Killer Instinct (35 page)

“But they said there wasn't anything on those tapes,” Dave objected.

I remembered Terry's client book. There wasn't a DC for Dave Clemmens listed under the number for the New Adelphi, which surely meant that, if Dave wasn't hiring out blue movies from Terry, he was in the clear. There was a GB, on the other hand. Gary Bignold, possibly? There was no L either, although I didn't know Len's surname. I made a mental note to ask Marc later, just to be sure.

For now, I shrugged as though the whole thing was of minor importance. “Don't look at me,” I said. “All I know is, they're bringing in some spotty computer nerd tomorrow to look at that weekend's tapes, and he reckons he can get something out of them. Why don't you ask the boss about it, if you're so worried?”

“He's not in tonight,” Len said, grumpy. He pointedly checked his watch. “And that doesn't mean you lot can slack off. Get your kit and let's get this place opened up on time, right?”

I hung around while everyone collected their walkie-talkies, then moved up one of the spiral staircases and made my way surreptitiously to the manager's office on the second floor.

I tapped on the locked door. Marc came to let me in, then went back to his desk to complete a phone call. He waved me into one of the leather chairs opposite, and I took it to wait until he'd finished.

Behind him was a bank of half a dozen television monitors, showing black-and-white pictures from the security cameras around the club. The outside ones covered bits of the car park, including the main entrance, and round the back where I'd tucked the Suzuki away.

I looked round the office as Marc talked on. It was furnished in a fairly spartan, modern style, limed oak cupboards and minimalist light fittings over abstract paintings. Through a partially open doorway I could see a private toilet and washbasin. Just so the manager didn't have to mix with the proles, not for any reason.

Marc's desk was large, with curvy sides and a fashionably modern matt-finish surface. The chair behind it was a high-backed leather swivel job, in the best James Bond villain tradition. There was a low suede sofa against one wall that looked like it had been designed purely for its stylish appearance, with no regard to comfort.

Over on the cupboards was a stainless steel coffee machine, with half a pot of coal-black liquid gently steaming. The smell of it was enough to set my mouth watering. I looked at it longingly and Marc caught my gaze.

He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Help yourself,” he murmured, smiling. “Two sugars in mine.”

I poured for us both, discovering a small built-in fridge containing the milk behind one of the cupboard doors, like a hotel mini-bar. All mod cons.

Marc finished his call and sipped his coffee. “So,” he said, “Are we all primed up and ready?”

“I think so,” I replied. “None of them seem to have cottoned on to the fact that you're here, and Len took the bait beautifully.”

Marc nodded.

“D'you think – if it is Angelo – he'll bite?” I asked, frowning. My nerves were jittering and I was so taut it was making my head ache.

“I don't see how he can't,” he said confidently. “If he's been responsible, and he's got away with it so far, how can he fail to be burnt up by the fact that there might be some evidence he's overlooked?”

He put down his cup and moved smoothly round the desk, perching on it in front of me. His black suit and dark hair made him suddenly look like Lucifer. His fingers were cool on my face, making me jump. “Don't worry, Charlie. If it's him – he’ll come,” he promised solemnly. “And if he does, we’ll get him.”

I didn’t reply to that, just drained my cup and put it back by the coffee machine. Marc went to check the office door was secured, removing the key from the mortice lock.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I queried as he dropped the key onto the desktop. “What if he comes and tries the door, finds it’s locked, and simply goes away again.”

“The office door is usually locked when I’m not here,” he said. “It would be more suspicious for it not to be. Besides, Len leaves his keys in his locker. It wouldn’t be that difficult for someone to get hold of them, if they really wanted to.”

I nodded, appreciating the logic. “So, what do we do now?” I asked, on edge.

Marc turned off all the lights except a small desk lamp. “Now,” he said, smiling whitely in the semi-darkness, “we wait.”

***

We waited for three hours.

Three hours during which time the clock slowed to half-speed, while my heartrate alternately over-revved or stopped altogether, in line with every unexpected noise from outside the door.

We heard the club opening up, the music getting under way. The melody was indistinct through the various walls and floors between us and the source. Only the beat of the bass came through.

It was enough covering noise for us to be able to speak in whispers to each other. We talked of something and nothing, nervously passing the time.

The security monitors showed groups of people arriving at the club doorway, being admitted. It wasn't difficult to recognise Angelo's shaven head and swaggering stance, even through the grainy distortion of the lens.

Peering closely, I could even see the marks on his face. I glanced at Marc's hands, relaxed on the arms of his chair, and wondered how much further he'd go to punish Angelo if he thought the man had crossed him.

I wondered again about that cut under Angelo's eye. I didn't think Victoria had managed to land a punch on him, more's the pity. I thought of the petite waitress and my thoughts hardened. Christ, the bloke was a complete bastard.

“He really isn't right for working the door,” I muttered.

Marc glanced sideways at me. “He's a good man in a scrap,” was all he said, voice neutral.

“Yeah, I'm sure he is,” I agreed dryly. “The trouble is, he probably started the fight in the first place.”

Marc opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak something made me reach out and grip his arm, bringing a finger to my lips to caution silence.

He frowned at me, was about to question my action, when the noise came again, louder this time.

The unmistakable sound of a key being fumblingly slotted into the lock.

Marc's eyes narrowed and he was on his feet in a moment, moving stealthily to the shelter of the hinge side of the door. It looked strange to see him dressed like a city slicker, but behaving like a commando.

I joined him, trying to stay flat to the shelving unit.

Marc cupped a hand round my ear and whispered. “You get the door – I'll take care of our friend.”

