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, wiping 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.