There wasn’t a single customer in the bar, but that wasn’t necessarily unusual for two thirty in the afternoon. The barman was leaning against the same spot on the wall, looking no more energetic than last time. The same DJ was crammed into her booth. But at least the music had progressed. She was up to the nineties, now. Although I wasn’t convinced that was a good thing.
I moved over to the bar, and before I could order anything the guy brought me a Peroni and a grubby-looking glass.
“Thanks,” I said.
“On the house,” he said. “By way of an apology. For the misunderstanding, when I saw you in here before.”
“Even better. But if you really want to make amends, answer me one question. Is there anyone else here?”
He didn’t answer for a moment.
“I don’t see anyone,” he said, at last. “Do you?”
“You know, I still have the same phone,” I said. “And I’ve been too busy to send that picture. So far. But that could change.”
“There’s no need for that. You should go ahead and delete it. Because what I’m saying is, there’s no one else in here. No one in the bar. And not in the men’s room.”
“That’s a much better answer. Thanks.”
“For what? I didn’t tell you anything.”
“Of course you didn’t. And to make sure you don’t tell me anything else, perhaps you should get back to work, now. You don’t want to be seen talking to me. I can’t stay and chat, anyway. It’s time I had a word with someone about the music.”
The DJ was so absorbed with her iPod she didn’t notice me until I was standing right in front of her booth.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello. Sorry. Didn’t see you. Got a request?”
“I do,” I said. “But not the kind you’re probably used to. I have a problem. It’s my daughter. I’m trying to find her. She’s missing, and usually turns up in a bar somewhere, drunk out of her mind. Have you seen her?”
“Here?”
“Yes. One of the doormen thought he’d seen her come in. She’s nineteen, but looks a couple of years older. Five feet eight. Skinny. Blond. Blue jeans, white baby-doll top, black biker jacket. Tall black boots. Ring any bells?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Could she be in the bathroom, maybe? She often hides out in one, when she gets a real load on.”
“I don’t know. I guess, maybe.”
“OK, so here’s the thing. I’m really worried about her, but I don’t want to go charging into the women’s room. There could be someone else in there. That would just be too weird. I’d probably get arrested or something. So I was wondering, is there any way you could go in and take a look for me? Tell me if any of the stalls are occupied?”
“I don’t know. It’s a little strange. And I’m supposed to be working.”
“Please. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. You’re the only woman here. There’s no one else I can turn to.”
“I’m just not sure . . .”
“Please. And don’t worry about the work. There must be loads of music on that ’Pod. It’s not going to need changing if you just step out of the booth for a couple of minutes.”
“Well, OK then. One quick look.”
“Oh, thank you. I really appreciate this. One other thing, though. When you go in, could you go up to the sinks and wash your hands or something? If she is there, she might get scared if she thinks someone’s checking up on her. That would make it harder for me to calm her down, later.”
“Sure. No problem. You know, would it be better if I actually used the bathroom?’ Cause to tell you the truth, I kind of need to go.”
“That’s a little too much information, but it would definitely be helpful. Thank you.”
I waited next to her booth and fought the urge to rifle through her playlists and find something less annoying to listen to. She was gone for three and a half minutes, and as she hurried back toward me I could see she was excited about something.
“I think you’re right,” she said. “I think your daughter’s in there. Someone was, definitely. They were locked in one of the stalls the whole time. And they didn’t make a single sound. I peeped under the side, and I couldn’t see their feet. They must have been holding them up, out of the way. So whoever it is, they’re definitely hiding.”
“Thank goodness,” I said. “I was so worried. I can’t thank you enough. But which stall was she in? The one at the end? That’s where she usually goes.”
“No. The end one was all closed up with some kind of tape. Must have been out of use. She was in the next one to it.”
“That’s great. OK. Well, I better go and fetch her now. I hope things don’t turn too ugly. She can certainly be difficult when she’s had a few.”
“What’s her name?”
“Pardon?”
“Your daughter’s name? What is it?”
“Oh. Angela. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”
“I guess. But I was thinking. Do you want me come back in with you? Maybe talk to her? She might respond better to another girl.”
“That’s a lot to ask. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Come on. Let’s go. We’re up to ’97 already, and I need to be back before the new millennium starts. I’ve got a bunch of embarrassing stuff on it after that.”
“OK, thanks. I appreciate it. But let’s do this. You go in first. I’ll follow, stepping when you do so she doesn’t hear me coming and freak out. Then maybe you could just wash your hands and head back out? Leave me to take care of the messy part? She’d never forgive me if I let someone new see what kind of state she was in.”
“Sure. I understand. I don’t want her to feel bad. I just hope she’s all right.”
“Oh, she will be. It takes a while, sometimes, but we always get there in the end. Actually, it can take a really long time to get her back on her feet. Up to a couple of hours, worst case. So if I’m in there for ages, I don’t want you to worry. That’s just the way it goes with Angie. It’s the price of being a parent, these days.”
The DJ was as zealous at the basin as anyone I’d ever seen. She washed her hands twice, used a paper towel as well as the air dryer, and finally turned back to give me a smile before the door to the bar closed behind her. I stayed completely still throughout her whole performance. Thirty seconds passed in silence after she left, then I heard a rustling sound. It was coming from the closed cubicle. A pair of feet hit the floor. They sounded heavy, but somehow also made a crunching noise. I looked under the door and saw a pair of black trainers. They were large enough to be a man’s. Transparent plastic covers were stretched over them. The ankles were elasticated, like the kind crime-scene technicians wear when they want to avoid contaminating evidence.
Or getting soaked with blood.
I drew my Beretta and launched myself forward, smashing the ball of my foot into the door to the stall. The lock shattered and it flew open, connecting with some part of the guy who was lurking inside. He swore, but I could tell the flimsy wood was too light to have done him any real damage. Four latex-covered fingers appeared around the doorjamb, so I lashed out again, just as hard, before he had the chance to push it away. It was still touching him when my foot made contact, which was just what I wanted. It ensured that this time, none of the force was wasted.
I stepped into the stall and closed the door behind me. A man was lying on his side, stranded between the side wall and the toilet bowl, struggling to get back on his feet. He’d certainly come well prepared. As well as the shoe covers and surgeon’s gloves, he was wearing a set of baggy gray coveralls and a dentist’s-style mask over his mouth and nose. But what he was holding was even more telling than his outfit. Still clasped in the fingers of his right hand, despite his fall, was a knife. It was six inches long with a watermarked cobalt-steel blade.