Tony Park - Silent Predator

She sounded young, though her voice was quite deep, the pronunciation precise, as though the tongue was learned, not native. There was an ethnic accent there — possibly black African. Tom wondered if it was a potential girlfriend. A ‘club’ could mean a number of things. Being ‘on’ could refer to anything from working a shift behind a bar to a performance of some sort. He replayed the message. The girl’s tone was slightly annoyed. Perhaps Nick had seen her and wanted to get to know her better — hence her concern at him tracking her down. Tom hoped Nick hadn’t used police resources to get a woman’s phone number, but he wouldn’t have been the first to do so.

Tom moved to the refrigerator, intending to check how much food was there and its use-by dates to try to get a better feel for when Nick was last home. Before he opened it, a business card under an I love Ibiza magnet caught his eye. He lifted the card, holding it by the edges, for it was glossy and would probably hold a fingerprint quite well. There was a picture of a blonde in skimpy lingerie and high heels holding onto a brass pole and leaning out to one side. Club Minx was written underneath. On the back, written in pen, was a name — Ebony. A stripper’s stage name, perhaps? It gelled, too, with the African accent on the machine.

Tom’s mobile phone rang and he fished it out of the pocket of his duffel coat. ‘Hello, it’s Tom.’

‘Any luck? Are you at Nick’s place?’

It was Shuttleworth. ‘No and yes. There’s no sign of him, guv. Doesn’t look like he’s been here for…’ Tom opened the fridge door and looked inside. The shelves were bare. In the door was a carton of milk with yesterday’s date as the use-by date. ‘… for quite some time. Fridge’s empty except for some stale milk. Heating’s turned off. Has he been overseas?’

‘No, but he was on leave for four days until he went back to Greeves today. The Secretary of State for Defence and junior ministers such as Greeves are being afforded close personal protection at home and abroad now because of the latest al-Qaeda threats. Nick must have gone straight to work from wherever he was spending his break. Then he vanished this evening. Any sign that he may have come home?’

Tom held up the card from the pole-dancing club and wondered. Though they’d once been friends via their wives, he owed no loyalty to Nick, other than what he might feel towards any other member of the team. Still, it didn’t do to go insinuating a detective on protection was consorting with sex workers. ‘No, but I can pop round to his local and see if anyone there’s seen or heard from him.’

‘Aye, okay. But don’t stay out on the piss until all hours. I want to see you in my office at eight-thirty tomorrow.’

‘What happened to my appointment with the shrink?’ And my lie-in, Tom thought.

‘That can wait. You seem quite sane to me.’

Tom kicked the fridge door closed and the Ibiza magnet slipped off to the floor. When he knelt to retrieve it, he saw the corner of a small piece of white card sticking out from under the fridge. He picked it up and found it was another business card. It had the name and mobile phone number of a freelance journalist on it. Tom didn’t recognise the name. He placed it on top of the fridge after writing the details in his notebook.

Club Minx was in Soho, a part of London Tom didn’t care for. He wasn’t a prude, and had been to his fair share of strip clubs — or table-dancing clubs as this one billed itself — but the congested, seedy hub depressed him.

The drunken office Johnnys in their suits and loosened ties saw only the smiles and flesh. As a bobby Tom had found teenagers who had overdosed in toilets; toms — whores — who had been beaten by their pimps or sadistic clients; kids from abusive families with nowhere to go and no other source of income than their own bodies; girls from the Far East and the former Soviet republics sold into modern-day slavery. There was nothing terribly sexy about any of that.

By the time he’d driven the Jag back to Highgate and caught the tube into the city it was nearly midnight. He’d ditched the duffel coat and slipped on a sports coat, so he looked less like a builder and more like an off-duty businessman.

Tom got off the Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road tube station. He showed his warrant card and wished he’d brought a waterproof jacket when he saw the footpath glistening in the reflected glow of streetlights. Raindrops were hitting a muddy puddle which had formed in a gutter dammed by rubbish. He walked down Oxford Street, which was still crowded with tourists and night people, coming or going to and from pubs and clubs. This part of the city was just coming to life.

Soho still clung to its reputation for sin and sleaze, but the truth was that the strip joints, brothels and sex shops were slowly but surely losing ground to bistros, restaurants, trendy bars and cafes. A new wave of businesses, largely fuelled by the pink pound, had also grown up in Old Crompton Street. What remained of Soho’s salacious past — at least, what was still visible to passers-by — was hemmed into a warren formed by Berwick, Walker and Peter streets. On Berwick he passed a shop with leather corsets and restraints in the window and ignored the urgings of a tout to come inside and see his fully nude girls.

A grey-haired man in a suit ducked out of an adult bookstore and looked guiltily both ways before darting into the passing throng of people. A group of a dozen lads in their late teens and early twenties sang the chorus of an old Rolling Stones song — badly — as they weaved down the narrow thoroughfare. A tourist couple paused in front of him, blocking the footpath, to check their London A-Z. Tom kept his impatience in check.

‘Been in a fight?’ the bouncer asked him as he descended the stairs from Peter Street.

‘Walked into a cupboard door,’ Tom said, unconsciously fingering the glass cut above his eye. He’d forgotten about it.

The bouncer looked him up and down and, deciding he wasn’t drunk, said, ‘All right. Don’t think I need to check your ID to see if you’re underage.’

The music he heard as he walked past the doorman had a beat he could feel in his chest. Slow, grinding. Music to disrobe to.

‘Ten pounds, please,’ the girl behind the reception desk said.

Tom wished he had told Shuttleworth about his informal investigation now. There was no way he’d be able to claim entrance to a strip club on his expenses if he wasn’t officially working. He didn’t want to flash his warrant card to the girl, which would cause a panic among the club’s workers and patrons and have them all start disappearing. He’d put money on a few of the girls being illegal immigrants.

‘Ta,’ the girl said as he handed over his money. She wore a low-cut mini-dress that left little to the imagination.

A man in his fifties, heavy set and bald, stood to one side of the counter. Extra security, Tom assumed. A skinny red-headed girl in a lime green Lycra skirt the width of a hair band and a matching boob tube tottered past on black platform-sole shoes with five-inch heels, leading an overweight man in a suit by the hand. The couple walked past reception, through a door. Tom watched their progress, then glanced back at the girl behind the cash register.

‘You been here before?’

‘No.’

‘Private shows are out the back. Just talk to any of the girls — they’ll be more than happy to oblige.’

He nodded and walked into the club. The air was heavy with a cloying mist of disinfectant, cigarette smoke and perspiration, all masked by cheap perfume. A girl dressed in white stay-up stockings and matching bra and pants smiled at him as she brushed by, carrying a tray of drinks.