivering unpleasantly through her bones. A sudden rush of fear flooded her veins sending her heart banging hard and fast in her head. Her eyelids fluttered wildly against the disorientating strobe light as her mind flashed back to another time and place – a place she wasn’t prepared to revisit now. Life had moved on.
India tugged at the collar of her coat and felt the moisture that clung to the walls now dampening the skin of her throat. Taking deep gulps of sour air, she focused on the safe-haven of solid light spilling from the open doorway up ahead. In three broken steps the tank was bathed in it. His shiny, bald head lit up like a glitter ball beacon, guiding her way to salvation.
When she reached him, he was bellowing for ‘Mel’. India leant against the door frame, craning her neck to peer past his bulk and into the packed dressing room where a bevy of near naked women were preparing for the evening show. She hoped the stage lighting was more subdued than the harsh dressing room glare – some of them were absolute shockers.
A woman in the far corner, sticking spidery lashes to heavily made-up eyes, turned her head. India raised a brow as the tank beckoned a barely recognisable Melody Fletcher out into the corridor, away from prying eyes and pressing flesh. Turning to India, he said, “She’s on in ten. When you’re done, come back to the door.” He stuck two fat sausage-like fingers in her face. “Buzz twice and I’ll let you out. Understand?”
India gave a curt nod. Her eyes followed his broken movements as he body popped his way back down the corridor of doom to the reception area. She wasn’t going back there. Ever.
“What are you doing here?”
The fiercely hissed demand snapped her attention back to her virtually naked companion. The pink diamanté cat ears in Melody’s headband remained ridiculously pert as she jerked her head up the corridor to an area swathed in heavy velvet drapes. “What are you doing here?” India said, following her. “I thought you were too traumatised to work.”
Melody shrugged. Her nipple tassels swayed. “Got bills to pay. The money’s better here than the bank. So is the security,” she added, nervously watching as the expanse of the tank’s back finally disappeared through the reinforced door.
India glanced over her shoulder. “I can believe it,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes as a woman wearing fishnets, a G-string and little else, emerged from the dressing room, tweaked her nipples, and confidently disappeared through a crack in the drapes to a round of jeering applause.
“How’d you find me here?”
India cleared her throat and returned her attention to her witness. “The bank.”
Melody’s eyes widened. “How’d they know?”
“You’re suing them,” India said. “Banks don’t like parting with money, shotgun or not.”
Melody dropped her eyes and chewed at her bottom lip. “Yeah, well, gotta pay somehow.”
“At least here’s closer to home,” India said, offering a positive opinion.
“Yeah. I’m on in a minute, what do you want?”
India pulled the sketch of Mr Potato Head from her pocket. “Are you sure this is an accurate likeness of the man who committed the robbery?”
Melody Fletcher nodded vigorously and glanced away, the trauma still raw.
“And you’re absolutely certain you’ve never seen him before, or since, he held up the bank?”
“No, never,” she said. “Why?”
India returned it to her pocket, eyeing Melody’s sculpted shoulders and muscular thighs. The woman could pop a man’s brain straight from his skull in an over excitable moment. The bank uniform had made her look dowdy and bland. Underneath it the woman was hiding a body to die for. “You work out much?” she asked.
Melody blinked, ta
ken aback by the abrupt change of direction. “No, I mainly work the pole.”
India raised a brow and looked her up and down, eyes tracing the glittery ‘Pussy Galore’ slogan scrawled in silver body paint across her washboard abs. “You got a body like that in a month?”
Melody coyly folded her arms across her chest, palms hugging the sides of her breasts, swelling them to epic proportions and clearly outlining the implants hidden within. “It’s tough work. Trains every muscle. They do Monday night lessons at the community centre if you’re interested in firming up.”
India huffed. The only thing she wanted to wrap her legs around tonight was currently on his way home from New Scotland Yard. The thought made one side of her mouth quirk into a smile. “I’ll give it a miss, thanks.”
Melody gave a weak smile in return, and tilted her head to see the time on India’s watch. “I’ve got to go. You’ve got my number. Give me a ring if there’s anything else.”
“Will do,” India said staring at her.
Melody rolled her head, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “You know the way out, right?”
“Yep.” India kept her feet firmly rooted to the spot. “Go on. Don’t want to be late.”
With a shrug, Melody sashayed back to the dressing room, silver glittery tail swaying seductively around lean calves. “I almost forgot,” India called after her.
Melody Fletcher stilled in the doorway on six-inch platform heels. Her shoulders rose and fell before she spun on the spikes like a pro, eyebrows raised in question.
“If you need me to provide a statement for your case against the bank, let me know,” India said.
Melody’s face relaxed into a smile. It was the first genuine thing India had seen since arriving. “Thanks,” she said, wiggling her fingers in a giddy goodbye.
India watched her steel buttocks and sinewy back disappear through the dressing room door, and took one last glance down the corridor of doom. “Fuck that,” she murmured, and slipped through the crack in the drapes, emerging on stage to a resounding chorus of angry boos. The virtually naked woman dry humping the floor at her feet froze, arse mid-air, staring open mouthed as India leapt to the club floor with a heavy thud.