‘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.
Chapter Thirty-Two
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 lea
st 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.
Chapter Thirty-Three
They would have been showered with broken glass but the debris from the window was cushioned by the curtains. Instead large pieces tumbled loudly to the wooden floor below, breaking into dozens of smaller fragments on impact. The half-brick had been hurled in anger and it parted the curtains, landing on the coffee table between them with a violent thud.
Tom went straight to the window and looked out. As he did so another half-brick shot past him, narrowly missing his head.
‘Jesus,’ he hissed and the youth outside jeered at him.
‘Come on then!’ roared the teenager and Tom’s first instinct was to run outside and grab the lad until he realised he was not alone. Another half-dozen boys in their late teens were behind him, mostly obscured by the darkness; a snarling pack of animals in jeans and sweatshirts. Another brick thudded against the wooden frame of the broken window. There was a bang on the front door then and he realised there were more of them.
He turned to face Helen, who looked like she couldn’t believe what was happening.
‘I’ll call the police?’
‘No time.’ He grabbed her by the arm. ‘We get out now!’
They ran into the hallway just as one of the glass panels on the front door shattered as a wooden post came through it and landed on the hall carpet. ‘Back door?’ he asked frantically and she nodded dumbly. Tom started to run but Helen broke away from him.
‘My bag!’ she shouted.
‘There’s no time!’ But she was already back in the lounge. Tom watched helplessly from the hallway as the remaining glass panel in the front door broke and an arm came through it. A hand snaked round and a palm slapped against the door frame in an effort to find the lock and open it. They’d be inside in seconds and Helen was still looking for her bag.
Tom grabbed the only weapon available, the wooden post used to break through the door. He swung it hard on to the invading hand and there was a gratifying howl of pain from the invading teenager before he pulled his arm away. Tom watched him retreat holding his damaged hand, but others were trying to get through the door now. He backed away just as Helen rushed out clutching her bag. They ran down the hallway and through the kitchen. Behind them someone kicked what remained of the door in. Tom wrenched open the door and pulled Helen through it into the back yard.
Ahead of him was the back street and his car, but before they could reach it another youth stepped out in front of them swinging a baseball bat. Expecting Tom to retreat he raised the bat high but Tom did not stop or go backwards. He knew their only chance was to break though, and tackling one armed man was better than the snarling gang whose noisy, threatening progress through the flat could be heard behind them. As the thug brought the bat back, Tom ran into him, thrusting his head forward hard at the last second right into the young man’s face. He cried out in pain and fell to the ground clutching his bloodied face.
Tom didn’t have time to take advantage of his felled opponent or even wrench the baseball bat from him. Instead he powered on through the back yard and out through the open gates, with Helen behind him. The car faced Helen’s flat and Tom had his keys out to open it but the mob were too close and he couldn’t wait for her to go round the other side. Instead he grabbed Helen and forcefully flung her through the opened driver’s door. She landed heavily as he scrambled in after her. They were a tangle of arms and legs now, as she attempted to right herself in the passenger seat and he tried to slam his door behind him. Tom managed to close it and pop the lock just as the first snarling youth reached him. His attacker’s face pressed right up against the side window as he tugged hopelessly on the door handle, cursing and spitting at Tom, who thrust his key into the ignition and turned it while the thug banged on the glass. The engine started first time and Tom had never been more grateful, but his relief was short-lived. Just as he was about to put it into gear the youth nearest his window retreated and the face of the man he had headbutted appeared. There was blood all over the lower part of his face and his nose looked broken. The baseball bat came smashing down against the window.
There was an almighty crash and Tom’s senses were filled with a combination of noise and pain as he was showered with broken glass, which sliced the skin on his face as he closed his eyes against the fragments. He blinked furiously to try and clear them. The man with the baseball bat struck again, trying to steer it into the gap he had made with the first swing. He narrowly missed Tom’s head and caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder. For a moment Tom felt as if every nerve of his body was united in pain. With a cry of rage, he jerked the car into reverse gear and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car shot backwards and the front wheel ran over his attacker’s foot. Tom heard the young thug cry out in agony but they weren’t safe yet.
