‘What d’you think, Dave?’ I asked, as we made our way back to the car.
‘He’s a wimp, guv, and firmly under his wife’s thumb. I think he knows more than he’s telling, but he didn’t dare say another word while she was there. As Muriel Reed said, I doubt he’s got the guts to murder anyone. Except possibly his own wife. And I reckon that’s a non-starter. From what she said, I suspect he’s living on her money. And it wasn’t a coincidence that she was able to produce that card with the Dorking address on it so quickly.’
‘I’ll get Charlie Flynn to have a look at his company’s records,’ I said. ‘Might turn up something useful. And tomorrow we’ll visit the address Mrs Reed gave us to check on his alibi. But for now we’ll have a word with the Dizzy Club.’
I rang the office on my mobile and told Colin Wilberforce what we’d learned from our visit to the Reeds, and asked him to get Flynn to make the necessary enquiries.
We drove straight from Chelsea to Regent Street, a distance of about three miles. For security reasons we parked the car at West End Central police station and took a taxi the rest of the way. Villains have even been known to steal police cars these days.
The Dizzy Club was one of many similar establishments that abound in the sleazy streets of Soho. The entrance to this one was next to a shop specializing in pornographic DVDs.
‘Good evening, gents.’ A shaven-headed, blue-chinned bouncer in an ill-fitting dinner jacket guarded the entrance. ‘Membership fee is twenty-five pounds each.’
‘We’re members,’ said Dave, and produced his warrant card.
‘Oh!’ The bouncer moved towards a telephone on the wall near the door.
‘If you’re calling the manager, tell him we want to see him right now, right here,’ said Dave.
It was all of thirty seconds after the bouncer finished making the call that a short, squat, bald-headed individual rushed into the entrance hall. He was sweating and had greasy skin, with little rolls of fat perched on the back of his collar.
‘Welcome, gentlemen.’ The manager, speaking with a vaguely mid-European accent, wrung his hands in a manner of supplication. ‘Do come in and see the show. We wouldn’t charge you, of course.’
‘I can’t promise to reciprocate that courtesy,’ commented Dave quietly, a barb that was clearly not misunderstood by the manager.
‘Everything’s quite proper here, Superintendent,’ said the manager, doing a bit more nervous hand-wringing. ‘We often have a visit from your Vice Squad. Just to check up, like.’
‘I’ll bet you do,’ said Dave. ‘And I’m a detective sergeant, not a superintendent.’
The manager opened his hands and shrugged. ‘Only a matter of time, Officer,’ he said.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard,’ I said, cutting across this verbal sparring match, ‘and I’m investigating a murder.’ It was an announcement that did nothing to restore the manager’s peace of mind.
‘Not here, surely? I can tell you that no murders have happened here.’
‘And now I want to see your list of members,’ I continued, ignoring his pointless protest.
‘Of course, of course. This way, gentlemen, please.’
Following this oleaginous individual down a flight of stairs, we found ourselves in a gloomy, cavernous basement. In the centre of a brightly illuminated circular stage, a naked girl was doing her artistic best to make love to a chromium pole. It was a lacklustre performance.
Surrounding this tiny stage, tables were tightly packed together and crowded with a mainly male clientele. I did, however, spot one or two women among this gullible audience, but God knows what they saw to entertain them. I suspected that most of the club’s customers were from out of town, and had fetched up in the Dizzy Club doubtless believing that they were experiencing something terribly risqué.
The reality was that they would finish up being ripped off.
The manager closed the door of his microscopic office and handed me a book from the top of a rusting filing cabinet.
‘This Julian Reed,’ I said, having found the entry. ‘Was he here on the twenty-ninth of July?’
The manager took back the book and glanced at the entry. ‘He might’ve been,’ he said, shrugging. ‘We don’t keep a record of when our members come here. They just show their membership card to the doorman.’
‘Is he well known to your girls?’ asked Dave.
‘Possibly.’ The manager smiled nervously. ‘But only if he’s generous.’
‘Is there any one girl that he seems to like more than the others?’