With only a fraction of hesitation, I nodded. I remembered the professional way he'd grabbed hold of Susie Hollins that night when I first met him. God, it seemed so long ago. I knew I'd feel happier tackling Angelo myself, if it was him, but now wasn't the time or the place to argue about it.

The door opened with agonising slowness. I felt Marc half-crouch alongside me, instinctively tensing his body without realising he was doing it. I knew I was probably doing the same. My blood was pounding so hard in my head I could hardly hear anything over the roar of it.

The door inched further open and a figure started to appear round the leading edge.

“Now!” Marc yelled.

I hit the door with my shoulder, slamming it shut. Marc went straight for the man who'd entered, body-slamming him low, taking him down hard and fast. I had a moment to admire the precise economy of his movements, then all three of us were on the floor.

The man didn't even get a chance to lash out. We had him face down in a flash, rearranging his nose into the pile of the carpet. Marc rammed the bloke's arm up behind his back so forcibly his joints cracked. I'm amazed he didn't fracture the bone.

As I got shakily to my feet, the adrenaline still pumping, one overwhelming realisation hit me.

It wasn't Angelo.

For a start, he had far too much hair. And the build was wrong. He was much too slight. Marc must have come to the same conclusion because he let go of his arm lock and punted the man over onto his back so we could get a better look at him.

“Bloody hell,” I swore. “Gary?”

Marc's face closed in with an anger that was more frightening because of its apparent calm. He hauled his hapless bar manager to his feet and almost threw him onto the hard sofa. Gary cringed away from the pair of us, cradling his arm as though it didn't work any more. His colour was high and he looked close to tears.

“I don't suppose you'd care to tell us exactly what you were up to?” Marc enquired silkily.

“Nothing!” Gary protested, his voice high and whingey. “I haven't done anything!”

Marc didn't bother with threats. He crossed the distance between them with deceptive speed and hit Gary with a considered and quite clinical blow to the face. I tried not to wince at the squelchy tear of cartilage.

Gary squawked and clamped his hands to his nose. Blood immediately started dripping out between his fingers. He automatically leaned forwards so it didn't ruin his evening suit.

I went into the bathroom and brought out a roll of toilet tissue. Gary didn't acknowledge me when I handed it over, just ripped off a dozen sheets and held them to his face. He was rocking slightly backwards and forwards, distressed and shocky.

Marc was sitting on the edge of the desk, watching him like a Rottweiler eyeing up a baby. He took advantage of Gary's distraction to wink at me, but I was too shocked to return the gesture, even though I tried not to show it. Marc had slipped so easily into the role of interrogator. Too easily for comfort, perhaps?

“Cut the crap, Gary,” he said coldly now. “You're not entitled to keys for this office, and you know it. So what were you doing sneaking in here?”

For a heartbeat Gary gave thought to another lie. Marc only had to shift his weight towards getting off the desk for the other man's nerve to fail him. The menace he projected in that room was oppressive.

“OK, OK!” he cried, voice nasal and muffled. “I came for the damned tapes! From the bloody security cameras.”

The words sent a chill washing down over me. I hadn't even considered Gary as a player in all this.

“And why would you want those?” Marc demanded softly.

“I, well, I—” He glanced from one of us to the other, but obviously didn't see a way out written in either of our faces. He swallowed convulsively, grimacing like someone trying to take a pill without water. The bleeding seemed to have slowed and he pulled the makeshift handkerchief away from his nose, heedless of the bits of fluffy tissue left adhered to the light stubble of his chin.

Marc sighed. “Don't make me hurt you again,” he warned, sounding tired.

Suddenly, I remembered about all those not-quite-empty bottles Gary removed from the club bars, his uneasiness, and I put it all together.

“Why don't I help you out, Gary?” I suggested. “Why don't I tell your boss about your little scam?”

His eyes widened, flickering apprehensively to Marc, then back to me. “S-scam?” he tried. “What scam?”

Marc's second blow landed deep into his solar plexus. Gary spent a couple of minutes doubled up on the chair, gasping and moaning. I twitched with the memory of the smoker's fist landing on my own body and scowled at Marc over Gary's wheezing head, but he just met my gaze levelly.

He didn't enjoy this sort of thing, I realised, not in the way Angelo would have done. It didn't please or excite him. It was just a job to be done, ruthlessly, efficiently, and he had no qualms about doing it.

And it worked. When Gary could speak again he didn't bother with any further denials. He launched straight into a full confession.

“All right, all right, I'll tell you all about it,” he said sullenly. “When I've been bottling up the bars I've b-been—” his voice wavered, but he swallowed again, less awkwardly this time, and went on, “I've been changing the bottles in the optics a bit early.” The last piece came out in a rush, as though saying it quickly would make it easier.

“A bit early,” Marc repeated. Something in his voice made me turn towards him. “Every bottle, in every optic, on every change, throughout the club?” he queried.

After a moment's hesitation, Gary nodded. When Marc put it like that it started to sound like a major fraud. I had no idea about the price of spirits. With the exception of the occasional whisky, I was more of a beer drinker myself. I liked the odd glass of wine, but hated the pretension that went with it.

I suddenly remembered the price of drinks in the club, when I'd been that first time with Clare. It wasn't so much that Gary was robbing Marc of vast amounts, but he must surely have been curtailing his profits by quite a chunk.

Marc slid off the desk, dismissing with a contemptuous glance the way Gary shrank back away from him. He moved over to the coffee machine, pouring two cups and handing one to me. When he spoke again his voice was deadly quiet.

“And did you really believe, with computerised tills which record every drink, that I wouldn't notice?” he asked. “That I wouldn't begin to wonder why the bar costs were higher here at the New Adelphi than at any other club I own? Why, miraculously, you didn't seem to be able to squeeze the standard twenty-eight shots out of a bottle that they manage everywhere else.”