Tom reversed the car a few yards into the dead end in Helen’s street so he could drive out the other side. He was now faced with a vicious, screaming gang armed with bricks and bats, and they all descended on the car before he could move it. Blows rained down on them and the sound of denting metal and broken glass was terrifying – then a brick was hurled, causing a spider’s web of cracks to the windscreen on Helen’s side. Another attacker reached his broken driver’s side window now and a punch came through it. Tom ducked but not quickly enough and a hard, bony fist crashed into the side of his head. He instinctively floored the accelerator. The car shot forwards and one of the youths was knocked violently to one side. The car flew past the gang but the back street they were in was short and narrow. Too late, Tom realised he was going far too fast and there was another brick wall straight ahead of them.
‘Jesus,’ he hissed as he slammed on the brakes just in time. He was forced to reverse a short way, so he could get the angle needed to turn into a tight bend with walls on either side. They were heading back towards the gang now. Tom changed gear and twisted the steering wheel, guiding the car round the bend and down the tiny side street that bordered the block of flats. Heavy objects hurled in frustration by the youths banged against the rear of his car but he didn’t care about that now.
Tom sped down the side street and out into the main road without looking or stopping. At the bottom he took another sharp turn, taking them even further from danger.
‘Are you okay?’ he shouted.
‘Yes.’ Helen looked shaken. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, ‘your face.’
A quick glance in the mirror made him realise the cause of Helen’s alarm. He looked like a gunshot victim. The cut at the top of his forehead was bleeding so much it was in danger of restricting his vision, but he wasn’t going to pull over. They’d left their attackers trailing behind but he wasn’t going to take any chances in case they were following in a car, and kept going till they were well clear. Only when Tom was convinced they were far enough from the scene with no one behind them did he turn into a well-lit pub car park to deal with the wound.
‘Let me see,’ urged Helen, concern in her voice, but after a moment’s scrutiny she told him, ‘I don’
t think it’s as bad as it looks, thank God. You’ve got one cut on the side of your head and a whole bunch of little ones above your eye. I don’t think it needs stitches.’
He swivelled the rear-view mirror, took a quick glance at the cut and said, ‘I’ll be fine. My thick head took most of the impact.’
‘How can you joke about it?’ she asked. ‘You saw what they did back there.’
‘I’m just thanking my lucky stars we got out of there more or less in one piece.’
‘I suppose we were lucky,’ she admitted. Helen didn’t want to think about what would have happened to them both if they’d been trapped in her flat by that mob.
‘You got much in the house?’ he asked, and when she didn’t seem to understand he said, ‘You know, stuff.’
‘A few clothes …’ Her voice trailed off. She was relieved she didn’t have a lot for them to take. ‘But I don’t want to go back there.’
‘Don’t worry, we can phone the police.’
‘They never come,’ she said quickly, and he wondered how she knew that. Had there been other incidents at her home?
‘We can call Ian,’ he said, ‘he’ll sort it. There’ll be a phone in the pub but you’d better make the call.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think they’d be too chuffed if I walked in there looking like this.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I still don’t want to go back there though.’
‘You don’t have to,’ he told her firmly, ‘just call Ian and tell him what happened. He’ll get someone over there. And don’t worry. You’re staying with me tonight.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘I’m afraid the boiler is playing up again but it’s a warm house,’ he told her when they finally made it back to his home. Tom snicked the top off two bottles of beer, handed one to Helen and took a big swig from his.
‘Should you be drinking alcohol after a blow to the head?’
‘Probably not,’ he admitted cheerfully and he took an even bigger drink. Tom checked his answerphone and there was a message from Bradshaw. He had managed to get someone down to Helen’s house to secure it overnight. As expected, there was nobody at the scene to apprehend.
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