by J. E. Mayhew
Vikki’s parents were always asking her when she was going to get married and move out of her flat. That struck her as rich, given that they spent most of their years living in three rooms above a restaurant. Vikki had grown up there. But they wanted more for her, which is partly why they were so disappointed when she joined the police instead of going to university. She shrugged and got out of the car. The net curtains twitched in Ellen’s house and Vikki frowned. Somebody was in there.
She rapped on the front door and waited. No response. She knocked again and, finally, the door creaked open. A young woman with dyed purple hair peered out. “Yeah?” she said.
Flashing her warrant card, Vikki introduced herself. “Can I ask your name, please? And can you explain what you’re doing in this house?”
“I’m Blaise,” The woman said. “Blaise Kevney. I’m Ellen’s cousin… I didn’t mean any harm. I had a key and I was just…” her face crumpled and she burst into tears. She turned and strode back into the house, leaving the door wide open. Vikki went in and found her sitting on the sofa in Ellen’s living room.
“You were just what?” Vikki asked, perching next to her.
“Hoping she’d come back. I thought if I came here, I’d find her having a cup of coffee, watching telly or something,” Blaise shrugged. “Stupid, I guess.”
“You must have been close to her,” Vikki said. “To have a key…”
Blaise nodded. “We grew up together. We were more like sisters. Went to school together and everything.” She wiped her nose with a tissue.
“We’re trying to trace her movements before she disappeared on the Monday, would you have any idea where she might have gone that afternoon, Blaise?”
“I told the policeman everything I knew,” Blaise said, glancing at the carpet. “Mondays were her ‘me time’ because she worked all Saturday…”
Vikki frowned at Blaise. “Yes, we know that, Blaise. I feel like there’s something you aren’t telling me, though.”
Blaise glanced at Vikki and then looked down again. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Try me,” Vikki said. “Look, Blaise. This is serious. Ellen’s life could depend on any information we can get. Even if it seems trivial.”
“Okay,” Blaise said and drew a breath. “I guess you need to know.”
*****
Leasowe station struck DC Kinnear as a confusing jumble. The main road, Reeds Lane crossed the railway line, which meant that a level crossing was needed to allow trains through. There was also a footbridge which masked the station from the road. Any old-world charm the station might once have possessed was smothered by brutal metal platform shelters, litter bins and signage. “I’m not even sure where to park,” DC Andrew Kinnear muttered, peering into the drop-off point.
“Use the main carpark on the other side of the road,” DC Alex Manikas suggested. “We can have a look at that while we’re here.”
Kinnear pulled into the carpark. It was large and surrounded by mature trees. It being Sunday, there weren’t many cars parked. “I bet it’s chocka on a Monday,” Kinnear said. “Full of commuters. It’s a wonder whoever it was dropped off Ellen Kevney’s car found a parking spot.”
“Can you imagine if they hadn’t?” Manikas grinned. “Driving around and around. Maybe that’s why they left it in a disabled space.”
They climbed out and scanned the carpark. “Yep. Looks like a carpark,” Kinnear said, with a shrug. “So glad Blakey sent us out to do this.”
“He’s got a real chip on his shoulder about that Searchlight programme, hasn’t he?” Manikas said. “I swear I thought he was going to go off pop when I mentioned the magazine.”
“Yeah,” Kinnear muttered. “I kind of get it, though. You do one thing and it haunts you for the rest of your life.”
Manikas gave him a sidelong glance. “You aren’t going soft on me, are you?”
“Is that what she said last night?” Kinnear said, giving Alex a dig in the arm. He caught Alex’s eye and grinned.
“Ha,” Manikas laughed, looking away, quickly and striding across the carpark towards the station. Kinnear caught up with him. “If I said that to you, you’d have a right gob on you,” Manikas said.
Kinnear opened his arms and looked surprised. “What?”
“You know,” Manikas said. “I heard you gave Kath Cryer a right earful for making some snidey homophobic comments.”
