by Mona Marple
She met Sandy’s gaze for a moment, and Sandy saw tiredness in her eyes.
“Crystal!” A man’s voice shouted and the woman shimmied away out of sight.
Sandy glanced up at Tom, who continued looking straight ahead but squeezed her hand in reassurance.
They approached the bar, but before they reached it, music blared out from behind them. They both turned to see a stage, and a row of scantily-clad women walk out across it.
“Oh no.” Sandy murmured.
The women were of varying ages, the eldest appeared to be around fifty. The youngest, playing on her age, wore her hair in pigtails. There were five including the pink leotard woman, who appeared suddenly alert in a way that suggested a recent substance hit.
“This is awful.” Sandy said. She had never been to a strip club before, or an exotic dance club as The Pink Flamingo claimed to be, but she had imagined them to be glamorous places full of beautiful women and rich men. The women appeared to be bored and jaded by their work and while most had slim stomachs and breasts that looked fake, their faces looked mean and life-beaten.
The men, who all gazed at the stage with interest, made a sadder sight than the women. One, who sat as close as possible to the stage and was closely watched by a bruiser near his table, had a sad comb-over and held his wallet in his hand. His eyes were fixated on one of the women in particular, the only one who could be described as curvy. She wore a bright red wig, deep red lipstick, and a red mini-skirt that covered exactly as much as it was intended to and not an inch more.
The redhead, aware of his focus, made eye contact with every other man in the audience and ‘danced’ for them, but ignored him. Gradually, he opened his wallet, causing her to glance in his direction, and then pulled out a £50 note, at which point she left the stage and, having seized the note and tucked it inside the stockings she wore, danced up close to him.
Sandy glanced up at Tom. His cheeks were bright red, his facial expression like a terrified animal who has been trapped and can’t figure out a way to escape.
Finally, the song ended, and the women left the stage. Nobody applauded.
“Well, that was something.” Tom said.
“You can tick it off your bucket list now.” Sandy said.
“How do you know I’m not here every Saturday night?” He asked.
She laughed. “You were more stunned than I was, Tom Nelson. I’m pretty sure we’re both newbies to the exotic dance circuit.”
“Can I help you two?” A man asked. He was short with a fabulous moustache.
“Just about to get a drink.” Tom said.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” He said. “You’re making the girls uncomfortable. You’re not pigs?”
“Pigs?” Tom asked.
“No, we’re not police.” Sandy said. “Just a regular couple looking for a fun evening.”
The man eyed her, unconvinced. “I’m Tony Morton, I run this place. You stand around like that while another song’s on, I’ll get Tiny to escort you off the premises.”
“Of course.” Sandy said. “I’m sorry, we were just enjoying the dance. We didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. Maybe we could apologise?”
“To the girls?” Tony asked, stunned.
Sandy nodded.
“You want their attention, you pay for it.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Thank you.” Sandy said.
Tony walked away, looking back at them once before disappearing into the darkness behind the stage.
“He’s a happy chappy.” Tom said.
“You can’t blame him.” Sandy said. “I can’t count how many rules this place is breaking. Where’s Jim Slaughter when you need him, hey?”
Tom laughed. “I can’t imagine Dorie would let Jim in a place like this, even if it was for work.”
“True. That must be why they’re still open.” Sandy agreed. They giggled as they stood at the bar waiting for a barmaid to appear. The wall behind the bar overflowed with layer on top of layer of photographs of beautiful women. Women dancing, women in various states of undress, women sat on men’s laps, women holding fistfuls of money. And, in the centre, was one photo bigger than the rest. “Oh my, Tom, look.”
“What?” He asked. She gestured towards the beautiful blond in the large picture. The photo showed her sideways, dressed in a bra, her stomach perfectly flat, lips plumped, eyes sparkling under heavy spider-lashes.
“That one there, she was in the cafe. She was Hugo Tate’s new partner.”
Tom looked at her in surprise. “Seriously?”
