Love...Maybe Page 13

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘thank fuck. They’re having that party thing down on the river. I’m praying for strong winds, wouldn’t mind if they all got blown halfway to sea.’

  Nice. Billy was right. Wade definitely wasn’t a part of the rainbow nation. That might, however, be of some help to me. It was a desperate last-ditch effort to find a new lead, but it was all I had.

  ‘Wade,’ I said, trying to sound reasonable and polite and all the things I’m often not. ‘I was told that you take photos of the customers coming in and out of Franny’s, and the street between you.’

  His faced screwed up into an angry grimace, and his bright red conk got even redder. I held up a hand to shut him up.

  ‘Let me finish! Listen, I don’t care why you do it, and I don’t care what grievances you’ve got with your lovely neighbours. All I care about is finding the bloody dog and getting paid. I didn’t see any cameras outside here, and nobody else has come up with anything. All I’m asking is that you let me see any photos you have – anything at all that could help. I won’t tell anyone, or grass you up to Harley and Dorothy, or use them. It could just really help if I could get a idea of what goes on in that back alley.’

  ‘Believe me, love, the stuff that goes in in that back alley would make your toes curl … and anyway, even if I did admit to taking photos, it would only have been on a couple of occasions. To back up my claims against them, like. And certainly not on the day the dog went missing.’

  I nodded. I’d expected exactly that – life wouldn’t be so simple as to present me with a photo of a man wearing a Dognappers R Us T-shirt leaving the building. But one of the things I’d learned during my time with the police is to tug at all the loose ends – because you never knew what could come tumbling out at the end of the ball of string.

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But right now, I have nothing, and anything you have could help me build up a clearer picture of what I’m dealing with.’

  I glanced down at the rottie again, and went for the heart strings: ‘I mean, I know you don’t get on with them, but like you said – you love dogs. And poor Cupid is probably lost and scared and desperate to get home. You’d want someone to do the same for Roger, wouldn’t you?’

  He stared me down, and finished wiping the glasses. I had him, I could tell.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, and disappeared off into a back room. Roger raised himself off his giant haunches and followed. Wade came back within a few minutes, and handed me a plain brown A4 envelope.

  ‘I want these back. And I don’t want you talking to the fairies about them, either, understand? This is all about Cupid.’

  It was the first time he’d referred to the ‘rat’ by his name. He was clearly an old softie beneath the homophobic drunken tough guy exterior.

  I thanked him, and left with my prize. I had time to take them back to my office on the Strand before I had to get to the Love Boat, where a world of potential witnesses would currently be gathering to show off their fake tans, high heels and fright wigs. I was one lucky girl.

  When I arrived, I switched on the lights, and emptied the pictures onto the desk. I’d go through them properly later, but for the time being just fanned them out and scanned them for anything obvious.

  Most of them were simply of very glamorous men coming and going, some holding hands, some kissing, some embracing each other. Nothing that made my toes curl – but then again, I was pretty sure that my toes were made of sterner stuff than Wade’s. I had no idea what he was hoping to achieve with these, as I couldn’t see anything going on that would concern a licensing committee. Perhaps, as Billy had implied, the lady was protesting too much – and was simply a repressed soul looking for something to secretly perv over. None of my beeswax either way, thank you very much.

  As I thought of Billy, I saw one photo with him in it. Done up to the nines as Wilhelmina, every inch the stunning six-foot screen queen. He was up against the wall, and his face was within smooching distance of another man’s. His pal wasn’t quite as tall, and was much more slightly built, but was definitely the one making the moves. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I knew him from – possibly he looked entirely different without the Marilyn wig and the stick on lashes and the fake beauty spot. They looked pretty intimate, and I guessed that Billy was indeed a multi-layered man who didn’t like to rule out either sex when it came to love.

  I left the photo on top, and let it percolate through my brain as I got ready to join the Love Boat. Getting ready mainly involved brushing my hair, applying some lippy, and wondering if I looked more like a man than most of the other guests would.

