6

‘No blood on the pavement,’ Ferreira said, as she followed Zigic up the worn stone steps to the Meadham’s main doors.

‘Classy place like this, they’ll wash it off.’

Inside, a young woman with a plastered-on smile sat behind a gilded reception desk with nothing on it but a large, leather-bound ledger. Her hands were folded over it protectively.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Madam. Could I see your membership cards, please?’

Zigic showed her his ID. ‘We’re here about an altercation that happened last night. Were you on duty then?’

The smile disappeared and she glanced towards an ornate cast-iron staircase, which rose in a graceful curve above them, lit by a copper chandelier giving out a warm, burnished glow.

‘Would you wait here, please? I’ll fetch Mr Bentley.’

Ferreira was already gone, heading for the bar that opened off the main reception area, following the sound of low chatter and inevitable jazz. It was tasteful in a generic fashion. Dark wood floors and the walls half grey wainscoting and half painted in a noxious shade of yellow somewhere between bile and English mustard, with paintings that looked like eighteenth-century portraits until you examined them closer and saw the sitters wearing digital watches or Converse with their silk hose.

Zigic opened the ledger and flipped back to the evening before, saw a list of illegible signatures and printed names, the times they had arrived and left. He took a couple of quick photographs and slipped his phone away again, thinking how pretentious it was, the mere idea of a private members’ club in Peterborough.

But this was the best road in the city, where the most expensive accountants and law firms plied their trade, companies which consulted on obscure financial practices and architects who wouldn’t take on projects worth less than seven figures. It would appeal to people like that, he guessed, with its veneer of exclusivity and urban cool.

He tried to imagine Corinne Sawyer and Sam Hyde here, Nina before her, Simon Trent and his wife, wasn’t sure if they were a better fit for the place than the suits he could see in the bar and the well-dressed woman coming down the stairs, shopping bags in hand.

Ferreira returned from the bar.

‘Anything?’

‘They have an impressive selection of rum,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t have one, because I’m on duty and it would be wrong. But the barman was working last night, said it was all very chill, no trouble inside.’

‘It doesn’t seem like a trouble kind of place.’

‘The Trans Sisters group were a private hire – it’s a big party apparently, heavy drinking, good atmosphere. They’re here the first Monday of the month and the management closes it down to anyone else.’

‘So, it’s unlikely the man we’re looking for is a member.’

‘Unless he came in with someone, yeah. Which isn’t impossible. Just because you’ve got a group of people with something in common doesn’t mean they all get on.’ She peered at a pair of taxidermy weasels boxing inside a glass case.

‘You should get one of those for your flat,’ Zigic said.

‘I’ve got a huge dead spider under a glass in my bathroom. Didn’t cost a penny.’

The receptionist came back down the stairs, trailed by a guy in his late thirties; turn-ups, topknot, old-man sweater of the kind Zigic had last seen on his father sometime in the mid-eighties. It would probably be considered vintage now and cost ten times what C&A had originally charged for it.

They made their introductions, Bentley checking Ferreira out with a directness Zigic found immediately off-putting, before he clapped his hands together and suggested they talk somewhere a bit more private.

‘The Smoking Room’s always quiet this time of day.’

‘You have a smoking room?’ Ferreira asked hopefully.

‘Nah, that’s just what we call it but you can light up if you want. I’m hardly going to stop you.’

Bentley strode off through a high-ceilinged lounge where a few people were eating lunch, and a large group in the corner were having a meeting, tablets and laptops on the low table between them, surrounded by empty glasses. He moved through the place with a sense of proprietorial ease, said quick hellos as he passed regulars, told a waitress to find a man named Terry for him.

‘Nice place,’ Ferreira said. ‘Not very Peterborough.’

He beamed at her. ‘That was exactly the feel I was going for. I’ve been in enough gastropubs, know what I mean? People want a bit of luxury, bit of quirk. You can’t just keep selling them the same old stripped floors and whitewash, can you?’

His accent sounded off to Zigic. Part public school, part cockney barrow boy. All irritating.

‘We’re in here.’

