Running Girl by Simon Mason Page B

‘Is foolishness.’
    â€˜Is Imperium’s. Same sort of thing, really. Can you drop me off by the bowling alley next door?’
    â€˜ Oui, bien sûr . We go quick quick so you lose all you money.’
    They drove down Bulwarks Lane into Pollard Way and onto the Town Road out of Five Mile towards the city centre. The night was lit up with the yellow fizz of streetlamps and the white glare of shop windows and the pulsing red points of the cars’ rear lights.
    â€˜I trust the police are leaving you alone, Abdul.’
    At once the little man began to gesticulate anxiously. No, they weren’t. They’d questioned him a second time. Did he know Chloe Dow? Had he ever given her a ride in his cab?
    â€˜They ask you yet about a black Porsche?’
    â€˜ Oui , they ask.’ Abdul looked at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘You know black Porsche?’
    â€˜Yeah, course. Do you?’
    Abdul nodded confidently. ‘ Oui oui . I see black Porsche.’
    Garvie frowned. ‘Really? Where?’
    â€˜Here, there. Big man drive. Big big like this.’ He puffed out his cheeks.
    â€˜There must be dozens of black Porsches in the city, Abdul.’
    Abdul shrugged. ‘Big big man,’ he repeated. ‘I see him here, see him there. I tell police. They write down their little book. Nothing happen. I know.’ He tapped the side of his head significantly.
    â€˜Who is he, this big man?’
    Abdul shrugged again. ‘He big play ... big play ...’ He sought for the right word and failed to find it.
    â€˜Playboy?’
    â€˜ Oui , Garvie man! C’est ça . Big play boy .’ He rubbed his fingers together. ‘He big big money.’
    â€˜Well, that figures. He drives a Porsche.’
    They came at last to The Wicker. Once full of warehouses and workshops, the road had been reclaimed from old industry for entertainment, and now it was a strip of bars and drinking clubs, fast-food outlets, bowling alleys, lap-dancing bars, comedy clubs, cinemas and casinos. Everywhere was the coloured wash of lights, the muffled thump of music and the faint, harsh odour of fried food, booze and aftershave. At nine thirty it was just beginning to get busy.
    Abdul let him out at the bowling alley and tutted at him.
    â€˜I know, Abdul. Is foolishness.’
    The man nodded. ‘Lucky for you I know not tell your mother.’
    The night was mild and damp. A group of men came past wearing fancy dress, and Garvie stood in front of the bowling alley looking across at Imperium Restaurant and Casino at the end of the block, a low sleek building of stone and smoked glass fronted with fake Roman columns and a row of miniature potted orange trees, all trimmed into perfect spheres. Soft blue light illuminated it all. The chunky doormen were ostentatiously dressed in dinner jackets and black bow ties. A brilliantly lit giant hoarding above them showed a young woman dressed almost entirely in tassels, clapping her hands next to a slogan that read ALL YOU GOT TO DO TO WIN IS PLAY! Garvie turned away, crossed the forecourt of the bowling alley and slipped down the side of the brick wall separating the properties until he was lost in the shadows. A few moments later he was in Imperium’s rear car park, an irregular patch of broken concrete in no way compatible with the elegant front.
    A two-minute search turned up nothing like a Porsche, black or otherwise. He strolled away into the shadows on the far side of the car park, where he lit up and lounged thoughtfully against a less-than-sparkling Renault Clio, waiting. In a little while a couple of cars pulled in, and as the people made their way round to the front, Garvie joined them, and together they went past the doormen – who gave Felix’s older brother’s membership card no more than a cursory glance – and into the casino.
    The carpets were plush, the fittings posh. Garvie went down a hallway lined with slot machines to