‘That’s all I need,’ Henry said to Byrne. Into the radio, he said, ‘Roger. There couldn’t be anything else, could there?’
‘Standby — treble-nine just come in,’ the voice of the operator rose a couple of tones. ‘From the Pink Ladies’ Club on the promenade. The landlord thinks there’s a suspect device in the premises. Repeat, a suspect device.’
‘On my way,’ Henry said crisply. ‘Blue light,’ he said to Byrne, who flipped the rocker switch and jammed his foot down hard on the gas pedal.
Seventeen
It was desperately cold on the promenade. An icy biting wind slashed in like a razor from the Irish Sea. It was certainly no weather to be dressed in a thin, white silk blouse, unbuttoned to below breast level, the lack of support for a very fine pair of breasts underneath the material very obvious from the outstanding (literally and aesthetically) nipples pushing up and out. A tight leather skirt cut off high above the knee, fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes completed the outfit.
John Howard, known professionally as Pussy Beaver, flicked his bobbed silver hair, dusted with sparkling glitter, back off his face and inserted a cigarette, in a long, thin, penis-shaped holder between his high-glossed lips. His arms were folded under his splendid breasts and, as he shivered, they wobbled divinely.
As ever, he looked completely amazing — his long tapering legs coveted by many real women — very voluptuous and desirable.
He was standing outside the Pink Ladies’ Club which he owned and ran with ruthless efficiency. The place had become one of the north of England’s leading night spots. People from all over the country and abroad came in their thousands to experience the outrageous shows and behaviour on display every night of the week. It was a favourite venue for hen parties. It had made John Howard, who described himself as ‘Head Pussy’, a millionaire.
There was a long queue outside, several hundred people, mostly raucous groups of half-drunk females. By the time the night was over, two thousand people would have passed through the doors. At?12.50 a head and the cheapest drink at the bar?2.50, the Pink Ladies’ Club turned over?40,000 a night, five nights a week.
‘Oh, thank God you’ve arrived,’ Pussy Beaver fawned and tottered unsteadily over to the police car which pulled into the side of the road.
Henry climbed out, a smirk on his face. Byrne was out less quickly.
Only when he was a few paces from him, did Pussy recognise Henry.
‘My my! It’s Henry Christie,’ he chirped. ‘It’s you! In uniform too! My God, but you look totally fuckable in that outfit! Oh God, I could just lick your dick here and now, in the middle of the thoroughfare.’
‘Jesus,’ Henry heard Byrne remark with disgust behind him.
‘And if you had a fanny,’ Henry bantered, ‘believe me, I’d let you.’
‘That was always your sticking point, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m finnicky like that.’
They laughed and shook hands. Henry had known Howard for several years, first meeting him when the club had been petrol-bombed by some local youths who hated what people like Howard stood for. Henry had arrested two nineteen-year-olds who had been subsequently imprisoned and a friendship of sorts had sprung up between him and Howard.
‘So what’s the crack, John?’ Henry asked. More police cars pulled up, one containing Karl Donaldson and Andrea Makin hotfoot from the police station.
‘I think we might have found a bomb inside. It’s a suspicious package at least.’ John had dropped his high-pitched feminine tones and his voice had lowered an octave to become more masculine.
‘What makes you think it’s a bomb?’
‘Lunchbox left under a table in a dark corner of the main bar. It doesn’t seem right, if you know what I mean?’
‘Anybody touch it?’
‘No.’
‘Anyone see who put it there?’
Howard shrugged his shoulders.
‘How about your security cameras?’
‘I’ll get them checked.’
‘Ah well, at least we’ve done some good tonight,’ Henry said, thinking about the job PC Taylor had been doing, warning people about the possible danger.
‘How have you done that?’ Howard’s face screwed up quizzically.
‘Haven’t you been visited by a PC this evening, dishing out leaflets asking you to be on your guard?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh, never mind then. He can’t have got round to you yet. Let’s get on with this. How many people are inside?’
‘Hundred and fifty, maybe a few more. I haven’t let anyone else in since it was found.’
‘Good.’ Henry beckoned to Karl Donaldson. ‘You want to come in, Karl, just in case?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, John, lead the way.’
Pussy Beaver twirled on his stilettos, resumed the acting voice and led Henry, Byrne and Donaldson through the clearly irritated and impatient crowd, drawing jeers of contempt.
‘C’mon, out of the way, luvvies — out of the way — can’t you see the main act has arrived?’
Henry whispered to Byrne, ‘He once let me feel his tits.’ The inspector laughed, while the sergeant recoiled. ‘Just like the real things,’ he added.
With the efficiency Henry always associated with the man, Pussy Beaver had ensured that his bouncers (woman wrestlers capable of dismembering anyone foolish enough to have a go) had sealed off a good proportion of the bar area. They were standing guard, preventing any punters from entering the exclusion zone around the seat under which the package had been discovered.
As good as the cordon was, though, Henry knew that if it was a bomb under that seat and it did explode, everyone in the club would have a better than average chance of being blasted to pieces.
‘It’s under there.’ With an expertly manicured finger, Pussy indicated the offending spot — a bench in an alcove, out of sight of the bar.
‘Thanks. Now you go and stand well back and get everyone as far away as possible, too.’ Henry touched his radio to ensure it was switched ‘off ’ for definite. ‘Is yours off?’ he asked Byrne, who nodded. It was standard procedure to switch personal radios off because bombs had been known to be detonated by radio waves before now.
Henry took a deep breath and wondered if this was one of those times when the inspector should take a purely strategic view of events and order a lower-ranking officer to do the dirty work. Tempting — but he could just imagine the word that would circulate the station if he did. He would be branded a coward. Having said that, better a live strategist than a dead tactician, he thought. The idea went out of his head as quickly as it had come into it.
‘I want to have a look, too.’ Karl Donaldson stepped forward.
Henry saw the look of determination on the American’s face. He knew it would be useless to object. Donaldson had a very personal interest.
‘Suit yourself, but don’t blame me if you get blown up.’
Donaldson placed a hand over his heart. ‘Promise.’
At least Henry knew he would not die alone.
Henry told Byrne, Makin and everyone else to get well back and take some cover if possible. He and Donaldson then approached the alcove. Henry expected it to be a false alarm. Either a hoax or a mistake, or a piece of lost property. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand this was the case.
But as he walked towards the package, there was the niggle this could be that one time, the possibility it could be the real thing. The only consolation was that if it blew, there wouldn’t be much to feel. A surge of heat, noise and then death.
Some consolation. Both men felt very vulnerable.
‘You made a will?’ Henry asked.
‘Yep. You?’