Road Closed (17 page)

‘Murderer!’ she screeched. ‘You’ll burn in hell for what you did!’

‘Tell her to shut it, for fuck’s sake. She’s off her trolley.’ Rattled, Barker turned to the constable.

‘That’s him,’ Sophie gabbled. ‘It’s him.’ She seized Geraldine’s arm and shook her. ‘That’s the man I saw outside the house. It’s him!’

‘I’m the innocent party here. It’s slander, that’s what this is. You need to do something to shut her up,’ Barker blustered.

‘Come along, sir,’ the constable replied, unperturbed. He escorted Barker to the door.

Sophie ran out. Geraldine retired to her office but couldn’t settle. She returned to the lobby which was now empty.

‘She went quietly,’ the desk sergeant told her, before she had a chance to ask. ‘Left as soon as Barker had gone. Never a dull moment, eh?’

29

Bronxy

Barker swore when he saw Geraldine and Peterson on his doorstep. He ran large hands through his dishevelled hair. ‘I already told you I was there. I saw the door open. I only went in to see that everything was all right. Jesus, you try to be a good citizen, and end up being treated like a bloody criminal.’ He glared. ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’

‘Mr Barker, this isn’t about your trespass.’

‘I keep telling you, it wasn’t trespass. The door was wide open. I just walked in.’

‘Where were you on Friday night?’

‘What?’ His mouth hung slack but his eyes were suddenly sharp.

‘Where were you on Friday night?’

‘Friday night?’ He blinked, uncertain. Geraldine waited. ‘How the fuck should I know?’ He folded his arms and leaned back.

‘Not great, as alibis go,’ Peterson remarked conversationally. He too leaned back, mirroring Barker’s posture.

‘Alibi?’ Barker spluttered. ‘What are you talking about, alibi? I’ve done nothing wrong. This is fucking insane. I act like a responsible citizen and you lot turn it into some kind of crime.’ He paused. They waited. ‘I need to check,’ he said. ‘I’m entitled.’ Geraldine nodded and Barker slammed the door. A few seconds later they heard raised voices. Peterson hammered on the door. Barker opened it again.

‘You can come to the station and wait for a duty solicitor –’ Geraldine began.

‘I don’t need a fucking lawyer. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Geraldine and Peterson exchanged annoyed glances and she resumed. ‘Where were you on Friday night?’

This time, Barker had an answer. ‘Bronxy’s,’ he replied.

‘Bronxy’s?’

‘Yeah. That’s right. I spent the night at Bronxy’s. With a mate.’

‘Where is Bronxy’s?’

‘The club. The Blue Lagoon. You can ask anyone there. They’ll tell you. I was there.’ He slammed the door.

‘He’s agitated,’ Geraldine said.

‘He’s not just angry. He’s scared,’ Peterson agreed.

‘But not of us.’

Bennett gave Geraldine and Peterson the background to Barker’s alibi. ‘Bronxy runs the Blue Lagoon. It’s a strip joint posing as a night club, behind the scenes a knocking shop posing as a strip joint. It’s a nasty dive. A real cess pit. It all goes on there. The owner was prosecuted for profiting from human trafficking a couple of years back. All came to nothing, more’s the pity. Prosecution couldn’t make it stick.’

‘No convictions?’ Peterson asked.

Bennett shook his head. ‘Bronxy’s a slippery customer with a finger in every stinking pie.’ He shrugged. ‘Best of luck. I hope you shut the place down and throw away the key.’

‘Bronxy?’ Geraldine repeated thoughtfully as they settled in the car. ‘What do we know about Bronxy?’

Peterson shrugged. ‘He isn’t running a bridge club, gov.’ He spun the wheel and drove off away from the centre of town to a rundown district on the east side of the town.

The nature of the Blue Lagoon was apparent as soon as they drew up in a narrow street of seedy pubs interspersed with strip joints and night clubs. A neon sign announced the name in bright pink letters: ‘Blue Lagoon’.

‘Should be blue lettering,’ Geraldine remarked, as they approached the narrow poorly lit entrance.

A bouncer on the door sized them up straight away. ‘Evening, officers,’ he greeted them before they had shown any ID. ‘Here for the evening’s entertainment?’ He ran watery eyes up and down Geraldine’s body, and winked suggestively at Peterson. ‘Nice.’

‘We’re here to see Bronxy,’ Peterson replied sharply.

