Tony Park - Silent Predator

In the centre of the room was a square podium, joined to the black ceiling by two brass poles. There were seats for maybe twenty people around the stage, though there were only four punters there now, up close, ogling a brunette who was naked except for a brief G-string, black patent leather high heels, nipple rings, and a garter stuffed with notes. She, too, smiled at him as he took a chair opposite the other men.

The girl turned her back to Tom and knelt in front of the men. ‘Show us everything,’ one of them said, loud enough for Tom to hear over the grinding music. She shook her head and he didn’t catch what the girl said, but the man who had spoken got up and returned to his table. His comrade got up soon after and joined him, leaving just two patrons. Tom watched them, beyond the girl’s flawless back. They had shaved heads, football shirts and too much bling. If they were crims — and judging by the spider-web tattoo on his neck, at least one of them had done time — they were small-time.

The waitress in bridal white came to Tom and he ordered a Beck’s. He also paid thirty quid for some plastic money to stuff in the girl’s garter. She was on her knees, but bent backwards until her hair brushed the stage. She was looking at Tom, upside down, and he smiled back at her.

Not getting any joy from the other two men, the girl used the pole to pull herself to her feet and, after climbing and swinging as she slid down again, crawled on all fours to Tom’s side of the podium. She grinned and winked when Tom held up a bill. She turned side on to him, so he could slide the money between her garter and her bare thigh. The transaction sealed, she leaned over him, allowing her long hair to fall around his face. Her nose was half an inch from his. She moved her mouth to his ear and blew in it.

‘Hello, my name is Ivana,’ she whispered.

‘Hello, my name’s Detective Sergeant.’

The smile vanished from the girl’s face as she rocked back on her haunches. Russian, maybe, or Ukrainian, or Latvian, or Lithuanian. It didn’t matter. He’d put a hundred quid on her being an illegal immigrant. She looked over her shoulder towards the distant reception counter.

‘Don’t worry, Ivana, the management doesn’t know I’m a copper.’ The waitress deposited Tom’s beer in front of him.

She closed her legs. ‘What do you want?’

‘World peace, job satisfaction and a lasting relationship.’

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I have nothing to say to police.’

‘Fine then, we can have a chat at the nearest nick, if you prefer. We can stop by your home and you can collect your passport. We’ll need to check your identity and residency status.’

‘I am not illegal, and I can prove it.’

Tom sipped his beer, then shrugged. ‘Says you. I can be back in half an hour with a couple of uniformed officers. That should do wonders for business.’

She looked over her shoulder again. ‘I finish dance in a few minutes. We can talk then. But I tell you now, policeman or not, no sex.’

Tom nodded. Ivana returned to the other side of the stage to try to milk a few more quid out of the football hooligans, and Tom found a table in a dark corner of the club.

Ivana finished her dance and stepped down from the stage, to a smattering of token applause from the score or so of other customers sitting at candle-lit tables. She shrugged into an abbreviated vinyl interpretation of a nurse’s uniform and walked over to Tom. The waitress returned and Ivana looked pointedly at the other girl, then back to Tom.

‘Oh, all right. What’ll it be?’

‘Double vodka and tonic.’

Tom ordered a second beer and winced when the girl told him the price. He shelled out some notes, wishing again he had done this by the book. The waitress left them.

‘If you are police, show me your identification.’

Tom pulled out his wallet and showed his warrant card.

‘Furey? It means madness?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Why don’t you tell the owner who you are?’ she asked him.

‘Where’s Ebony tonight?’

The girl leaned back in her chair and sipped her drink. When she put it down, she said, ‘What are you, another stalker or something?’

‘Another?’

Ivana said nothing.

‘Is she working tonight?’

‘This is not official business, I think.’

Tom checked his watch. ‘Like I said, it can be, very easily.’

Ivana sighed and flicked back from her face a long, straightened strand of jet black hair. ‘She called in ill.’

‘When was her last shift?’

‘Last night. Are you going to stay here all night and spend that tipping money you bought?’

Tom looked at the laminated play money on the table. ‘You said, “another stalker”; was there a man bothering her?’

Ivana laughed, and Tom thought how pretty she really was. ‘Men bother us every single night, Mr Policeman.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘There was a regular customer, a guy who came maybe five, six times in last two weeks — always booked private shows.’

‘What did he look like?’

Ivana finished her vodka, slurping as she sucked the dregs through her straw. She smiled sweetly but said nothing.

Tom slid over the tipping money and she palmed it off the table.

‘Glasses, red hair, freckles. Midtwenties. Short — about five-six. Looks like academician or maybe IT geek.’

Definitely not Nick then. Tom described the other detective.

‘That could be any man who comes in here,’ Ivana shrugged.

She was right, and Tom knew it. Someone would have to bring back a picture. He wanted to know more about the girl. ‘She’s black — the girl, Ebony?’

‘Now I know why they make you detective.’

‘Hah, hah. Where’s she from, the West Indies?’

‘South Africa.’

That was a bit out of the ordinary. ‘Is she an illegal immigrant?’

‘Who are you after, her or this big guy with black hair?’

‘Has she been acting differently lately?’

‘She went home early last night. I assume it was the sickness that kept her away tonight, but I was doing private show when she left, so I did not talk to her.’

‘Were any of the other girls on tonight working last night?’

Ivana looked around the club. ‘No.’

Tom thought from her studied nonchalance that she was probably lying — perhaps to protect her co-workers. He liked that about her. Honour among strippers. ‘There were no other regulars that you know about?’

Ivana shook her head and looked at her watch. ‘I am finishing work soon. You like private show?’

Tom smiled at her. ‘No, thanks. How long has Ebony been in the UK?’

‘About a year, I think.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Young — but not under-age, if that’s what you’re thinking. About nineteen, I think. Boss here is very strict on some things. No drugs, no kids.’

Tom wondered if Nick had seen Ebony, and if he had been the reason she had left work early the previous night. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself by asking the receptionist.

‘You got wife, Mr Policeman?’ Ivana asked, intruding into his thoughts.

‘No.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘That’s none of your business.’ He drained his beer.

‘I thought not. Policemen lousy at relationships. My policeman boyfriend in Russia, he beat me, so I stab him.’

‘Bad relationship, indeed. Call me if you remember anything else.’ He gave her a card and left the club.

It was nearly two in the morning before he opened the door to his warm but empty home. His face still stung from the cuts and he thought about the explosion again, and the death of the computer guy, Steve. He stripped off and climbed into bed between cool sheets. He looked across at the picture of Alex and smiled at her. He realised it could have just as easily been him caught in the explosion.