Elizabeth George - In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

“His name?” Lynley asked.

“You can call him Lash.”

“Is that Mr. Lash?” Lynley enquired soberly.

To which the woman disciplined a smile from twitching her lips. She said, “You've a pretty enough face, luv, but don't push your luck.”

They descended the stairs into a passageway where red lights hung above bare walls painted black. At the end of this corridor, a black velvet curtain hung over a doorway. And through this, evidently, lay The Stocks.

Music filtered through the velvet like beams of light, not the raucous heavy metal of punk guitars screeching like robots put to the rack but what sounded like a Gregorian devotional chanted by monks on their way to prayer. It was louder than monks would have chanted it, however, as if volume rather than meaning were what was required by the ceremony going on. “Agnus dei qui tollis peccata mundi” the voices sang. As if in answer, a whip cracked like a pistol shot.

“Ah. Welcome to the world of's and M,” Lynley said to Nkata as he drew the curtain to one side.

“Lord, what's my mum goin’ t'say to all this?” was the DCs response.

On an early Saturday afternoon, Lynley expected the club to be deserted, but that wasn't the case. Although he suspected that nightfall would bring many more members slithering out from beneath whatever stones they hid during the day, there were still present enough devotees of the dungeon to get an idea of what The Stocks was like when filled to capacity.

Central to the club was the eponymous mediaeval device of public punishment. It had positions for five miscreants, but on this Saturday only one sinner was paying the price for a malefaction: A thickset man with a shiny bald head was being whipped by a barrel-shaped woman shouting “Naughty! Naughty! Naughty!” with every blow. He was naked; she wore a black leather corset to which lace stockings were fastened. On her feet were shoes with heels so high that she could have toe-danced with very little effort.

Up above them, a light fixture revolved. It was fitted with spots, one of which pooled illumination directly downwards round the stocks, and others which were appendant like arms, and which revolved as the fixture did and slowly illuminated the rest of the action within the club.

“Oh my,” Nkata murmured.

Lynley couldn't fault the DC's reaction.

To the rhythms of the Gregorian chant, several men in dog collars attached to leads were being led round the club by fierce-looking women in black body-suits or leather G-strings and thigh-high boots. An elderly gentleman in a Nazi uniform was attaching something to the testicles of a naked younger man manacled to a black brick wall while a woman strapped to a nearby rack writhed and shouted “More!” as a steaming substance was poured from a tin jug onto her bare chest and between her legs. A blowsy blonde in a PVC waistcoat with a cinched-in waist stood arms akimbo on one of the club's tables as a leather-masked man in a metal G-string ran his tongue round the spike heels of her patent leather shoes. And while these activities were going on in nooks, in crannies, and in the open, a costume stall appeared to be doing a satisfactory business with club members who were hiring everything from cardinals’ red cassocks to cats-o’-nine-tails.

Next to Lynley, Nkata took out a snowy handkerchief and pressed it quickly to his forehead.

Lynley eyed him. “For a man who once organised Brixton's knife fights, you've led something of a sheltered existence, Winston. Let's see what Lash has to say for himself.”

The man in question seemed completely oblivious of the activities going on in the club. He didn't acknowledge the presence of the two detectives until he'd counted six shots of gin into a shaker, added vermouth, and dashed into the mix a few splashes of juice from ajar of green olives. He screwed the cap onto the cocktail shaker and began to do the shaking, which was when he looked their way.

As one of the revolving lights hit him, Lynley saw where the man's sobriquet had come from: A ragged scar ran from his forehead and across one of his eyelids, cutting a swathe that had removed the tip of his nose and half his upper lip. Slash would probably have been more appropriate since the scar was obviously the legacy of a knife. But he'd no doubt wished to stay with the theme of the club. Lash suggested that an element of the voluntary had been involved in his maiming.

Lash looked not at Lynley but at Nkata. Abruptly, he set the cocktail shaker to one side. “Fuck,” he snarled. “I should of killed you when I had you, Demon. That ransom idea was bullshit on wheels.”

Lynley looked at his DC curiously. “You two know each other?”

“We-” Clearly, Nkata was seeking a delicate way of framing the information for his superior officer. “We met once or twice in the 'lotments near Windmill Gardens,” Nkata said. “Some years back, this was.”

“Weeding out dandelions from the lettuce patch, I dare say,” Lynley noted dryly.

Lash snorted. “We 'as doing some weeding, true enough,” he said, and then to Nkata, “I always wondered where you wanked off to. I might of guessed it'd be to something like this.” He took a step towards them and peered more closely at Nkata. His misshapen lips suddenly parted in what went for his smile. “You sod!” he cried, giving a bark of happy laughter. “I knew I marked you that night. I swore up and down all that blood wasn't mine.”

“You marked me,” Nkata said congenially, tapping the scar that ran across his cheek. He extended his hand. “How are you, Dewey?”

Dewey? Lynley wondered.

“Lash,” Dewey said.

“Right, then. Lash. You straight? Or what?”

“Or what,” Lash said, and smiled again. He took Nkata's offered hand and shook it, saying, “I just bloody knew I marked you, Deme. You 'as good with a knife. Shit. Just take a look at this mug if you don't believe me.” This last was said to Lynley, and then back to Nkata, “But I was always fast with the razor.”

“True enough, that is,” Nkata said.

“What d'you lot want with Shelly Platt, then?” Lash grinned. “Can't be looking for her usual.”

“We'd like to talk to her about a murder,” Lynley said. “Nicola Maiden. Is the name familiar?”

Lash considered this as he poured martinis into four glasses arranged on a tray. He speared on toothpicks two stuffed green olives per glass and plopped them into the cocktails before replying.

“Sheila!” he barked. “It's up.” And when the barmaid teetered over in platform boots and a fishnet teddy that showed far more than it could ever conceal, he slid the tray to her and turned back to the detectives. “Great name, Maiden. For this sort of place. I'd of remembered. No. Don't know her.”

“Shelly did apparently. And now she's dead.”

“Shelly's no killer. A bitch and a tart with a temper like a cobra. But she's never done harm that I ever heard.”

“We'd like to speak to her nonetheless. I understand she's a habitué of the club. If she's not here now, you might want to tell us where we can find her. I can't think you'd like us hanging about till she arrives.”

Lash glanced at Nkata. “He always talk like that?”

“Born to it, he was.”

“Shit. That must put the mockers on your style.”

“I cope,” Nkata said. “Can you help us out, Dew?”

“Lash.”

“Lash. Right. I forget.”

“Can,” Lash said. “For old times and the like. But you didn't hear it from me. That straight?”

“Got it,” Nkata said, and he took out his neat little leather notebook.

Lash grinned. “Chrisamighty. You are legit, eh?”

“Keep it to yourself, mate, won't you?”