The man touched his cap. ‘You’re in luck then, gov’nor. Bronxy’s in tonight. Bronxy’s in every night.’ He laughed. ‘Back office. But you’d best let me –’ Peterson pushed past the security guard without waiting to hear any more.

Geraldine followed the sergeant across a dimly lit foyer, through a thick dark curtain, into a stuffy room.

‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ a heavily made up girl called after them, long red nails fluttering. On a podium, a scantily clad woman was gyrating to music so loud it made Geraldine’s head pound.

One or two men complained as they pushed their way through the hot and smoky room. ‘Watch where you put your feet, wanker.’

The stripper turned her back and ripped off her bra. Someone jeered. The sweet scent of cannabis floated on the air as they threaded their way to a door labelled STAFF ONLY. Peterson rapped on the door. He marched in without waiting for a response, ignoring a shrill female voice protesting behind them. Geraldine followed him, relieved when the door closed behind her, reducing the blaring music to a dull thump.

They were in a well furnished office. Halogen lighting made Geraldine blink. A woman was sitting at a desk. Short and muscular, she rose to her feet in one swift movement. Shrewd black rimmed eyes flicked over them. Highlighted hair had been swept back off her face in curls that swooped to her shoulders. There was something fake about her high cheek bones, pouting lips and smooth complexion. In her youthful face, shrewd eyes contemplated them with the scepticism of old age.

‘We’re looking for Bronxy.’ Geraldine sat down without waiting for an invitation.

The woman’s dark eyes flashed. ‘Bronxy?’ Her voice was husky.

‘We’re looking for Bronxy,’ Peterson repeated. The woman sat down behind the desk and spread her hands on either side of her body, palms upward, in a gesture of submission.

‘I’m all yours, Sergeant,’ she drawled. Her eyes moved slowly down and lingered below Peterson’s waistband. She licked her lips and laughed under her breath before turning to Geraldine. ‘You must be Geraldine Steel. Should I congratulate you on your promotion, or has the moment passed?’

Someone had warned Bronxy they were coming. ‘We’d like a list of your guests last Friday night,’ Geraldine said.

‘Condolences on the loss of your mother,’ Bronxy continued in the same lazy drawl.

Geraldine wondered how Bronxy knew about her mother’s death. The woman was playing mind games, trying to unsettle her. ‘Your guests on Friday,’ she repeated in a level tone, her face impassive.

‘But at least your mother knew about your promotion before she passed away,’ Bronxy continued. ‘That must be a comfort.’

‘Your guests on Friday,’ Geraldine insisted in a quiet voice.

Bronxy screwed up her eyes. ‘Let me see,’ she said with exaggerated slowness. She lit a cigarette. Peterson reminded her sharply of the law prohibiting smoking in public venues. Bronxy inhaled deeply. It wasn’t clear if she was playing for time or trying to rile them. ‘Friday night,’ she repeated. ‘Friday night’s always busy. We had a few regulars in. Cal Martin was in.’ She was offhand, as though picking a name at random.

‘Callum Martin?’

‘Yes. He was here. All night.’ She glanced up through heavy lashes. ‘Ray Barker was with him.’ She took a long drag of
her cigarette and balanced it on the rim of an ashtray, a fierce smudge of scarlet lipstick on the stub. A wisp of smoke rose curling in the air.

‘Callum Martin and Ray Barker were here on Friday night?’

‘That’s what I said, officer.’

‘What time did they leave?’

‘They were here all night.’

‘So what time did they leave?’

‘We closed at three.’ Bronxy smiled, unruffled. They all knew she was lying. She swivelled round, opened a safe in the wall behind her and pulled out a handful of cheques held together with a large clip. Leafing through them she selected one and handed it to Geraldine. It was drawn on Callum Martin’s account and dated Friday.

Geraldine returned it. ‘Thank you, but that’s not helpful.’

Bronxy turned to Peterson. ‘Perhaps you’d like to question my girls, Sergeant? They’re always happy to help out a policeman.’ She smiled. ‘And they all remember Cal’s visit.’

‘You know that, do you?’

‘All the girls know Cal.’ She laughed out loud, a coarse laugh that jarred with her carefully arranged features and immaculate hair. ‘I haven’t fallen out with him, even if he did take my girl.’

‘Your girl?’

‘Brenda.’

‘What do you mean, your girl?’ Geraldine asked. Bronxy puffed at her cigarette, considering the question. She didn’t answer. ‘Where does she come from?’ Geraldine pressed her.