“Yeah, well, that was ages ago,” Kinnear said. “We’re okay, now. Anyway. If you’d said it, you wouldn’t have meant it in the same way. Sometimes, it ain’t what you say, it’s the way that you say it.”
Manikas shrugged. “Fair enough. Don’t want to get on the wrong side of you though…”
“Why not?” Kinnear said, frowning.
Manikas smirked and gave Kinnear a sidelong glance. “It’d be a PC gone mad…”
“I should arrest you for that. I’m sure there are laws against crap jokes, you know.”
They crossed Reeds Lane and entered the station. “There won’t be anyone around today,” Manikas muttered.
“Are you here about the car?” A gruff voice said from behind them. Kinnear turned to see a man in a Merseyrail uniform. His long, grey sideburns intensified his scowl, somehow. “I can spot coppers from a mile off.”
“I’m DC Kinnear, this is DC Manikas. And, yes, we’re here to find out more about the car, if that’s possible.”
The man grimaced and looked around the empty station. “Fraid I’m rushed off me feet at the moment,” he said and then gave a brief smile. “My name’s Ian Saxby. It ends with a ‘y’ if you’re writing that down. Course I can help, come in.” Saxby ushered them into a side office which contained a table and a couple of chairs. A sink and a water geyser occupied one corner and a confusing array of mugs, cups and magazines cluttered the table. “So the car was reported blocking a disabled bay yesterday but it had been there a couple of days by all accounts. Is it true that it belongs to that Kevney girl? I hope they find her. She was a lovely kid…”
Kinnear frowned at the old man. “You knew her?”
Ian Saxby seemed to redden under his grey bristles. “Yeah, I knew her. It’s a bit delicate, though…”
*****
Laura sat in the kitchen, swirling some orange juice in the bottom of a glass and staring into it. Serafina rubbed up against her legs. “It’s Sunday, Will, why do you have to go to work?”
Blake raised his eyebrows. “Really? You’re asking me that? You knew what I did when we first met. There’s a murderer and a missing woman out there.”
“I know but you aren’t the only policeman on the force, surely…”
“I’m in charge of this case Laura. How would it look if my team are all up first thing on a Sunday morning while I’m having brunch with my…” he paused. What was she? Partner? Girlfriend? Lover? “Anyway. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I understand,” she said, hugging him. “See if you can get back early tonight, yeah?”
Blake nodded. “I’ll see.”
He hurried out of the house and climbed into the Manta, crossing his fingers that it would start first time. It had been his father’s pride and joy and Blake had developed a similar affection for it. But the years hadn’t been kind to it and it didn’t always repay his loyalty. This time, however, the engine roared into life. As he drove, he mused over what he’d learned from Chinn and Kinnear. The houses of Rock Ferry flashed by and he passed the shining industrial buildings that occupied the old Camell-Laird shipyard. A few cranes still loomed above him but there wasn’t as much activity there as when he was a boy. The tunnel was quiet, even for a Sunday and he soon found himself parked at Canning Place and heading up to the Operations Room.
Cryer, Chinn, Manikas and Kinnear were all waiting for Blake as if it was a surprise birthday party. “Okay, so run this all by me one more time,” he said.
Vikki Chinn piped up first. “So, I found Blaise Kevney, Ellen’s cousin in Ellen’s house. S
he told me that Ellen goes to the Aphrodite’s…”
“Where?”
“It’s a swingers’ club in Birkenhead,” Kath Cryer said, reddening. “It’s a converted pub down by Birkenhead Docks.”
“That was a quick answer, Ma’am,” Manikas said, smirking.
Kath pulled tongues at him. “Maybe I’m a regular, Alex.”
“So was Ellen there recently?” Blake said, steering the conversation back from the brink of banter.
“Apparently, they have these ‘No Strings Mondays’ where single mums can go and meet up with men and… you know… Ellen Kevney was a regular.”
Blake rubbed his temples. “Let me just get this straight. Ellen Kevney was last seen two weeks ago at one of these swingers’ parties?”
