‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask them.’
‘Then we will. How many girls work here?’ Dave was beginning to get annoyed.
‘Only five.’
‘Are they all here at the moment?’
‘Of course. But one of them is on stage right now.’
‘Very well,’ said Dave, ‘then we’ll speak to the other four for a start.’
With a sigh of resignation, the manager led us next door to the women’s dressing room. Some optimist had put a star on the door. Without knocking, he barged straight in.
Four girls were sitting around in various stages of undress. They all appeared to be in their late teens or early twenties. One wore a cotton wrap, the other a thong and a bra, and another was wearing just a thong. A fourth girl, sitting on a stool in front of a mirror, was completely naked apart from a garter. Three of them were reading magazines, while the naked girl was generously applying oil to her upper body. They each glanced briefly at us, but apart from that glazed look there was no reaction to the arrival of the manager and two strange men.
‘These gentlemen are from the police,’ announced the manager. ‘They’re investigating a murder.’
Still there was no reaction, but that was not unusual from my knowledge of the girls who worked in the sex industry. I guessed that these young strippers, who probably doubled as prostitutes, had become so jaundiced after experiencing more of the seamier side of life than most women see in their entire lives that nothing would surprise them any more.
‘Do any of you know a customer called Julian Reed?’ I asked.
‘What’s he look like?’ It was the bra-and-thong girl who spoke.
Dave described Julian Reed in some detail.
‘Oh, Jolly Jules, we call him. Yeah, I know him.’ The nude who had been oiling herself swung round on her stool. ‘But I never knew his other name. We don’t go in for real names much.’ She spoke with a rich Cockney accent. ‘He’s always good for a few tenners in the garter, though. Know what I mean?’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Estelle La Blanche.’
‘No, your real name.’
There was a pause before Estelle answered. ‘Rose Mooney,’ she said.
‘Was Jolly Jules in here last Monday?’
‘No,’ said Rose.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Course I am. You don’t forget a bloke who drops you a century just for watching you get up close and personal to a bloody pole.’ Rose sniffed. ‘I’m paid to do it anyway, whether he’s here or not.’
We left the Dizzy Club and walked back to the police station.
‘So where was Reed that afternoon, Dave?’ I asked. But it was a rhetorical question.
The following day was the first of August and it seemed as though the weather was aware of the change of month. The temperature had fallen to seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity had given way to a balmy breeze.
I began the morning by reviewing the evidence that had been gleaned in the Sharon Gregory murder investigation, and going through the statements that had been taken so far. I held a brief conference with my team and brought them up to date.
At one minute past ten, Colin Wilberforce appeared and told me that the commander wished to see me. I made my way to his office, all of two yards down the corridor.
For a few seconds, the commander continued to read a bulky file, skimming back and forth through the pages. But then he looked up, as though surprised to see me standing there.
‘Ah, Mr Brock.’
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘So I did,’ said the commander, closing the file with obvious reluctance. ‘About this second suspicious death you’re dealing with …’
‘It’s a sight more than suspicious, sir. It’s a murder. The woman died as a result of manual strangulation. In the Dickin Hotel near Heathrow Airport.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes, it was definitely the Dickin Hotel, sir,’ I said, taking a risk on matching his pedantry.
‘Yes, yes. I meant, are you sure she was strangled?’
‘Doctor Mortlock, the Home Office pathologist, is adamant, sir.’
‘I see.’ The commander had great respect for anyone with letters after their name that denoted a professional qualification and was ill disposed to question their findings. ‘Do we know the identity of her assailant?’ he asked, still avoiding committing himself by referring to Sharon Gregory’s killer as a ‘murderer’. At least, not until the jury came in with a guilty verdict, and probably not until the appeal stage had confirmed that verdict.
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Two murders, of a husband and wife on different dates in different places, but no arrests. Have I got that right?’ Slipping into his censorious mode, the commander raised his eyebrows.