He took them into a snug, wood-panelled room, windowless and stuffy, with a small corner bar that sat unmanned and five tables surrounded by leather club chairs in jellybean colours.

‘Can I get either of you a drink?’ he asked, moving behind the bar.

They both declined, took their seats and waited for him to join them. He came back with a bottle of mineral water, sat down as he opened it.

‘So, you’re here about something that happened last night?’

‘There was a fight outside your club,’ Zigic said. ‘The woman involved was found murdered this morning.’

‘Shit.’ He took a mouthful of water. ‘Who was it?’

‘Corinne Sawyer. Did you know her?’ Zigic took out a copy of the photograph Sam Hyde had given them.

‘Corinne, yeah. Blimey, that’s insane. She was a great girl, total riot.’ He looked at the photo, shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. I was only talking to her last night.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Spurs. I’m a season-ticket holder, she was a fan. We’re going pretty well this season.’

‘Were you here all evening, Mr Bentley?’

‘No, just early on. I like to be here when big parties arrive, make them welcome.’ He placed the photograph on the table. ‘But I’ve just opened a new place over on Westgate, a restaurant, and I’m trying to keep a close eye on it for a bit. Check everything’s running smooth.’

‘And was it?’ Ferreira asked. ‘Running smooth.’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ve got a good team in there. Great chef, tapped him up from a place in Cambridge. Pan-Asian cuisine – he does a banging tom yum gai. You should come and try us out.’

‘So you can’t tell us anything about the fight?’

‘I don’t know why Terry never mentioned it.’ He teased at his beard with his fingertips. ‘He doesn’t miss much, not in that way. I mean, we don’t exactly have them scrapping in the halls here but Terry’s got a nose for troublemakers.’

‘It was out on the street from what we’ve been told,’ Zigic said. ‘Is Terry here for security?’

‘No, he’s my manager. Good bloke, ex-boxer, knows how to keep everyone in line.’

This didn’t seem like the kind of establishment to employ a thug as a manager but Zigic found himself wondering just how respectable their clientele were. He’d seen a lot of lunchtime drinking in evidence as they’d walked through the rooms and most employers didn’t stand for that any more.

‘How long have the Trans Sisters nights been held here, Mr Bentley?’

‘Zac, please.’ He crossed his legs, curled one hand around his ankle, flashing a watch with Osama bin Laden on its face. ‘Since we opened. Nearly five years.’

‘And have you had any trouble in that time?’

‘No, they’re a great bunch of girls. Love to party. Big drinkers. They’ve never met a cocktail they didn’t like.’ He grinned, shook his head. ‘This is going to hit them hard. Do you know why Corinne was murdered? It wasn’t because she was trans, was it?’

‘It’s far too early to say,’ Zigic told him.

‘Why did they end up here?’ Ferreira asked. ‘There are plenty of gay-friendly pubs in Peterborough.’

‘They’re not drag queens,’ Bentley said coolly. ‘And they’re not gay. These are women who feel self-conscious when they go out, they want to be in a safe space, where they can let go without feeling judged. Honestly, and I don’t mean to sound harsh, a lot of them don’t look so great en femme. I’ve worked in gay bars, they’d get ripped to shreds.’

‘So, you close the place down once a month out of a sense of altruism?’

Bentley’s fingertips strayed to his beard again and he at least had the grace to look bashful when he answered.

‘Wish I could say it’s that, but I’m a businessman and they’re big spenders, so I do whatever I need to do to make sure they’re happy here.’

The door opened and a man stuck his head in. ‘You wanted me, boss?’

‘Come in, Terry. Close the door, please.’

He didn’t look much like a boxer. Five eight, leanly built, his clean-shaven face unmarked. So either he’d not done it for long or he’d been good enough to stay clear of any heavy shots thrown his way.

‘This about last night?’ the man said, looking at Zigic, recognising him for the superior officer straight off.