  Chapter Eight

  February in Liverpool is not exactly what you’d call a sub-tropical time of year. The wind was howling up the Mersey, and the gangplank onto the ferry was slippery with rain, shining black in the moonlight.

  The river was all dark glass and undulating waves, and I grabbed hard onto the rail as I made my way up and in. How these gals did it in stilletos, I’d never know. I’d lay odds on some broken ankles before the night was out.

  The party was in full swing, as well as the boat. Decked out with more swag than I’d ever seen in one place, the tables were covered in red velvet, the chairs tied up in glittery bows, and the ceiling was draped in streaming trails of glitter. It looked like a giant Christmas tree had exploded all over the room. The dancefloor was packed and thrumming and practically vibrating with the sound of size 10 heels bouncing around to ‘The Only Way Is Up’.

  I took a moment’s pause to simply stare in wonder at the various frocks, hairdos, and makeovers on show, and to try and figure out which were male, which were female, and which were a combination of both. It was harder than it sounds; so much effort had gone into these outfits.

  I’d always thought that Scouse women were the most glamourous creatures on the face of the planet. I was coming to the conclusion that I might have been wrong – and that certain types of Scouse men might actually win that contest.

  I snagged a glass of pink champagne from a massive tray laid out near the entrance, and wondered how this was going to play out. As a potential interview spot, it was pretty much useless – too much noise. Too much alcholol. Too much everything really, including fumes from the all the hairspray. Harley and Dorothy had promised to introduce me to some of their friends and regulars, and staff who tended to take part in Cupid’s care.

  Cupid himself, while not there in the doggie flesh, was present in the form of a giant blown-up version of the portrait they’d shown me the day before. It was standing on an easel, like the kind they sometimes have on display at weddings and funerals, with red velvet curtains tied to the side of it, creating the effect of it being on stage. I wandered over for a closer look, still wondering about that collar – the fake (or not) diamonds, and the GPS tracker that showed she was still in the club. The club I’d been through with both a fine-toothed comb and a fine-featured singing transvestite builder.

  As I gazed at Cupid’s frankly horrible little face, Billy – in full Wilhelmina mode – came up beside me. He handed me another glass of champagne, which is always a good way to make a favourable impression.

  ‘What do you think’s happened to him?’ he said, green eyes slightly hazy with tears. ‘Do you think he’s dead, or … worse?’

  I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by ‘worse’. I mean, what is a fate worse than death for a Chihuahua? Were there secret Cruella de Vil type villains out there making Chihuahua fur coats that I didn’t know about?

  ‘I don’t know, in all honesty,’ I said, looking him up and down and feeling pretty jealous about the way he was rocking the black velvet femme fatale look, ‘but I will find out. I hate not knowing things.’

  This was true. I did hate it. It made me a pain in the arse to live with, which is probably why nobody other than my parents and brothers have ever done it. And they had no choice.

  ‘Would you like me to take you to Dorothy and Harley?’ he said, wipin
g one finger delicately beneath his lashes. ‘Or would you like to meet some of the others? Or … have a dance? To console me? The only was is up, you know …’

  I looked at him sharply. Was he flirting again? And was he one of those people who just did it automatically, with man, woman or beast? He was a fine-looking man, and it was Valentine’s Day, but I could still clearly recall that picture of him leaning up against the wall outside the club with the mystery Marilyn. And, well, right now he was prettier than me – which is never good for a girl’s ego.

  I was saved from having to answer by the sound of my phone ringing. I gave him an apologetic smile, and looked at the screen. It was Tish. She’d had her big interview that afternoon, and was probably calling to tell me all about it.

  ‘Saved by the bell!’ I said. ‘I have to take this – can I come and find you later, Billy?’

  ‘Any time, sweetie,’ he said, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. I was guessing I’d have big scarlet lip marks there now.

  I accepted the call, and immediately told her to hang on as I made my way outside. It wasn’t much better on deck, what with the wind and the rain and the sound of traffic, but an improvement.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, shrugging my arms into the very unglamorous but very welcome fleece, ‘I’m on the Love Boat.’