Sandy nodded and read the name scrawled on the bottom of the photo. “Heavenli Bodie? That can’t be her real name.”
“Brilliant stage name for this gig.” Tom said.
“Hmm.” Sandy said in agreement. “Maybe she isn’t a dumb blond then. I wonder what she saw in Hugo? I wonder how they met?”
Tom gazed at the photo. “She works here, you could ask her yourself.”
“I didn’t see her in the dance.” Sandy said as a woman appeared behind the bar. She was younger and more attractive than most of the women who had been on the stage, but her expression revealed a weariness she was surely too young to understand.
“Yeah?” She asked.
“We were just admiring the pictures. Heavenli Bodie - when does she come out?”
The girl turned to look at the picture, as if she needed to remember which woman Heavenli was. “She don’t work here no more.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. Is she at another club?” Sandy asked.
The girl rolled her eyes. “You’d have to ask me dad. Are you wanting a drink? You can’t stay if you don’t drink.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll get two lemonades.”
“Lemonades.” The girl repeated, then looked around the bar, ducking down to look on lower shelves. “Dunno if we’ve got lemonades. I can do you a pint each?”
“That’ll be fine.” Tom said, with a smile towards Sandy.
“So, your dad, is that Tony?” Sandy asked. The question seemed to stump the girl.
“I just call him dad.” She said, after a moment’s thinking.
“When’s the next dance?” Tom asked.
“Every seven minutes. Here you go, that’s £18.”
“Eighteen pounds?!” Tom exclaimed.
“It’s fine, here you go. Keep the change.” Sandy said, handing a £20 note to the girl. She eyed Tom. “If you want to come to nice places, you have to expect to pay more.”
He kept a straight face and they found a table as far from the stage as possible.
“Let’s get out of here before the next song, yeah?” He asked.
Sandy nodded. “I can’t see Tony Morton opening up any more. I wonder why Donovan told us to come here.”
“Speak of the devil.” Tom whispered.
“Right, what’s your problem?” Tony Morton shouted. He stormed towards them from the bar. The girl who had served them craned her neck to watch him.
“Whoa!” Tom said. He stood up and placed his arms up. “We don’t want any trouble, we’re just enjoying a drink.”
“You’ve been asking too many questions.” Tony said. His face was red in temper, perspiration sticking to the messy fringe on his forehead. “What’s the story?”
Sandy took a deep breath. “I was hoping to see Heavenli dance, that’s all.”
“Well weren’t we all, eh?” Tony said. “She’s not ‘ere and she ain’t coming back.”
“Your daughter said.” Sandy explained. “It’s a shame, I heard she was a really good dancer.”
Tony snorted. “She was the best this place’s ever seen. You should’a seen it on a good night. She’d fill the place. You tell ‘em Heavenli’s on a Friday, they’d be queuing out the doors. Pigs’d turn up to close us down, see she were on and stay to watch. But she got her head screwed and now I’m screwed!”
“What do you mean, got her head screwed? Is she in trouble?”
“Fell in love with a customer, din’t
she? Bloody brain-boiled woman. There’s one rule you don’t break and that’s it. She could’ve had another five years, ten years even. Bloody waste.”
“Can’t she dance if she’s in a relationship?”
“It’s not the relationship is it, although the men get jealous. Especially the men who meet them here, cos they think the next customer who comes in’ll steal them like they bloody stole’em from me. But nah, Heavenli, she was headstrong, she woulda stayed if it weren’t for the baby.”
“Baby?” Sandy squeaked.
“The slim uns show first, always. With a chubby girl, you’ve got a few months she can hide it. Heavenli, nah, soon as the deed’s done, it’s bloody obvious to look at her. That’s her career ruined.”
Sandy gazed at Tony. “Why are you telling us all this?”
“You want to know about her, know about her. Ain’t no secret.”
“You must be really annoyed, I mean, if she was your best girl. You must be mad with her.”
