The main bar looked like a crashpad for Dracula Prince of Darkness and his BFF, Malibu Barbie. Lots of dark red velvet, black wood, crystal vases and flowers. Pink flowers. Everywhere. I felt my nostrils wrinkle in response and stifled a sneeze.
The bar itself was long, dark, and garlanded with even more flowers. Behind it was a very tall, very broad, very handsome man. He had thick dark hair tied back in a loose pony, and vivid green eyes that met mine as I perched myself on a high-backed stool. He was beautiful, in a Pirates of the Caribbean kind of way – I could imagine him in a blouson shirt with frilly sleeves. In fact he was wearing a grubby paint-stained sweatshirt that said ‘Billy the Builder’ on it in block capitals.
‘Are you the private investigator?’ he asked, washing his hands in a sink behind the bar and drying them on a tea towel.
‘I am,’ I replied, introducing myself. ‘And I need to ask you a few questions about the day Cupid went missing.’
He nodded, and came round to sit beside me. I noticed that his fingernails were cracked, embedded with dirt and grunge, and wondered if I’d heard right when Dorothy said he was also one of the performers. Always one with the sneaky investigative techniques, I asked: ‘Did I hear right when Dorothy said you’re one of the performers?’
The club was officially called Francesca’s Friends, but was referred to by those wanting a cheap gag (this included me) as Franny by Asslights. It had a small raised stage where the performers showed off their many talents, and the bar itself was also often decorated with six-foot plus size supermodels with penises doing their own take on Coyote Ugly. It was actually a great night out.
Billy the Builder gave me a smile that could melt hearts, and nodded. He pulled out his phone, and opened the photo screen. He did the thumb-scroll thing until he found one he liked – and I have to admit it was a cracker. Very classy, as these things go – head to toe in a black tube dress, hair in a Fenella Fielding bob, make-up perfectly highlighting those killer eyes and cut-your-finger cheekbones. He was crooning into one of those old-fashioned Thirties-style microphones.
‘I’m Wilhelmina Wanderlust by night,’ he said, with an element of pride.
‘So,’ I replied, ‘you’re a cellar-man-slash-drag-queen-singer-slash … builder?’
‘Yep. I’m a man of many layers. You can unpeel some of them if you ask nicely.’
He flashed me a flirtatious smile and I almost fell off my barstool. Okay. That was unexpected. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall behind the bar – brown hair, nice enough face, good smile. Not, though, what I’d have thought of as Wilhelmina Wanderlust’s style. Showed what I knew.
‘Have you been working today?’ I asked, nodding at the grimy nails. He glanced down at them, and rubbed them self-consciously against his sweatshirt.
‘Yeah. Been fitting some new storage units in the cellar. Needed a place to store all the feather boas and glass slippers. Anyway … Cupid. I took him for a run – well, more of a trot in his case really – about three in the afternoon. Down to the waterfront, Otterspool way. Then I brought him home, and last I saw he was snoring away in his basket. I swear he was fine. I feel bad, the girls are in pieces about it, but I honestly don’t know what happened.’
I nodded, pretending to make notes in my pad to make me look more intelligent.
‘Okay. Harley and Dorothy say the place has been searched. Is there anywhere you can think of he could be caught, or hiding? The cellar, maybe?’
‘No, we’ve emptied it out and filled it back up again looking for him. Loads of us helped out – no beer barrel left unturned, honest to God. The dog just isn’t here – you’re welcome to come and have a look round with me to check for yourself.’
I pondered for a moment. It was quite the locked door mystery, admittedly with a few twists and turns. Now, how would Hercule Poirot deal with it? I twirled my imaginary moustache, and asked: ‘What do you think, Billy? Could someone have taken him for a joke? Is he worth anything? Do Dorothy and Harley have any enemies that would do something like that to them?’
He thought about it, and tugged the sweatshirt over his head as he did. There was a tight T-shirt underneath that did little to hide a pretty impressive bod, and I was fairly sure he was deliberately flashing the flesh at me.
‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d talk to the bloke who owns the pub over the road. Wade. He’s … what would you say? Attitude challenged?’
‘What, he doesn’t like the club?’
‘Or the clientele. He’s a bit too much in touch with his alpha male, if you know what I mean. Gets his boxers in a twist. He’s made complaints to the council about the hours we keep, deliberately blocks the delivery bay with his van. I think he’s taken photos of the customers, which never goes down well as you can imagine – some of them prefer their privacy. The lady doth protest too much in my opinion, but he’s definitely not a happy camper. I’m not saying he took Cupid. But I’m saying he doesn’t like us, and never tries to hide it.’
I jumped down off the bar stool and thanked him. It was as good a lead as any.