  ‘Oooh,’ she replied, ‘how exciting and new! Any totty? Valentine’s Day shag on the cards?’

  ‘Depends on how fussy I am,’ I said, jamming my free hand into my pocket. ‘How did the interview go?’

  ‘Oh God, brilliant!’ she trilled. ‘They were heart broken – tears, anguish, totally and utterly broken human beings! The dad in particular, he was all over the place – like everything about him had been destroyed.’

  ‘Right,’ I answered, smiling at her excitement, ‘yes, that sounds totally brilliant. To someone without a heart.’

  ‘Well, you know me, Jayne, when it comes to a story … anyway. There was something weird I wanted to tell you. This was completely off the record, it’s not been in the press at all, and sadly I had to promise to keep it that way as it’s an “active line of investigation,” blah blah blah. But you don’t count. You know the girl, Coco?’

  ‘Erm … yes. Obviously. And can you get on with it, because it’s cold out here.’

  ‘Knickers, Jayne. Well, the day she disappeared, she was on a school trip, right?’

  ‘I remember – some kind of nature walk?’

  ‘Bird spotting. They were making charts of what local birds they could see as part of a national project – you know, tick the box if you see a robin, tick the box if you see a seagull, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Okay. Please. Go on. Quickly.’

  ‘Anyway, she was off with a friend, looking for dodos or whatever, and the last thing the friend saw, she was playing with a little dog. The friend was shown lots of pictures of little dogs, and the one she pointed to was … drum roll please! A Chihuahua! What do you think of that?’

  ‘That’s … weird …’ I said, feeling confused and excited and worried all at the same time. ‘And none of the dog walkers in the park that day had a Chihuahua? Presumably Ken McGowan’s interviewed them all?’

  ‘Of course he has – and nobody confesses to having one. Isn’t it strange that you’re both dealing with missing Chihuahuas? Do you think there’s any connection?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could just be a coincidence. I mean, they’re hardly rare – every wannabe Paris Hilton Scousebird carries one round in her handbag these days.’

  ‘I know that,’ replied Tish, ‘I’m in fact thinking of getting one myself. But … well, I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Yeah. Good. One more question – on the news it said the school trip was to Jericho Park, is that right?’

  ‘Yep. You know, the one that leads from the main road right down to …’

  ‘Otterspool,’ I interrupted. I could feel my eyes watering in the wind, and it was so cold the tears were freezing against my cheeks. I could almost hear the clunk of pieces falling into very weird places, and I knew I had to get back to my office to see if I was just imagining things.

  ‘Tish, I’ve got to go. I’m heading for my office. I’ll call you later, all right?’

  Before she got the chance to reply, I’d hung up.

  Chapter Nine

  Now

  So. It’s after 10 p.m. I have staggered to my feet. The bump on my head is still bleeding, and my hair is matted with the stuff. I’m not worried – scalp wounds bleed like a bastard, but usually look worse than they are.

  At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I trot as fast as my wobbly legs will take me in the direction of Franny’s. I can hear the wail of sirens nearby. Ken McGowan must have started the blue light ball rolling.

  He’d called me back straight away, and I’d explained my theory as best I could with a broken head. It might have sounded mad coming from anyone else – in fact it was mad. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know, the ache in my brain was telling me. But I’d known Ken for years, and while we didn’t exactly send each other Christmas cards or Skype each other every day, we were friendly enough when our paths did cross – especially when I had some information for him.

  Tish’s phone call had cast the Case of the Missing Chihuahua in a slightly different light. I’d fought against the wind to make it back to my office, and grabbed hold of the photo as soon as my fingers were defrosted.

  I had stared at it for a moment, looking at Billy’s beautifully made up face. And looking at the face that was inches away from his. And wondering, wondering, wondering who it was – because I was convinced I knew him. I took a magnifying glass from my desk draw – where I keep it alongside my deerstalker and my violin – and took a closer look.