“Possibly, sir,” Manikas said. “Ian Saxby at the station went along frequently and often saw Ellen there. Of course, people weren’t keen on coming forward because they were scared of being judged…”
“Jeez, I’d judge them more for not giving us vital information when we needed it,” Blake snapped. “Right. We need to get round there, right away. Any volunteers?”
Chapter 8
At first glance, Aphrodites looked like any other closed-down street-corner pub. Metal sheets covered the downstairs windows and thick curtains covered the upper ones. But there were no weeds growing from the gutters and the huge red door looked newly painted. Blake wasn’t a stickler for grammar and correct punctuation; he wasn’t a man of letters at all, really, but even the lack of an apostrophe grated on him. He knocked hard and waited for a response.
A muffled voice called to them from behind the thick wood. “Yeah? Who is it?”
“Police, we’d like a word with you please,” Blake shouted. He glanced over at Kath Cryer who had seemed really keen to accompany him. She raised her eyebrows.
“What’s it about?”
“Do you really want me to shout it all down the street? I’d rather talk face-to face,” Blake said.
There was a second’s pause then bolts and locks rattled from behind the door and slowly it opened. A bald, round face peered at Blake. “What can I help you with officer?” the man said. “I was up quite late last night. So you’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t started tidying up yet.” He pulled back the door and Blake saw he was short and round, wearing a thick, white dressing gown. Blake had expected someone younger; this man was in his late forties at least.
Blake and Cryer stepped into the main reception area of the club and Blake was quite surprised. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected but the place looked quite classy; a bar stood in one corner of the room and leather chairs dotted the stripped floorboards. A few strategically placed mirrors made the place look bigger than it actually was. There was an ‘after party’ smell to the place, sweat, perfume and alcohol. “DCI Blake, this is DI Cryer,” Blake said. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”
“I am. Bob Courtney,” he said and extended his hand. Blake shook it briefly. “What seems to be the problem? It isn’t the house on the corner? I’ve told them before; I make sure guests arrive and leave quietly. We’re fully licenced by the authority to do this and we keep within the law…”
“No,” Blake said. “No complaints, sir, we want to ask you a few questions about Ellen Kevney.”
Bob Courtney’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second and then he regained his composure. “The girl who’s gone missing…”
“The mother of two who’s gone missing, sir,” Kath Cryer said, sternly. “She was a regular here, I believe.”
“Yeah. I know her, but she was fine when she left here,” Bob Courtney said, with a shrug.
“Didn’t you think it was worth letting us know that she came here, sir?” Blake said. “Given the circumstances and the seriousness of the situation.”
“I dunno,” Bob said. “I have to be careful with people’s privacy. Like I say, she was fine when she left with Ralph. It’s not like she was on her own. I just assumed he would get in touch, maybe.”
“Ralph?” Blake glanced over at Cryer.
“Yeah. Nice guy. Bit of a regular. Younger fella. Dark hair, slim. Quite a looker. She hooked up with him a few times. They seemed very keen on each other. She left with him. It all looked fine.”
Blake shook his head. “And you can tell us where this ‘Ralph guy’ lives, I suppose?”
“Yeah, I could as a matter of fact. All our guests have to register and bring along some ID,” Bob said. “Trouble is, I’ve also got a duty to protect my customers’ privacy. Aphrodites is all about privacy as you can imagine. People won’t want to come here if they think it’ll become public…”
“I appreciate that, Mr Courtney,” Blake said. “But Ellen Kevney has been missing for two weeks and your pal, Ralph, is the first lead we’ve had in all that time. Now, I can go and get a warrant which will be granted but will take time and Ellen just doesn’t have that time. Do you want her blood on your hands?”
“Oh, come on…” Bob began to say.
“Think of her poor kids,” Kath Cryer said, folding her arms. “Anyway, sir, there’s nothing to stop us parking a police car outside and asking punters for information as they arrive at the club, is there?”
“No, Kath, I don’t think so. I imagine Mr Courtney’s Licence to sell alcohol will be coming up sometime this year. We may be asked to comment on whether we think it’s wise to grant one.”
Bob drew a deep breath. “Okay, okay but you’re not looking through the guestlists. I’ll give you this Ralph’s full name and address and you leave me alone. Right?”
