‘Well you can get in the queue, love. They’ve bin fuckin’ me off today something proper.’
‘Ivy. I need to talk to you about The Glue Pot,’ said Erika, perching on the warm, vacated stool.
‘What?’ said Ivy, trying to focus.
‘You remember? The pub we talked about. The Glue Pot, on London Road.’
‘I don’t go there,’ slurred Ivy.
‘I know you don’t go there. Why don’t you go there?’
‘Cos . . .’
‘Please. I need more. Why not, Ivy?’
‘Fuck you!’
Erika held up yet another twenty. Ivy attempted to focus, and then grabbed it, tucking it under the waistband of her grotty jeans.
‘So, what you wanna talk about?’
‘The Glue Pot.’
‘Bad stuff there. Bad man . . . bad . . .’ said Ivy, shaking her head.
‘There’s a bad man?’
‘Yeah . . .’ Ivy’s eyes were now rolling in her head and she seemed to be seeing things – things that weren’t in the bar. Her head snapped to one side.
‘Ivy. The bad man. What’s his name?’
‘He’s bad, I tell you, love . . .’
‘Did you hear about the girl who died, Andrea?’ Erika pulled out her phone and found the picture of Andrea. ‘This is her, Ivy. Her name was Andrea. She was beautiful, with dark hair. Do you think Andrea knew this bad man?’
Ivy managed to focus on the phone picture for a moment. ‘Yeah, she was beautiful.’
‘You saw her?’
‘Few times.’
‘You saw this girl, a few times, in The Glue Pot?’ said Erika, holding the phone up to Ivy.
‘I was beautiful once . . .’ Ivy’s eyes rolled in her head and she started to slide off the barstool.
‘Come on, Ivy. Stay with me,’ said Erika, grabbing her and righting her on the stool. ‘Please look at this picture once more.’
Ivy stared at it. ‘The bad ones are always the worst, but the best, too. You let them do anything to you, even if it hurts, even if you don’t want to . . .’
Erika looked over at the bar and could see that the large girl with the pierced lip wasn’t buying any drinks. She was talking to a group of men, and they kept looking at Erika and Ivy.
‘Ivy, this is important. Are you talking about Andrea? Did she meet with this bad man at The Glue Pot? He had dark hair. Please. I need anything, a name . . .’
Ivy drooled, and blew out a bubble of saliva, which popped. She rolled her tongue over her chin and Erika caught sight of her rotten teeth.
‘I saw her, with him and some blonde bitch. Stupid girls, they both got in too deep with him.’ said Ivy.
‘What? Ivy? A dark man and a blonde woman?’
‘Is this an official visit?’ asked a voice. Erika looked up to see a large bear of a man with wispy strawberry-blond hair.
‘I didn’t invite her,’ said Ivy, adding, ‘she’s a fucking pig.’
‘No, it’s not an official visit,’ said Erika.
‘Then I’d like you to go,’ the man said, his voice menacingly calm and quiet.
‘Ivy, if you think of anything, see anything, here’s my number.’ Erika pulled out a pen and scrap of paper from her leather jacket, scribbled down her mobile number, and tucked the scrap of paper into the pocket of Ivy’s jeans. The man hooked his hand under Erika’s arm. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘what do you think you’re doing? Who do you think you are?’
‘The landlord. Everyone here is invited, and I’m giving away complimentary drinks. You are not invited, and therefore I have to tell you to leave or I’m breaking the law.’
‘I said I wasn’t here on an official visit, but my visit could become official at any moment,’ said Erika.
‘This is a wake,’ said the man, matter-of-factly. ‘And we have a no-pigs door policy.’
‘What did you just call me?’ asked Erika, trying to remain calm. A short guy with strange gnomic features joined them.
‘Did you know my muvver?’ he asked accusingly.
‘Your mother?’ asked Erika.
‘Yeah, that’s what I said. My muvver, Pearl.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Don’t fucking ask me who I am at my own fucking muvver’s wake! Who the fuck are you?’
‘So this is your mother Pearl’s wake, is it?’ asked Erika.
‘Yeah, and what you gonna fucking do about it?’
Erika looked around the room; people were starting to take notice.
‘Cool it, Michael,’ said the landlord.
‘I don’t like her attitude, stuck up lanky bitch,’ said Michael, looking her up and down.
‘You need to calm down, sir,’ said Erika.
‘Sir? Are you taking the piss?’
‘No, I’m a police officer,’ said Erika, pulling out her ID.
‘What’s a pig doing here? You told me you’d had a word . . .’
‘I did have a word, Michael. This police officer is just leaving.’
‘There’s a fucking pig ’ere!’ cried a weedy, red-haired woman who had tottered over, wearing only one pink slip-on shoe. There was a crack of glass, and then two blokes started to fight. The red-haired woman threw her pint over Erika and wiggled her fingers in a “come and get it” gesture. Erika felt herself being grabbed around the waist. At first she thought she was being attacked, but the landlord was carrying her, holding her up in the air as people swore and spat at her. Through the force of his sheer weight and height he pulled her through the throng and got her behind the bar.
‘Get the fuck out. Go through there, to the kitchens. The back door leads out to an alley behind,’ he said, putting out a hand to stop people from the crowd who were trying to squeeze through the small hatch to get behind the bar. A glass exploded above Erika’s head, shattering a vodka optic. At the far end of the bar, the woman who’d thrown the drink pulled up another hatch, and people poured behind the bar and began to rush at Erika.
‘Get out!’ said the landlord. He pushed her through a stinking pair of curtains. She stumbled down a dimly lit hallway, crashing into boxes of crisps, tripping over a crate of empty bottles. The music blared but barely drowned out the sound of the chaos and breaking glass from the bar behind. She could see that the landlord was being pushed and shoved as he tried to block the doorway. Erika found a door into a kitchen of filth and hellish grease, and at the back she pushed open a fire exit. The cold air hit her wet skin, which was already feeling sticky from the beer, and she saw she was in an alleyway.
Erika dashed back towards the road, past the steam and chaos emanating from the bar windows, and out to her car, which was thankfully still waiting on the road out front.
She got in and drove away with a squeal of rubber. She felt relieved, elated, adrenalin surging through her. And then she remembered that Ivy was still inside the pub. Ivy had seen Andrea, with the dark-haired man and the blonde-haired woman.
Had Ivy been in The Glue Pot the night Andrea vanished? Did this mean the barmaid at The Glue Pot was telling the truth?
23
Erika was called to Chief Superintendent Marsh’s office when she arrived the next morning. She carried with her a cheque for the rent and the signed contract for the flat. She was surprised, when she entered the office, to see DCI Sparks sat opposite Marsh. Sparks had a smug look on his face.
‘Sir?’
‘What the hell were you playing at, going into The Crown last night?’ demanded Marsh.
Erika looked between Sparks and Marsh. ‘I stuck to orange juice . . .’
‘This isn’t funny! You crashed the wake for Pearl Gadd, and caused no end of chaos. Do you know the Gadd family?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘They’re a bunch of low-life scum who own a massive lorry transportation network in the south of England. However, they’ve been working with us.’
‘Working with us, sir? Do you want me to allocate one of them a desk in the incident room?’
‘Don’t get smart.’
Sparks was trying not to enjoy this, watching their exchange with his chin resting on the heel of his hand. Erika noticed how he’d let the nail grow long on each index finger.
‘Sir. If you've called me in here for a bollocking, I’d rather be bollocked in private.’
‘You don’t outrank DCI Sparks, and he’s here as part of the investigation. You’re supposed to be working together. I take it your visit to The Crown was part of your enquiries?’