“Her? She’s a woman, she can’t help it. Women are like that, you’ll know I’m right. You hear the right lines and you’re in love, ain’t nothing you can do about it. I don’t blame her. I blame him. He’d got a clever tongue. Coming in here night after night, buying her time, spends it talking to her - get that! Talking to her. Don’t lay a finger on her. Tells her she’s too special to be here. Wants to whisk her away. And I mean, you’ve seen him, he’s nothing to look at. She’s light years out of his league and he knows it. So as soon as he gets her, he makes sure she gets pregnant. Traps her. Traps her in a life she never wanted. It’s him I’m mad at.”
Sandy glanced at Tom. Tony Morton was panting, his diatribe causing him to be out of breath.
“Do you keep in touch with her? To look out for her?” Sandy asked, but Tony shook his head and laughed in response.
“Enough.” Tony said. “You’re not pigs but you’re up to summat. Finish your drinks and get out.”
He looked between the two of them once more, then stalked away back to the bar, where the young girl idly blew a bubblegum bubble, until it popped.
The music began playing, a fast, erratic beat that Sandy had never heard before. The men all looked up from pints or mobile phones.
“Let’s go, please.” Tom begged, and Sandy nodded her agreement.
They left The Pink Flamingo and returned to the outside world, where people kept their clothes on.
8
Ingrid’s hair was off-centre as she sat across from Sandy in the visiting room. That was the only sign she was anything less than her usual, composed self. Her face was, of course, make-up free, but her skin was so clear she looked fresh-faced rather than dog-rough, as some women did when they revealed their real face after years of habitual make-up wearing.
“You’re doing okay?” Sandy asked. She had arrived in better time for this second visit, but found that the processing of visitors into the prison was no quicker than it had been the previous time.
Ingrid nodded. “I saw they named Domingo. Poor boy.”
“It’s true you know him, then? You represented him for the armed robbery.”
“Amongst other things, yes.”
“They say he was guilty.”
“They will say all sorts if you listen to them, Sandy. You know I can’t discuss a client.”
“Okay.” Sandy accepted. “Let me ask you a general question, then. How can you do it? How can you defend someone who’s guilty?”
Ingrid sighed. “People never bore of this question, sadly. It’s my job to provide representation to whoever needs it, Sandy. Not the people I like. Not the people I believe. Everyone is entitled to legal representation in this country. It’s my job to take instructions, and act upon them.”
“But how can you defend a guilty man?”
“I can’t defend a guilty man if he comes to me and tells me he’s guilty and wants me to create a defence for him.”
“Oh.”
“But the man who comes to me, despite overwhelming evidence as to his guilt, and tells me he is not guilty? That man is entitled to his defence.”
“You like Domingo?”
“I do actually, yes.” Ingrid said. “I’ve seen his struggle.”
“With the gang?”
“No, no, the gang thing is recent, if it’s true at all. He’s only nineteen, you know.”
Sandy gulped. “I didn’t know that.”
“Sometimes, Sandy, a person goes so far off the rails so quickly, they can’t even see the rails any more, never mind get back on them.”
“You think that’s what happened to Domingo?”
Ingrid shrugged. “I looked at him, when he was my client, and I could see the crossroads he stood at. Whether he was guilty or not, that case was stacked against him. He was given a second chance with that acquittal. And I could see how he could use it. His brother sat in Court. He could have gone home with that brother, asked for help, turned things around. But he chose another path.”
“He could be found not guilty now too?” Sandy asked.
Ingrid shook her head. “They found him moments after Hugo was killed. The gun was still hot in his hand. He’ll plead. He’ll want the recognition. The chance to get a tear tattoo.”
Sandy looked at Ingrid with a blank gaze.
“It’s what the gang members do when they kill someone, get a teardrop tattoo underneath their eye.”
“Wow.” Sandy said. “Surely that makes it easy for the police to catch murderers?”
Ingrid smiled. “There are plenty of other so-called reasons for getting the tear tattoo, and of course, anyone can get one to pretend they’ve committed crimes they haven’t.”
