Inside the cinema, behind a makeshift counter, sat a failed genetic experiment, a cross between a man and a toad. He was huge and fat, his skin greasy and warty. He had a shaved head and wore chunky gold jewellery that may have been expensive and genuine or may have been Argos. It was so tasteless Imani had no way of knowing. He wore a brown leather jacket that looked as greasy as his skin and a stained T-shirt pulled tight across his expansive belly. He looked half asleep, staring at a porn mag spread out before him, but Imani wasn’t fooled. His round eyes missed nothing. He perked up when they entered.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘It’s what you can do for us,’ said Imani. She showed him the photo, explained what it was about.
The toad’s round eyes became hooded, hidden. ‘Murder, you say?’
‘Murder,’ said Khan, as bluntly and emphatically as he could.
The toad rubbed his stubbly chin. ‘Never seen that before.’ He handed the flyer back.
‘Hang on to it. You never know,’ said Imani. ‘We’ve got plenty more.’
The toad shrugged, put it under the desk. Went back to his magazine. When he noticed that the two police officers hadn’t left, he looked up.
‘What?’
‘Mind if we take a look inside?’
‘Why?’ Eyes hooded and hidden again. ‘We’re licensed. By the council.’
‘That’s not why we’re here,’ said Imani. ‘The tattoo?’
The toad clearly didn’t want to let them in. He was weighing up whether it would be better to go along with them or cause a fuss by refusing them access when Khan made his mind up for him.
‘Come on,’ he said, pushing past Imani, ‘let’s get it over with.’
Imani smiled at the toad. ‘Two minutes,’ she said and followed him.
Going through the doorway from the front of the cinema she was immediately thrown into darkness. The light hadn’t been particularly bright outside, but her eyes still took a while to get accustomed to it. She stood still, blinked. There was no sign of Khan. Ahead of her was a narrow passageway. Cheap plywood painted black. She saw a doorway at the far end, leading off to the left. She walked towards it.
She heard the film before she saw it. Overdubbed grunts, sighs and screams. She reached the doorway, looked inside. The room was the size of a combined living and dining room. Seating had been placed in rows in front of a large screen. On the screen two hugely tooled men were servicing each other. Their bodies were hard, hairless, slick and shining with oil and sweat. Their eyes were closed, their faces expressionless. They bore as much resemblance to real people as an episode of The Simpsons. It was the opposite of erotic. It was like watching heavy pneumatic machinery at work.
But most people weren’t there to watch the film. They were too busy with each other. The room wasn’t full but the clientele were all men. Middle-aged, most of them, Imani reckoned, and not particularly attractive. But they all had something that someone else wanted. Oral sex. Anal sex. Everything in between. A couple of transvestites being anything but ladylike. Even as a police officer Imani had never seen anything like this. She felt as if she had stepped into another world.
She looked round. No sign of Khan.
She left the room, continued down the corridor. It ended in a set of stairs. She could hear more overdubbed grunts and groans coming from down there. The hallway turned to the right. She looked down it. A silhouette of a couple in an embrace was etched against the weak covered lighting at the far end. Both male, neither needing the stimulus of the screen. Both in a state of undress. She turned, went downstairs.
It was the same set-up as before. The same kind of film, the same kind of audience. But somehow being in the basement made it feel even sleazier than above, like there were fewer or even no limits to what went on.
She found Khan. Standing mutely at the doorway, staring into the room, mouth open like he had been hypnotised. He had been noticed. Imani was aware of at least one seated man waving his erect penis at him, trying to attract his attention. Imani came and joined him.
‘There you go, tiger,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
He turned, anger jumping into his features, crowding out whatever confused emotions were already there.
Imani smiled, looked at the man who had been waving his penis. Young, dressed in jeans and an unseasonable T-shirt. Only his fly was undone. He saw Imani looking at him and immediately lost interest.
But Imani was suddenly interested in him.
‘Look,’ she said to Khan, still whispering, ‘his arm.’
Khan looked where Imani told him to. The willy-waggler had bare forearms. On the inside of one was what appeared to be the tattoo they were looking for.
Imani couldn’t believe her luck. She felt her heart race, fought to keep it down. Forced herself to remember her training. Khan shared a glance with her and they both moved towards the seated man.
‘Excuse me,’ said Imani, going for her warrant card, ‘could we —’
She didn’t get any further. The man jumped up and, penis still sticking out of his jeans, pushed her backwards into Khan. While the two police officers were trying to untangle themselves, the man ran past them towards the stairs.
‘Stop!’ shouted Khan. ‘Police!’
The man didn’t stop.
Imani and Khan ran after him.