‘Did you see what happened, Mr …’

‘Sutton, sir.’ He nodded. ‘Saw the end of it but I heard what happened to kick it off. Corinne and Jolene went out front for a smoke and this young lad came up to them after cadging a fag. They wouldn’t give him one. Which sounded strange to me because Jolene’s always free with her fags, especially when she’s had a few drinks. I’d gone out myself to beg one.’ He gave a weak shrug. ‘Promised my girlfriend I’d quit but it’s tough in this job.’

‘Who’s Jolene?’ Ferreira asked.

‘One of the regulars,’ Sutton told her. ‘Cracking girl. Her and Corinne are a proper double act.’

And yet Sam Hyde hadn’t mentioned her.

Zigic gestured for Terry Sutton to continue.

‘I only caught the tail end of it but they said the lad was getting aggressive, calling them slags, that kind of thing.’ He looked to Ferreira. ‘That’s when I arrived. I was going to step in but Corinne had it under control, knocked him right onto his backside. He got up and went at her, so I got myself in between them, talked him down, made him leave.’

Zac Bentley was shaking his head at the story. ‘Why didn’t you call the police, Terry?’

Sutton spread his hands wide, shrugged helplessly. ‘It was nothing. I didn’t think I needed to. Bit of pushing and shoving, young mouth got put in his place. You wouldn’t have thanked me for calling your lot out for something like that, would you?’

‘It might not be related,’ Zigic said. ‘But we need to find this young man, so CCTV if you’ve got it, a description, anything you can think of, Mr Sutton.’

‘I can do better than that.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Dropped his wallet when he hit the deck, I only found it after he’d gone. Been keeping it behind reception in case he came back.’

Ferreira took it from him, checked it out while he waited, hands tucked behind his back, spine ramrod-straight. He looked tougher like that, broader across the chest, strong-shouldered and thick-armed in his dove-grey shirt.

‘Jolene,’ Zigic said. ‘What’s her surname?’

Sutton’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling. ‘Ah, I don’t know. You don’t really use surnames at dos like that. Though,’ he smiled, ‘the girls all call me Sutton – they like to make out like I’m their butler.’

‘But your members have to sign in,’ Ferreira said. ‘You must know.’

‘Not for group bookings. They show an e-invite and we let them in.’

Zigic thanked him for his help and Bentley dismissed him.

‘Terry’s a pussycat, don’t let how he looks fool you.’ He stood up and took his empty bottle around the back of the bar. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

Interview over, evidently.

‘No, I think that’s it for now.’

Bentley walked them back through the club. There was no sign of the lunch crowd thinning out as the afternoon drew on, in fact the bar sounded busier and a couple of women were signing in as they reached the reception area.

‘Have you spoken to Evelyn Goddard yet?’ Bentley asked. ‘She runs Trans Sisters, she might be more useful re the whole “trouble” thing. She’s about four doors down, other side of the street.’

‘We’ll talk to her,’ Zigic said, taking a card out of his pocket. ‘But if you do think of anything else …’

‘Of course.’

Bentley put it away and brought out a card of his own, offered it to Ferreira with another one of those high-wattage smiles.

‘If you ever want to drop in for a drink, just show them this. I’m usually here early evening.’

‘Good to know,’ she said, and even Zigic couldn’t tell if she meant it as encouragement or threat.

Outside she zipped the card into the breast pocket of her leather jacket and Zigic grinned at her.

‘What’s the word I’m looking for … douchebag?’

‘That’s the one.’ She slipped her sunglasses on. ‘You want to try Ms Goddard while we’re here?’

Zigic checked his phone; nothing in from forensics yet and nothing from Wahlia’s trawling activities. An invitation from DCS Riggott to brief him at the end of shift and a query from the press officer regarding the most suitable pronoun for the statement he’d be making in a couple of hours. He fired a quick message back: ‘her’. Anna had sent a short video clip of Emily giggling in her cot and he stopped mid-stride to watch it, her infectious laughter sending a smile across his face.

When he switched his phone off Ferreira was sheltering in the doorway of an estate agent’s lighting a roll-up, a man on the other side of the plate-glass window shooting her a filthy look.

‘So, the charity?’ she asked.

‘Right.’