“I feel like this case is making me enter a whole new world. I even went to The Pink Flamingo yesterday.” Sandy said. She watched Ingrid, studied her face for any sign that the name had significance to her.
“And?” Ingrid asked.
“Well, I found out on the news that you and Hugo are divorced.” Sandy said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ingrid shrugged. “It’s old news. I assume everyone knows. It wasn’t a deliberate omission.”
“Was it amicable?”
“Ah, Sandy, it was as amicable as it can ever be when your husband runs off with a 22 year old stripper. Whoops, my mistake. A 22 year old exotic dancer.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.” Ingrid said. “I knew, and I felt like the most foolish woman in the world. Hugo didn’t bring much to our marriage - not looks, not money, not success, not contacts. But he did bring a certain steady quality. No matter how many murder cases I had to juggle, or how late I had to stay up working on terrorism cases, he would be there, the same old Hugo. Awfully dull. And that was what I needed, really.”
“Did you know he was going to The Pink Flamingo?”
Ingrid looked down into her lap for a long time. “No. No, I didn’t. I was so convinced that he was dependable, reliable, all of those awfully dull things that I knew I wasn’t, that it took me by surprise when it happened. I saw them, you know.”
Sandy cocked her head and waited for Ingrid to continue. The visiting hall was quieter, only four inmates had visitors.
“I had a trial collapse, a six-hander in Woolwich, frightful business it was, and I was feeling a little traumatised, which doesn’t happen much when you’ve seen the things I have. I thought, I’ll nip to Fortnum & Mason, buy our favourite foods, and return home and surprise Hugo. Turned out he surprised me. He wasn’t expecting me home that night.”
“You caught them?” Sandy asked, her mouth open in shock.
Ingrid nodded. “I caught them, sat on my settee, holding hands. She was wearing these ridiculous pink fleecy bottoms, a little tank top. Nothing sexy about it. I think I could’ve handled finding them romping in bed, but sitting down and hugging? I knew then that he’d fallen hook, line and sinker for her.”
“That’s awful.” Sandy said. Ingrid nodded but didn’t meet her gaze.
“It’s al
so fabulous motive for murder.” Ingrid said, with a smile. “But I didn’t kill him.”
“Who else would have the motive to hurt him?” Sandy asked. “The news is making him out to be some kind of saint.”
“Oh, he was.” Ingrid said. “Everything they’re saying, about his devotion to that school, is entirely correct. I don’t really know who else would want him dead.”
“Who. You don’t know who would want him dead.” Sandy corrected. “You said, who else, which suggests you did want him dead.”
Ingrid scoffed. “Of course I wanted him dead. I just wasn’t stupid enough to act on that desire.”
“Why would Domingo kill a stranger?”
“For money, of course.” Ingrid said.
“But what good is money if he doesn’t try to get away and he’s locked up.”
Ingrid shrugged. “For his family, perhaps. Or maybe he was motivated by something else - plenty of people think there is glory in taking a life, Sandy. As you said, you’re entering a different world here.”
Sandy sighed. “Do you think Domingo would let me visit him?”
“I can’t imagine he’s got a long queue of people wanting to see him, so who knows. Maybe he’ll accept any visit requests he gets.”
“I met his brother.”
“Ah.” Ingrid said. “What did that rascal have to say for himself?”
“Rascal? He told me that he tried to help Domingo, but had to kick him out after he caught him selling drugs.”
Ingrid burst into a laugh. “People really do amaze me. Now, Donovan I can tell you about, he was never my client. Let’s just say, there wasn’t only one person selling drugs that day.”
“Are you suggesting he sold his brother out?”
Ingrid shrugged. “I’m saying that he introduced his brother to a way of life, and then abandoned him. Now, Domingo pulled the trigger, and he has to face that responsibility alone. But a guiding hand from his brother might have helped before it got this far.”
“That’s so sad.” Sandy said. “I can’t imagine doing your job, Ingrid, hearing all of these sad stories. It must be heartbreaking.”
“Ah, so you think I have a heart? Most people don’t.”