not starting?’
Rick flicked a distracted glance at his Golf. ‘No, it’s fine. I just wanted to get something sorted out.’
This’ll be interesting, thought Jon, crossing his arms.
Rick’s chest filled out slightly as he nervously breathed in.
‘Back at Gordon Dean’s house, you looked at me when I was describing that place called Crimson.’
Jon nodded, surprised that this wasn’t about McCloughlin. Rick swallowed. ‘I hope the fact that I’m gay won’t affect how we work together.’
Jon was suddenly relieved that it was dark: Rick couldn’t see his blush. ‘No. Of course not.’
Rick continued facing him a moment longer. ‘Good. It’s best that we dealt with it straight away.’
‘Absolutely. And it’s really not an issue for me,’ Jon replied, hearing his language slipping into the politically correct. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
Simultaneously they unlocked their cars, opened the doors and got in. As Jon turned the ignition key, he heard Rick’s engine start, too. Both sets of lights came on together. Jon leaned forward and gestured to Rick. The other car drove quickly away. Jon sat back in his seat. Jesus, his partner had just admitted he was gay. He wondered if it was common knowledge around the incident room.
Despite all the anti-discrimination regulations, homosexuality was still something plenty of his colleagues regarded as a laughable affliction. They were usually the same officers who believed most blacks were thieving, lazy niggers.
He hadn’t received any piss-take comments about working with a poof, so he concluded that no one could know. Then he remembered McCloughlin’s wink on telling Jon that he was getting a partner. Could it have been a hint?
Five minutes later he pulled into the Platinum Inn’s car park and looked across to the greyhound stadium behind. The floodlights were on and a crackly voice was announcing the runners for the final race.
Jon glanced around the car park. Two other cars, a Ford Mondeo and a Citroën Xara. Salesman choices. He pushed open the doors to reception. The place had obviously seen better days. The glut of cheap chain hotels in the town centre was slowly strangling it to death. Another few months and it would be boarded up, and shortly after that probably burned down by local kids.
Behind the counter was an alarmingly thin woman. You’ve had a tough paper round, thought Jon. He held up his warrant card. ‘DI Jon Spicer. And you are?’
‘Dawn Poole, night manager.’
‘Just the person I need to speak to. Were you on duty last night?’
‘I’m on duty every night.’
Jon looked around, not envying her lonely job in an area where women’s corpses were turning up, stripped of their skin.
‘Seems quiet. How’s business?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s been busier.’
‘Who do you get staying here? Company reps, mainly?’
‘Mainly. Some younger sorts having a night out in Manchester. Three to a room can work out cheaper for them than a taxi home, specially if they manage to sneak in an extra mate.’
‘Who else?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘So if I take a seat here, there’s no chance of any couples coming in to book rooms by the hour?’
Her mouth tensed up and she pointed to the tariff sheet on the wall. ‘The rates are for the night only.’
‘Come on, Dawn.’ Jon leaned on the counter, sensing it wouldn’t take much to make her crumble. It never did with the mouse-like types. Usually they’d do whatever it took to keep attention off them. ‘This place is used as a knocking shop. I don’t work Vice. Help me out here and I won’t need to get them involved.’
She crossed her arms, the bones in her elbows jutting out painfully. ‘What do you want to know?’
That’s more like it, he thought. ‘The girls you get coming in here, do you know their names?’
‘Some of them.’
‘Ever heard of an Alexia?’
The skin below her eyes flinched. ‘I don’t think so.’
Jon didn’t
Rick flicked a distracted glance at his Golf. ‘No, it’s fine. I just wanted to get something sorted out.’
This’ll be interesting, thought Jon, crossing his arms.
Rick’s chest filled out slightly as he nervously breathed in.
‘Back at Gordon Dean’s house, you looked at me when I was describing that place called Crimson.’
Jon nodded, surprised that this wasn’t about McCloughlin. Rick swallowed. ‘I hope the fact that I’m gay won’t affect how we work together.’
Jon was suddenly relieved that it was dark: Rick couldn’t see his blush. ‘No. Of course not.’
Rick continued facing him a moment longer. ‘Good. It’s best that we dealt with it straight away.’
‘Absolutely. And it’s really not an issue for me,’ Jon replied, hearing his language slipping into the politically correct. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
Simultaneously they unlocked their cars, opened the doors and got in. As Jon turned the ignition key, he heard Rick’s engine start, too. Both sets of lights came on together. Jon leaned forward and gestured to Rick. The other car drove quickly away. Jon sat back in his seat. Jesus, his partner had just admitted he was gay. He wondered if it was common knowledge around the incident room.
Despite all the anti-discrimination regulations, homosexuality was still something plenty of his colleagues regarded as a laughable affliction. They were usually the same officers who believed most blacks were thieving, lazy niggers.
He hadn’t received any piss-take comments about working with a poof, so he concluded that no one could know. Then he remembered McCloughlin’s wink on telling Jon that he was getting a partner. Could it have been a hint?
Five minutes later he pulled into the Platinum Inn’s car park and looked across to the greyhound stadium behind. The floodlights were on and a crackly voice was announcing the runners for the final race.
Jon glanced around the car park. Two other cars, a Ford Mondeo and a Citroën Xara. Salesman choices. He pushed open the doors to reception. The place had obviously seen better days. The glut of cheap chain hotels in the town centre was slowly strangling it to death. Another few months and it would be boarded up, and shortly after that probably burned down by local kids.
Behind the counter was an alarmingly thin woman. You’ve had a tough paper round, thought Jon. He held up his warrant card. ‘DI Jon Spicer. And you are?’
‘Dawn Poole, night manager.’
‘Just the person I need to speak to. Were you on duty last night?’
‘I’m on duty every night.’
Jon looked around, not envying her lonely job in an area where women’s corpses were turning up, stripped of their skin.
‘Seems quiet. How’s business?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s been busier.’
‘Who do you get staying here? Company reps, mainly?’
‘Mainly. Some younger sorts having a night out in Manchester. Three to a room can work out cheaper for them than a taxi home, specially if they manage to sneak in an extra mate.’
‘Who else?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘So if I take a seat here, there’s no chance of any couples coming in to book rooms by the hour?’
Her mouth tensed up and she pointed to the tariff sheet on the wall. ‘The rates are for the night only.’
‘Come on, Dawn.’ Jon leaned on the counter, sensing it wouldn’t take much to make her crumble. It never did with the mouse-like types. Usually they’d do whatever it took to keep attention off them. ‘This place is used as a knocking shop. I don’t work Vice. Help me out here and I won’t need to get them involved.’
She crossed her arms, the bones in her elbows jutting out painfully. ‘What do you want to know?’
That’s more like it, he thought. ‘The girls you get coming in here, do you know their names?’
‘Some of them.’
‘Ever heard of an Alexia?’
The skin below her eyes flinched. ‘I don’t think so.’
Jon didn’t
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