‘Same place they all come from. I take them off the streets, put a roof over their heads. I do my bit same as you, officer. Most of my girls wouldn’t have survived the winter if I hadn’t taken them in.’

‘Why would she lie to protect Martin and Barker?’ Peterson asked when they were back in the car.

‘Just what I was wondering.’ Geraldine stared out of the window thoughtfully. The more information they unearthed, the less clear it all became.

30

Careless Talk

As long as the rain held off, Maggie did all right on a Friday. In the run up to Christmas she added to her usual stock with bags that did well as gifts. Some pretty beaded ones were proving popular. The market had been more crowded than usual in November. The stallholders reckoned they could thank the recession. Stores were advertising sales all along the High Street, more shops than usual stood empty, but the market, with its bargains and cheap products, was surviving.

Maggie and Alice worked neighbouring stalls and covered for each other on and off throughout the morning. Brenda worked erratic hours, helping out at different stalls. For a short time she had a regular pitch of her own selling birthday cards, notepads that fell apart and cheap biros. Unable to keep it together, she haunted the market place earning a few quid standing in for other stall holders when they went for a break. It was charity really. The stall holders could cover for one another. Brenda was busiest in the cold weather when the traders took refuge in the café or queued at the coffee stall to warm their hands round polystyrene cups.

Maggie met her friends for a drink every Friday. She made a point of keeping back a few quid for these outings. It wasn’t much of a social life but it made a change from sitting at home with the kids. She longed for more exciting company. Alice was nice but she was old, over sixty and not much fun. Brenda was a smack head and weird. What Maggie really wanted was to meet a man with some dosh, and that wasn’t
going to happen sitting with Alice and Brenda over a drink round the corner from the market.

‘Maybe we should go for a proper evening out,’ Maggie suggested. ‘Go into town. We don’t have to stick to Friday.’ She didn’t need to stay in on Saturday nights now Chloe was ten and old enough to be left in charge of her brother.

‘We always meet on Friday,’ Brenda whined. She glanced around anxiously.

‘We always meet here Fridays,’ Alice agreed. ‘It’s a tradition.’

Maggie shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ Alice was past caring about going into town for the night life and Brenda would never dare go out for a whole evening. She was scared in case her boyfriend found out she had been for a drink when the market closed, and knocked her about for it.

Maggie and Alice agreed Brenda was pathetic.

‘Why does she stay with him? It’s obvious what’s going on. Did you see those blisters on her neck? Cigarette burns. On her neck!’

‘And her legs. She said she fell over.’

‘Yeah right. And then she walked into a door. Pull the other one.’

‘He’s going to finish her off one of these days.’

‘Like Lily,’ they agreed.

Four of them used to meet in the pub until Lily had been the victim of a fatal mugging. Her attacker was never caught. Maggie and Alice suspected Lily’s boyfriend was responsible. They used to speculate about it constantly until Brenda had moved in with Lily’s ex.

‘Best not to interfere,’ Alice had said at the time, and Maggie agreed with her.

They were reminiscing about Lily while Brenda was in the loo because Alice, who had once met Lily’s ex, had spotted him at the bus stop that morning. ‘Whistling he was, happy as Larry. Vicious bastard. It gave me quite a turn, seeing him there.’

‘We know what he did to poor Lily,’ Maggie muttered, hoping she would never meet him.

‘Sod all we can do about it,’ Alice said, not for the first time. She had been around the market for years. ‘If I’ve learned anything, it’s not to trust anyone in uniform. Start with the pigs and before you can say jack shit they’re crawling all over you. They’ll take your kids away too. You wouldn’t want to lose Chloe, would you? They don’t care.’ She took a swig of her pint. ‘Take away your licence for no reason, if they feel like it. Remember what happened to Barney and his fish stall?’

Maggie stared at Brenda staggering across to the bar and wished she could do something to help her but Alice was right. You couldn’t trust anyone.

‘Pigs,’ Maggie grumbled. She took a pull of her pint, before adding, ‘They were round this week.’

‘Who?’

‘The filth. Came to see me.’ Alice and Brenda stared at her.

Alice’s lined face grew tense. ‘What did they want? Don’t tell me that arsehole Geoffrey’s been at it again? You ought to make a formal complaint. Bastard’s been after your pitch for years.’

Maggie shook her head. ‘It wasn’t about my pitch.’

‘What then?’

‘They were asking about a bag.’

‘A bag? They knocked on your door for a bag?’ Alice was indignant. ‘You should’ve told them go to the market like everyone else. Bloody cheek. Think they own the place.’