  The mystery Marilyn was wearing a white frock that left little to the imagination. It also had a low cut neckline that plunged to what I presumed was a fake cleavage. Above the right boob, right on the cusp of the collarbone, I could see something – something dark. I used the glass, and stared, hard.

  It was a tattoo. A tattoo of a word. Probably a very short word, maybe four or five letters. I couldn’t quite make out the letters individually, but I’d stake my life on what it said.

  Coco.

  Chapter Ten

  I arrive at the club just in time to see Wilhelmina Wanderlust being bundled into the back of a police van.

  The previously impeccable hair is now wet and tufted and sticking out at electric-shock angles. The make-up is streaked over his face. The black velvet dress is torn and covered in bits of plaster and muck, and he’s lost one of his high heels.

  Our eyes meet for one brief second as he disappears behind slamming doors, and I wonder why. What had he hoped to gain? Was it money? Was he just a psycho? Was he a human trafficker? Or was he, perhaps, just a wounded and desperate man in love with someone he could never have?

  Ken McGowan sees me, beckons me through the police cordon, grim-faced and quiet amid the chaos of lights and sirens and people and rain.

  ‘Is she there?’ I ask. ‘Is she alive?’

  He nods once, and I feel relief flood through me.

  ‘You were right,’ he says. ‘He’d built a partition wall down in the cellar, put the new storage units in front of it. He’d painted it over as well, just in case they were moved. Everyone knew he was working down there, so nobody questioned it. It’s only because we had the sniffer dogs with us we knew. It was only flimsy, we bashed it in pretty quick.

  ‘They’ve been in there for two days. He’d left them water, and food, and a bucket. But … well, you can imagine. It’s a bloody mess. The poor girl’s in a right state – he told her if she screamed or made a noise, he’d kill the dog. And told her if she didn’t keep the dog quiet, he’d kill the dog. The dog was the way he took her, and the way he controlled her. We could charge the fucking thing as an accomplice. We don’t know the ins and the outs yet, but we will. She’s down there with the paramedics now.’

&n
bsp; I nod, try to take it all in. Wonder if the paramedics could give me something for my poor aching head, still throbbing from where Billy bashed me. He must have followed me back to my office, overheard my phone call with Tish. Been worried that I was figuring things out.

  He’d been trying to get back into the club when the police found him – thanks to Wade, and Roger the Rottie.

  Harley and Dorothy had had the locks changed, just in case, and they’d not bothered giving Billy a new set. Wade and Roger had heard the noise he was making trying to break back into the locked up club to get to Coco and Cupid, and called the bobbies. A patrol had already been on its way by the time I managed to drag myself back into the conscious world and call Ken.

  ‘And … I hate to ask … but the dog? Is the dog okay?’

  ‘Annoying little shit if you ask me,’ says Ken, ‘but it seems fine.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘So,’ says Tish, relaxing on my sofa and flicking through a magazine called You and Your Dog, ‘the Case of the Missing Chihuahua is solved – and a little girl’s life saved in the process! Plus, more importantly, a fabulous front page exclusive for yours truly!’

  ‘Yes. Well. I live to serve,’ I say, swiping her feet off the sofa so I can sit down too.

  It’s almost a week after we found Coco and Cupid hidden in the cellar. The egg on the back of my head has receded. Dorothy and Harley are my eternal pals. I’ve been paid a nice bonus. And Wilhelmina Wanderlust has confessed all.

  ‘Love …it’s a killer, right?’ says Tish, flicking through the pages.

  ‘It can be,’ I say, ‘for the wrong person, I suppose.’

  It turned out that Billy and Kevin Doyle – or Mystery Marilyn, as I’d know him – had been an item for months. At least in Billy’s version of events. Kevin’s whole macho gangland world – not to mention the fact that he was married with a kid – didn’t exactly lend itself to either coming out, or having a fling with a ladyboy. For Kevin, who knows what drove him. Maybe it was just a bit of fun. Maybe he’d been struggling with it his whole life. Maybe, as he claimed, he had been roofied, and dressed up in a woman’s frock by a mystery assailant while he was molested by random trannies.