Lynda La Plante - Wrongful Death

‘I’m becoming a soft touch,’ Anna said.

Dewar wagged her finger. ‘No. You like the thrill of the chase.’

Anna put her notebook in her bag. ‘I’m still not convinced Reynolds was murdered.’

‘You will be. Trust me.’

‘As long as you promise to hold back on Donna Reynolds, treat her as a witness, not a suspect, until we have hard evidence to prove otherwise,’ Anna replied, although she knew that this was unlikely to happen.

By the time Anna got to her car, Dewar was already in hers, slamming her door shut. As she started up the engine she lowered the window and told Anna she’d meet her outside the front of the Trojan club in Rupert Street. Anna watched, impressed by her enthusiasm, as she drove out of the underground car park too fast and on the wrong side of the arrows.

On her way to the club, Anna took the opportunity to put in a quick call to Pete Jenkins at the forensics lab, but his assistant said he was out at a scene. Anna left a message that she would be at the lab between eight-thirty and nine a.m. and needed to discuss the Joshua Reynolds suicide with him.

As usual there were no parking spaces to be had along Wardour Street, and so Anna resorted to the multi-storey car park in Poland Street. Walking through the neon alleyway of Walkers Court, once home of the infamous Raymond Revuebar strip club, Anna realized how little the area had changed over the years. It was still the heart of London’s adult entertainment industry with its sex shops and clip joints fleecing tourists who were looking for a ‘good time’. It struck Anna a lap-dancing club like the Trojan would fit in perfectly in the area and no doubt be a very profitable business.

There was no sign of Dewar as Anna reached the main entrance of the club, where large metal security gates in front of the doors were firmly closed and padlocked. Anna traced her way around to the rear-mews entrance, passing large industrial-waste bins filled with rubbish. She could see Dewar’s car parked in the mews with a police vehicle sign on the dashboard to ward away any passing traffic wardens, making her even more irritated that the agent had not waited for her at the front as they had agreed. She noticed a tall black man in his mid-fifties emerging from the open rear fire doors of the club. He was carrying two crates of empty bottles, which he stacked on others that were already outside the premises. He was wearing a dark blue zip-front boiler suit, which was paint-stained, a black wool hat and workman’s safety boots.

‘Hi, I’m looking for the lady who was driving that car,’ Anna said as she pointed.

He turned to her, his face shiny with sweat. ‘Is she the FBI lady who’s come to see Mr Williams?’ he asked.

‘That would be her,’ Anna said, thinking so much for Dewar’s idea of a discreet approach.

‘He’s on his way back from the wholesalers and said you’s to wait for him. His office is straight along the corridor through the doors to the dance area. Go across it to the “Staff Only” door then up the stairs, and his office is on the right.’

‘Thanks,’ Anna said.

‘I’d take you like I did the other lady but I gotta wait for the collections. Can’t leave the empties unattended out here cause the winos come and drink the dregs.’

The thought of the winos finishing the dregs made Anna’s stomach turn as she headed along the corridor, which smelled strongly of beer and wine, and into the main area of the club. It was dimly lit and her eyes took a few seconds to adjust. It was a large room with a number of supporting pillars. There was gilt everywhere, fringed red drapes on the walls and a raised circular stage, with lap-dancing poles in the middle. The stage itself was surrounded by bar stools allowing the clientele to get up close to the dancers. The thought of the place filled with sweaty groping men made Anna cringe.

On the far side of the room there was a door with a VIP GUESTS ONLY sign on it. As there was no one around, Anna opened the door to have a quick look inside, to discover it was lavishly furnished and had its own bar and private dance cubicles.

Anna thought the club felt dirty and seedy and as she went through the ‘Staff Only’ door, she wondered what on earth would attract someone to the premises. Upstairs she found Dewar sitting on a leather-backed chair in Marcus Williams’ office.

‘Thanks for waiting for me, Jessie.’

‘I didn’t have any choice. I parked up out the back and the next thing I knew this big black guy was telling me it was private parking. I had to tell him who I was and he called Williams, who told him to show me up here.’

The office was tidy, very elegant and well lit with recessed halogen ceiling lights. On one side were floor-to-ceiling mirrored-glass windows which gave a one-way view out onto the main floor and stage below. At the far end there were a large modern writing desk, desktop computer and leather-backed executive chair. Behind the desk was a sideboard, on top of which were crystal glasses and decanters filled with brandy and whisky. Above the sideboard, wine racks contained bottles of Dom Perignon, Krug and Cristal champagne. Beside the desk a row of two-drawer wooden filing cabinets were placed neatly along the wall; above them there were photographs of celebrities entering and leaving the club. Anna took a seat beside Dewar.

‘Nice place, isn’t it?’ Dewar remarked.

‘I find it seedy and hate the smell of stale alcohol,’ Anna said.

‘Ah, the rich and famous like to get down and dirty. They have topless waitresses, pole dancers and as we know from Taylor anything goes in the VIP rooms… if you’ve got the money. Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. Haw-haw.’

‘I’m beginning to wish we’d asked Williams to come to the station,’ Anna groaned.

‘I got chatting with Curtis.’

‘Who’s Curtis?’

‘The black guy who showed me up here – he’s the general handyman. Worked here since it opened and knew Josh well. Be a good man to interview with when we have time.’

Anna got up from the chair to look over the array of photographs. She was amazed by the number of celebrities, both male and female, that frequented the club. A number of film and television stars and musicians were in the photographs with a handsome mixed-race man who she assumed to be Marcus Williams. There was one picture of Josh and the same man together standing outside the club under the neon Trojan sign. They were holding a jeroboam of champagne with filled glasses and toasting each other.

Anna was still examining the pictures when the door banged open, and both she and Dewar turned as the man in the picture with Josh walked in carrying a briefcase and a box of Cristal champagne, which he put down beside the desk.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Marcus Williams, owner of the Trojan.’

He could have made a good entrance anywhere. He was at least six feet four, exceptionally handsome, with Afro hair braided and tied back with a black band. His skin was light brown, and he had very chiselled features and blue eyes. He was wearing a grey suit, white collarless shirt, and a cashmere navy coat.

Dewar smiled, stood up to shake his hand and introduced herself. He had long tapering manicured fingers, with a large gold ring on his left little finger. He turned to shake Anna’s hand as she walked over and introduced herself, then tossed his coat over the back of his executive chair before he sat down to face them. Anna explained that Special Agent Dewar was on attachment to the Metropolitan Police and working with her team.

‘How can I help you ladies?’ Williams asked.

‘We are from the murder squad and it’s been alleged that Josh Reynolds may not have committed suicide,’ Anna said, getting straight to the point and before Dewar could say anything. Williams looked shocked as Anna continued, ‘There are certain issues from the information we have received that raise concern, however that does not mean he was actually murdered.’