police went about their business. The sound system had been turned down to a respectable level and the house lights had been turned up, allowing him to appreciate the full splendour of Everton’s somewhat gothic decor.
Carlyle looked at the Harlequin Contour pattern wallpaper in brown and salmon pink and tutted. ‘Surely this kind of stuff went out of fashion in the 1970s,’ he quipped, gesturing at the wallpaper, to a small, pretty WPC standing by the bar.
‘I wouldn’t know, sir,’ the girl deadpanned. ‘I wasn’t born then.’
Ignoring the mischievous twinkle in the WPC’s eye, the inspector turned his attention to the matter in hand. It appeared that Sergeant Bishop had divided the staff into ‘talent’ and the rest. Along one wall, a group of gentlemen – oversized bouncers and undersized barmen – had been lined up while Bishop and a couple of the other WPCs went through their documents. On the other side of the room, a larger group of officers were slowly processing the strippers, none of whom were wearing more than a G-string and heels.
Trying not to make his gawping too obvious, Carlyle scanned the latter line, making random notes in his head as he did so. There were two black girls, two white and one Asian. All had effortlessly adopted the kind of generic bored-hostile look that Carlyle saw day in, day out from just about every member of the public that came into contact with the police.
When the Asian girl, who had the best, most natural-looking figure, caught Carlyle staring at her chest, he quickly looked away, feeling himself blush as he did so. His gaze turned to the far end of the room, where the small stage, lifted barely six inches off the ground, was empty.
‘Get on with it!’ shouted one of the punters, a stocky young guy in a suit, as he slammed an empty beer schooner down on the table.
Bishop stepped towards the guy’s table. ‘Shut it,’ he warned, ‘or you’ll be under arrest.’
A look of indignation flashed across the young man’s face. ‘For what?’ he said belligerently.
‘Oh, I’ll think of something,’ Bishop growled.
Carlyle smiled. He liked the sergeant’s style. Bishop was a relatively new arrival from some station out east; the Isle of Dogs’ loss would be Charing Cross’s gain. He wondered about asking Simpson to assign Bishop to work with him on a more regular basis. That decision, however, had already been made.
Not knowing when to stay schtum, the man was about to talk himself into a cell when there was an almighty commotion from the back of the stage. One of the officers, a young PC called Lea, came sprawling through a doorway, holding his nose as blood poured from it. ‘I’ve been hit!’ he groaned, stumbling over the edge of the stage and falling flat on his face. The laughter that rolled round the room was quickly followed by gasps of amazement as a raven-haired Amazon followed the hapless Lea through the door. Easily six foot tall, she was completely naked apart from a pair of incredibly high stilettoes.
Those look very classy
, thought Carlyle, impressed.
And she’s gone to town with the Philips Ladyshave
. A true professional.
In her hand, the woman had some kind of cosh. With an angry flourish, she brandished it at Lea. ‘C’mon, you bastard!’ she screamed, in what seemed to Carlyle to be some kind of American accent. ‘Come and get another thrashing.’ Whimpering, Lea sought refuge under a nearby table.
Finally tearing his eyes away, Carlyle looked at his troops. Thosethat weren’t mesmerized were drooling. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, gesturing to Bishop, ‘that’s enough. Take them all in. We’ll sort this out at the station.’ Swivelling on his heel, he walked straight into a man in a baseball cap with a large video camera on his shoulder. ‘Who the fucking hell are you?’ he barked.
The guy readjusted his cap and kept filming. ‘Danny Craven, Scattered Flowers Productions.’
‘What?’
Keeping his eye glued to the
Carlyle looked at the Harlequin Contour pattern wallpaper in brown and salmon pink and tutted. ‘Surely this kind of stuff went out of fashion in the 1970s,’ he quipped, gesturing at the wallpaper, to a small, pretty WPC standing by the bar.
‘I wouldn’t know, sir,’ the girl deadpanned. ‘I wasn’t born then.’
Ignoring the mischievous twinkle in the WPC’s eye, the inspector turned his attention to the matter in hand. It appeared that Sergeant Bishop had divided the staff into ‘talent’ and the rest. Along one wall, a group of gentlemen – oversized bouncers and undersized barmen – had been lined up while Bishop and a couple of the other WPCs went through their documents. On the other side of the room, a larger group of officers were slowly processing the strippers, none of whom were wearing more than a G-string and heels.
Trying not to make his gawping too obvious, Carlyle scanned the latter line, making random notes in his head as he did so. There were two black girls, two white and one Asian. All had effortlessly adopted the kind of generic bored-hostile look that Carlyle saw day in, day out from just about every member of the public that came into contact with the police.
When the Asian girl, who had the best, most natural-looking figure, caught Carlyle staring at her chest, he quickly looked away, feeling himself blush as he did so. His gaze turned to the far end of the room, where the small stage, lifted barely six inches off the ground, was empty.
‘Get on with it!’ shouted one of the punters, a stocky young guy in a suit, as he slammed an empty beer schooner down on the table.
Bishop stepped towards the guy’s table. ‘Shut it,’ he warned, ‘or you’ll be under arrest.’
A look of indignation flashed across the young man’s face. ‘For what?’ he said belligerently.
‘Oh, I’ll think of something,’ Bishop growled.
Carlyle smiled. He liked the sergeant’s style. Bishop was a relatively new arrival from some station out east; the Isle of Dogs’ loss would be Charing Cross’s gain. He wondered about asking Simpson to assign Bishop to work with him on a more regular basis. That decision, however, had already been made.
Not knowing when to stay schtum, the man was about to talk himself into a cell when there was an almighty commotion from the back of the stage. One of the officers, a young PC called Lea, came sprawling through a doorway, holding his nose as blood poured from it. ‘I’ve been hit!’ he groaned, stumbling over the edge of the stage and falling flat on his face. The laughter that rolled round the room was quickly followed by gasps of amazement as a raven-haired Amazon followed the hapless Lea through the door. Easily six foot tall, she was completely naked apart from a pair of incredibly high stilettoes.
Those look very classy
, thought Carlyle, impressed.
And she’s gone to town with the Philips Ladyshave
. A true professional.
In her hand, the woman had some kind of cosh. With an angry flourish, she brandished it at Lea. ‘C’mon, you bastard!’ she screamed, in what seemed to Carlyle to be some kind of American accent. ‘Come and get another thrashing.’ Whimpering, Lea sought refuge under a nearby table.
Finally tearing his eyes away, Carlyle looked at his troops. Thosethat weren’t mesmerized were drooling. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, gesturing to Bishop, ‘that’s enough. Take them all in. We’ll sort this out at the station.’ Swivelling on his heel, he walked straight into a man in a baseball cap with a large video camera on his shoulder. ‘Who the fucking hell are you?’ he barked.
The guy readjusted his cap and kept filming. ‘Danny Craven, Scattered Flowers Productions.’
‘What?’
Keeping his eye glued to the
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