“For now,” Blake said. Courtney disappeared behind the bar and rummaged around in a cupboard at the back. Finally, he pulled out a rather ragged-looking A4 notebook with red covers and flicked his way through it, muttering and pulling loose sheets of paper out. “Here we are. Ralph Vaughan, 28, Mere Lane, Hoylake.” He scribbled it down on a scrap of notepaper and handed it to Blake.
As they drove away, Blake looked in the rearview mirror at the club. Bob Courtney was just a blob of white on the doorstep, but Blake knew he was watching them vanish. “What d’you reckon Kath? More to find out about Mr Courtney and Aphrodites?”
“Dunno, sir. He might just be protecting his customers. They aren’t really doing anyone any harm and what people get up to behind closed doors isn’t anyone else’s business. Least of all ours.”
“As long as nobody comes to any harm and it’s all legal,” Blake added.
“Yes, sir,” Kath Cryer said. She gave him a sidelong glance. “Perhaps we should send Alex and Vikki along on a party night. Undercover like. See what happens.”
“You’re a terrible person, Kath Cryer,” Blake said, a smile spreading across his face. “I don’t think there’d be much cover to be under.”
“Do you think we should ask for backup, sir? I mean, we don’t know anything about this Ralph Vaughan, do we?”
Blake shook his head. “Let’s assess the situation when we get there.”
They drove in silence for a while. The industrial estates and social housing of Birkenhead were replaced by more leafy suburbs and then, briefly, into countryside. The land became flatter and the sky bigger as they drew nearer to the sea. “You’re never far from the sea on the Wirral,” Cryer said. “It seems like it, when you’re down in some of the big housing estates but water’s never far away.”
“Technically, The Wirral is an island, did you know that? If you count the streams and rivers at the Southern end.”
“Interesting, sir,” Kath said, with a smirk. “It’s an education working with you.”
Mere Lane was a small line of cottages not far off the North Parade that skirted the sea. It linked two bigger roads of large semi-detached houses with impressive, mock Tudor frontages. The cottages in Mere Lane were clearly old fishermen’s homes, with thick sandstone walls. Blake could imagine them huddled together against the storms before all the development around them.
It was early afternoon and Bl
ake’s mouth watered as the smell of Sunday roast drifted through the air to taunt him. For a moment, his mind drifted to Laura’s complaint this morning and he wished he was tucking into a roast somewhere with her. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get moving. I’m starving.”
Ralph Vaughan didn’t look like the sort of person who would frequent swingers’ clubs; nor did he look particularly young. He may have been a little younger than Blake; mid-thirties perhaps, with a thin, stubbly, beard that was clearly never going to thicken. He wasn’t dark either but a blazing redhead. Blake noticed a cream shirt and what looked like a tank top beneath a flowery apron splashed with gravy. He stood frowning in confusion at Blake.
“Can I help you?” he said and then noticed the wooden spoon he was brandishing at them and lowered it. Blake introduced himself and Cryer and asked to come in.
The house smelt of cooking and rang with the squeals of toddlers thundering around upstairs. Toys littered the floor as they picked their way across the living room to a flowery sofa that had seen better days.
“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” Vaughan said. “Kids don’t really show much mercy when it comes to tidying up, especially twins.” He scanned the room, as if seeing it for the first time. “They’re quite efficient mess-makers…”
Blake glanced over at Cryer who reflected his own doubts about the credibility of Vaughan as a prime suspect. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Vaughan but we’re investigating the disappearance of Ellen Kevney. You might have heard about it in the news?”
Ralph Vaughan blinked at them through his bottle-end glasses. “I’m sorry Detective Blake, unless it’s on CBBC, I haven’t kept up with anything for months.”
“Right. Can I ask you, Mr Vaughan, are you familiar with Aphrodites?”
The man frowned. “No. Is it a Greek restaurant?”
“It’s a swingers’ club, sir,” Cryer said. Her voice was abrasive, but she had perfect timing and could wrong-foot the most hardened liar. “Are you a member?”