As one of the revolving lights hit him, Lynley saw where the man's sobriquet had come from: A ragged scar ran from his forehead and across one of his eyelids, cutting a swathe that had removed the tip of his nose and half his upper lip. Slash would probably have been more appropriate since the scar was obviously the legacy of a knife. But he'd no doubt wished to stay with the theme of the club. Lash suggested that an element of the voluntary had been involved in his maiming.
Lash looked not at Lynley but at Nkata. Abruptly, he set the cocktail shaker to one side. “Fuck,” he snarled. “I should of killed you when I had you, Demon. That ransom idea was bullshit on wheels.”
Lynley looked at his DC curiously. “You two know each other?”
“We—” Clearly, Nkata was seeking a delicate way of framing the information for his superior officer. “We met once or twice in the 'lotments near Windmill Gardens,” Nkata said. “Some years back, this was.”
“Weeding out dandelions from the lettuce patch, I dare say,” Lynley noted dryly.
Lash snorted. “We 'as doing some weeding, true enough,” he said, and then to Nkata, “I always wondered where you wanked off to. I might of guessed it'd be to something like this.” He took a step towards them and peered more closely at Nkata. His misshapen lips suddenly parted in what went for his smile. “You sod!” he cried, giving a bark of happy laughter. “I knew I marked you that night. I swore up and down all that blood wasn't mine.”
“You marked me,” Nkata said congenially, tapping the scar that ran across his cheek. He extended his hand. “How are you, Dewey?”
Dewey? Lynley wondered.
“Lash,” Dewey said.
“Right, then. Lash. You straight? Or what?”
“Or what,” Lash said, and smiled again. He took Nkata's offered hand and shook it, saying, “I just bloody knew I marked you, Deme. You 'as good with a knife. Shit. Just take a look at this mug if you don't believe me.” This last was said to Lynley, and then back to Nkata, “But I was always fast with the razor.”
“True enough, that is,” Nkata said.
“What d'you lot want with Shelly Platt, then?” Lash grinned. “Can't be looking for her usual.”
“We'd like to talk to her about a murder,” Lynley said. “Nicola Maiden. Is the name familiar?”
Lash considered this as he poured martinis into four glasses arranged on a tray. He speared on toothpicks two stuffed green olives per glass and plopped them into the cocktails before replying.
“Sheila!” he barked. “It's up.” And when the barmaid teetered over in platform boots and a fishnet teddy that showed far more than it could ever conceal, he slid the tray to her and turned back to the detectives. “Great name, Maiden. For this sort of place. I'd of remembered. No. Don't know her.”
“Shelly did apparently. And now she's dead.”
“Shelly's no killer. A bitch and a tart with a temper like a cobra. But she's never done harm that I ever heard.”
“We'd like to speak to her nonetheless. I understand she's a habitué of the club. If she's not here now, you might want to tell us where we can find her. I can't think you'd like us hanging about till she arrives.”
Lash glanced at Nkata. “He always talk like that?”
“Born to it, he was.”
“Shit. That must put the mockers on your style.”
“I cope,” Nkata said. “Can you help us out, Dew?”
“Lash.”
“Lash. Right. I forget.”
“Can,” Lash said. “For old times and the like. But you didn't hear it from me. That straight?”
“Got it,” Nkata said, and he took out his neat little leather notebook.
Lash grinned. “Chrisamighty. You are legit, eh?”
“Keep it to yourself, mate, won't you?”
“Shit. Demon of Death a cop.” He chuckled. Shelly Platt worked the streets round Earl's Court Station, he said. But at this time of day they wouldn't find her there. She did the dusk-to-dawn shift, and that being the case, they'd find her kipping in what went for her lodgings. He recited the address.
They nodded their thanks and slipped out of the club, where, once in the black-walled corridor, they saw that a partitioned section of the passage had been opened. What had appeared to be an expanse of plaster painted in funereal hue was now folded to one side, and in its place was a small shop with a counter stretching its width. Behind this stood a ghoulish woman with purple hair worn in a style reminiscent of the Bride of Frankenstein. Her lips and eyelids were highlighted in black. Body studs erupted from her face and her ears like a fatal visitation of the king's evil.
“Off your patch, you lot,” the woman said with a smirk as Lynley and Nkata passed her. “But I c'n make it worth your while calling in, if you've a mind for it.”
Lynley's attention went to the goods she had on offer in her shop. Displayed within was everything from sex toys to pornographic videos. The counter itself was a glass case decorated with an artful arrangement of jars containing Shaft: The Personal Lubricant as well as leather and metal devices of various shapes and sizes, upon whose use Lynley didn't care to speculate. But as he passed, he caught sight of one of these devices, and his footsteps slowed, then halted altogether. He squatted in front of the case.