LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 8: The Goddess

      Plymouth, two years earlier

      Imogen and Sam walked into the pathologist’s office. The dead girl was laid out on the slab. She was cleaner, her hair was brushed and she looked almost peaceful. Imogen was glad that she had finally been treated with some respect.

      ‘So what’s the verdict, doc? Do we know who she is or what killed her?’ Sam asked the pathologist.

      ‘Overdose of epic proportions; she took something pretty horrific. There’s no hits in the database for her DNA. I sent her pics over to missing persons already. You’ll have to check with them,’ Dr Carol Foster said.

      ‘Did you do a rape kit?’ Imogen asked.

      ‘No obvious signs of sexual assault,’ Foster said. ‘But there is something. She has some scarring that indicates that she’s given birth, at least once, but possibly multiple times.’

      ‘How old do you think she is?’ Imogen asked.

      ‘Twenty if she’s a day. God only knows. She’s been through a hell of a lot. She could be younger.’ They all stood over the body staring, each lost in their own ruminations.

      ‘What about the toxicology report?’ Brown interrupted.

      ‘Well, it seems to be a crystal meth-like compound, but it’s got something else in it, I’ve not seen anything like it before. The full report will take a while,’ Foster said, obviously grateful for the return to science. Anything to avoid getting emotional over a case.

      ‘Is there anything else?’ Imogen asked.

      ‘Actually, yes.’ Foster walked over to the girl and lifted her hand. ‘She has the remnants of a UV stamp on her hand; I think it’s entry to some sort of nightclub.’

      ‘Let me see,’ Imogen said, leaning forward as the doctor shone the light on the girl’s left hand.

      ‘I know that stamp! It’s for Aphrodite’s, that club down town,’ Sam said immediately.

      ‘Aphrodite’s?’

      ‘Yeah, it’s owned by that Greek family. Bit of a dive.’

      ‘Never heard of it.’ Imogen shrugged.

      ‘Not being funny, Grey, but that’s kind of an endorsement in itself. When was the last time you went to a nightclub?’

      ‘Aphrodite? The Goddess of Love – is it a strip club?’ She wouldn’t be surprised if Sam knew all about the local strip clubs – some of the comments he made on a daily basis had her working hard to resist punching him in the face.

      ‘No, but I’ve heard rumours about the things that go on behind the scenes there – you know, bung the manager a few quid and he’ll arrange for some extra entertainment out back.’ Sam let out a big cheesy smile as he spoke.

      ‘Underage?’ Imogen asked.

      ‘Nah, just the usual skanks.’

      ‘That’s really nice, Brown. Skanks are people too.’ Imogen shook her head.

      ‘Whatever you say.’ Sam was indifferent as usual, lifting the blanket and checking out the rest of the girl’s body.

      Imogen shook her head. She could never quite discern if this was all part of her partner’s bravado act, or if he really was just a misogynistic pig.

      ‘Is that where they got the drugs do you think? The nightclub?’

      ‘I don’t know, but let’s check it out.’

      Aphrodite’s was a pink and red monstrosity, a stone’s throw from the infamous Union Street in Plymouth. The club was clearly trying to cash in on the vintage retro mania that was taking over the town, and yet somehow it missed the mark entirely. It was a clash of red leather booths and deep pink walls, mosaic mirror tiles almost wall to wall, and everything else was made of shiny black surfaces. There was an overriding theme of pink flamingos, and the male bar staff wore Hawaiian shirts while the women wore fifties-inspired dresses that looked more like swimsuits, and left very little to the imagination. There were poles dotted around the room, but maybe they were just for show. There was definitely an undertone of sleaze about the place. Imogen didn’t even want to think about what was going on behind the scenes.

      ‘We’re not open yet!’ a man called out from behind the bar.

      ‘I’m Detective Brown and this is Detective Grey.’ Sam pulled out his badge as they walked across the room and leaned against the bar.

      ‘Really? Those are your real names? Or are you just Tarantino fans?’ the barman asked, looking Imogen up and down.

      Imogen looked at Sam and he shrugged.

      ‘Reservoir Dogs, you know, Mr Pink and Mr Orange, stuck in the middle, the world’s smallest violin?’ Another voice came from the end of the bar. There was a man sitting there holding a scotch, one eyebrow raised at them. He wasn’t wearing the bar staff uniform.

      Imogen shrugged. ‘We need to show you a picture. We have a body in our morgue that needs identifying, and the victim had a stamp on her hand from this place.’ She walked over to the man with the scotch; he seemed comfortable, like he spent a lot of time there.

      Sam wandered off in the opposite direction, looking around the club.

      ‘OK, let me see your ID first, please. Can never be too careful around here.’ He smiled and held his hand out. He had toffee-coloured hair and a natural tan. His eyes were amber and green with a sort of Clint Eastwood squint that was incredibly distracting. She imagined he spent a lot of time staring menacingly into the distance.

      Imogen reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet, holding it up for the man to see her ID. He took the card from her hand.

      ‘Imogen. That’s a pretty name.’ He tilted his head and looked at her; unlike the barman, he didn’t break eye contact. He stood up slowly, keeping his

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