'Who the hell is this?' Scanlon's voice was trembling with fear, as was his whole body.
It was surreal. The whole of the evening seemed so unreal, it was like a bad dream except that he knew he wasn't going to wake up at any time in the near future. In fact, he knew this was going to be a new life.
'What's with asking all these questions? Who are you, the police?'
Everyone laughed.
Scanlon felt his bowels loosening and he knew that the old saying was true, you could literally shit yourself.
'What do you want from me?'
Patrick sipped his brandy and waved the other men from the room. Then he motioned Scanlon over to the table he was sitting at and said coldly, 'Sit down and shut the fuck up. Just listen. You ain't paid to ask questions, you are paid to make sure I ain't asked any questions.'
Scanlon sat down with relief; he wasn't sure how long his legs would hold him up.
He was slumped in the chair and Patrick liked seeing this man brought low; he had heard a lot about him over the years. He was a bully who made a big song and dance about everything. He had been known to brag about his criminal connections. Well, after tonight he would have him in his back pocket for always.
Bent filth could get away with a lot. Like any system, the filth tended to look after their own. That stood to reason; Pat knew it wouldn't do the public much good if they knew the extent of the corruption around them. He also knew that disposing of a body was something even a bent law couldn't walk away from, hence the evening's entertainment.
'His name's Jasper and he was asking for what he got, that's all you need to know. A long time ago he tucked up someone very close to my father and because of that he met a very untimely end. That happens a lot to people who annoy me.'
Scanlon didn't answer him; he wasn't sure what to say.
'He has been tortured, stabbed and shot. The shooting was just for a laugh, nothing more. He was well dead by then but I like the American approach, overkill, they have the right idea.'
Scanlon was listening, but he was not taking in anything of relevance.
'I want you to take the body away with my blokes and I want you to dispose of it.'
Scanlon knew he was expected to answer and he didn't know how to. What could he say to such an outrageous suggestion?
'A jam sandwich can drive anywhere, right? So I want you to get one round the back of the club by midnight; I know you use them for your own benefit. They call them Scanlon's cab service, don't they? So I figured that you might call a cab and dispose of Jasper, the wandering Rastafarian, as he was known. Then, once you earn your crust, that is to get shot of him, me and you can feel we have a rapport of sorts.'
Scanlon was snookered and he knew it. 'You worked for my old man when you were first on the beat and I need you to help me track a few people down and also find out a few facts that are relevant to my own investigation. I need a bit of help from you and, once I get it, you can walk away as if none of this ever happened. If you decide to annoy me, I will annihilate you.'
Scanlon didn't answer him. He could hear the music from upstairs and it was a record he had always liked. The sound of Gary Glitter's 'My Gang' was resonating through his brain as he sat in the dimness of the basement nodding like an idiot.
'Well, get a move on, you prick, you need to order a cab.'
Lance, as usual, was alone. He worked better alone and he was grateful to his brother for understanding that. He wandered Soho as always; he liked to walk the streets at night, watch the people around and see the different lives playing out. He walked around with complete anonymity; it was a knack he had, no one ever seemed to take any notice of him. It was one of the reasons he had been so aggressive as a child. Pat Junior always made his presence felt and people looked at him, listened to him and it was all effortless, completely natural to him. He envied him that, even as he was pleased that he himself could merge into any crowd and not be noticed. He had come full circle, he was back outside the club and he knew he was overdue for his meet.
As he walked into the club to meet Pat, he saw the doorman was chatting to the ugly redhead with the bad perm and the non-existent breasts.
'You fucking watching this door or what?'
Keith Munroe turned and saw Lance and he also saw one of their touts; a skinny Iranian with a cheap raincoat and a gap-toothed smile. With him were two Arabic-looking men and they were obviously very nervous at the turn the evening had taken.
The tout shrugged at Lance, telling him he was not to blame, worried in case he was going to be bawled out as well.
Munroe walked towards them, all smiles and camaraderie. The tout spoke to the men in Arabic and they nodded and smiled. Opening their wallets, they paid the entrance fee of ten pounds each in cash. Once the girl on reception had walked them through to the meat seats, Lance pounced.
'You fucking waster, you fucking ponce. You didn't even bother to clock their wallets, did you? How are they going to know how to bill them if they don't know what plastic they've got?'
Normally, as the entrance fee was being paid, the doorman would look inside the wallet to see what they had moneywise and cardwise. He would then write their financial situation down on a piece of paper, the receptionist would walk them to the seats and then pass the information on to the head girl as if it was nothing more than proof of payment.
This information was what decided their bill at the end of the night. It was the lifeblood of clubs like this, it gave everyone the edge. The hostess would be told the score and she would then have an idea how much to hustle them for. She would insist on the expensive champagne and order herself the gift-boxed cigarettes; these held fifty cigarettes and were the girls' staple of the night for their hostess fee. At least then, if the man was not flush enough for case, they had got something from him.
Keith Munroe was embarrassed. He wasn't exactly scared of Lance, he had his creds. But at the end of a very long day the man was Pat's brother and he had fucked up in front of him and all for a bird who was anyone's for a few quid and a few drinks. He arranged his face into a semblance of a smile and, walking to the door, he said blandly, 'Sorry, Lance. I was chasing pussy; you know what that's like.'
Lance knew that was a barb aimed specifically at him and he took it on board and filed it away for future reference. He went through to the club itself and, as he walked, he looked at everyone and everything and was aware that no one made eye contact with him. Least of all the girls. He knew that if they were wary of him then he would be seen as having a problem. Whores slept with anyone, anyone who could pay them or, in certain situations, advance them in some way. They should have been all over him like a cheap suit, not avoiding him. He knew that and he hated it; they seemed to overlook him and he should have had his pick of them. He should have been their lucky fucking charm. The head girl nodded at him respectfully and he inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her. At least she gave him his due, she knew who was in the frame and who wasn't.
Lance noticed a table with an empty champagne bottle and a very pissed-off punter. The hostess was sitting there with her arms crossed and she had a cigarette dangling from her lip. He stopped by the table.
'Everything all right?'
The man shook his head and Lance saw him sneer at the girl. She was very young with green eyes and badly cut blond hair. She was obviously a newey and even he felt sorry for her.