LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Five

      We took the bus into town. Perhaps not the obvious mode of transport for professional investigators, but it’s a habit that’s hard to break. Besides, the number 93 rattles down Woodhouse Lane at a rate of about one every minute, ferrying students into town and college. And there’s never anywhere to park in Leeds.

      It was early enough that The Warehouse hadn’t opened for the night. The big black doors were closed and there wasn’t a doorbell, so we hung around outside till we saw a young blonde woman turn the corner and push through the side door. We jogged to catch up with her before the door banged shut. Jo asked her if we could speak to the manager, and she said to come in.

      Once inside, she told us to wait by the main door. No one goes to The Warehouse for the décor, but even so I was taken aback at the state of it, empty of its clientele and with the lights on. Bare, damp walls, the floor littered with cigarette burns, the seating areas stained and ripped.

      I watched the woman who’d let us in cross to the bar and speak to a bloke with a straggly beard. She returned and told us Bill wasn’t in yet, but wouldn’t be long. She invited us to wait, asked if we wanted a beer. Jo nodded at the same moment I held up a hand to say no. I sighed, but on the inside.

      At first, me giving up drinking had been a bit of an issue to our friendship, but Jo’s adapted now. We’d both known if something didn’t give, well, if something didn’t give, something would have given. Probably me. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt watching Jo swig from a bottle of Tiger beer that had beads of condensation on the glass.

      Jo sat while I opted to stand, rehearsing my lines for Jack’s mother: It’s not gone quite as well as we hoped, Mrs Wilkins, but …

      A tall, gangly man made his way across the dance floor towards us. He must have been six foot seven, a long, lean streak of piss. ‘You’re looking for me,’ he said, and it didn’t sound like a question.

      ‘You the boss?’ asked Jo.

      ‘Bill,’ he said. I held out my hand but he either didn’t see or he ignored it.

      ‘Nothing going at the moment, but if you come back next week, I might have something.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      Jo stood up. She has this trick of making herself look taller than she actually is, but they still looked like a comedy duo as they faced each other. She wasn’t much above his waist.

      ‘We’re not looking for a job.’ She made the word ‘job’ sound like something you might scrape off the sole of your boots.

      We followed him as he made his way towards the bar. He turned his head and spoke to us as he walked. ‘What then?’

      The dance floor stuck to my boots as we crossed the room. The seating areas looked manky under the harsh lights, and the heat of the bulbs was making me sweat. God knows what the temperature would get like when the place filled.

      Bill ducked beneath the bar and lifted a crate of beers onto the black melamine. He pulled half a dozen bottles out by their necks and stacked them on the shelves behind him.

      ‘We’re looking for Jack,’ I said. ‘Jack Wilkins.’

      He froze for a brief second, so brief I wondered whether I’d imagined it and then resumed his shelf-stacking. ‘Why?’

      ‘He’s a friend. We’re worried about him.’

      ‘You and the rest of the world.’

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘No idea.’

      ‘What?’ Jo was on tiptoe at the bar, straining to hear him.

      He turned round, wiped his hands down his trousers. ‘He was on the rota, last week, three shifts. Didn’t turn up for any of them.’

      ‘Has he rung in sick?’ I asked.

      ‘Still don’t see why this is your business.’

      Jo leaned over the bar, and I saw Bill’s eyes drop to her cleavage. When he got back to her face, he flinched as Jo glowered at him.

      ‘We’re looking for a friend who appears to have disappeared. No need to be defensive.’

      Bill’s gaze flicked to the outskirts of the room, and I knew he was looking for the door staff. No sign of them, which was fortunate, as Jo’d had an altercation with one, heavily tattooed, the last time we were here. The list of places we haven’t been escorted out of is getting shorter; although since I stopped drinking I’ve adopted the role of minder. As soon as Jo shows signs of wear and tear I steer us back up the hill. It’s not that she goes out looking for trouble, but she can’t keep her mouth shut when she’s had a few – insists on intervening in any situation, particularly if there’s a political or feminist perspective that needs raising. She’s obliged to rescue women from unwanted male attention, or to point out issues of

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