You know when you get an idea and start to put it together and it was a good idea at the time... yup that. Getting there slowly like all things in this heat.
WPC Jane Groves adjusts the sling on her arm with a grimace. She feels guilty for even acknowledging the pain. Had she not slipped on the ice as she raced after that bank robber and broke her arm, she'd probably be working undercover at The Electric Lady. There are only three women at Salford. Sharon eats a Marathon bar for breakfast, and Bridget is pregnant, but nobody is meant to know about that.
God knows how they do it.
Those strippers, getting their tops off and wriggling it all about; it's so demeaning, and it's not a proper job, is it? How on earth would she have told Brian? He'd be proper jealous, but he's that busy at Agecroft Colliery, she doubts he'd even notice
Groves wonders who they've sent. Who is Sharon? She'd never have done it; she stayed on the bar, and her boss could lump it. She would join Lancashire Women Against Pit Closures if he didn't like it. Stuff the lot of them.
"Groves, are you with us?" DS John Miles asks.
Groves nods. Where on earth did he think she was? Tescos?
"Yes, of course. Sir." She adjusts her posture and clicks the button on the recording as the telephone rings at 3am as predicted. Of course, she's 'with us'; bloody men thinking she can't do night shifts. Doesn't he remember training and all the study?
She eyes him as he answers the phone. Public school, probably got the job because of his connections. Groves leans forward to pay attention to their contact's voice.
"Sharon, any news?"
The cockney tones of Sharon remain in place as the reply comes through. "I have got access to the staff files; they're basic records. All the dancers and Betty, the woman who runs the bar, go under aliases. Faith, Starlight, and Cristal haven't mentioned their real names. I can't ask immediately without causing suspicion."
"Do you want me to call you in?" Miles asks, as he does every time.
"You don't have enough proof that anyone is being held against their will, but it does seem unlikely. If his daughter is here, I don't recognise her from the photos."
Groves agrees; calling her in now would be stupid even if DS Miles has to ask.
"You still feel safe?"
"In as much as one can be." The accent drops a little. Groves shivers at the tones of a woman who suddenly sounds far from home. "Is there any news on..?"
Miles encourages her, aware that Sharon is key to his future career. "What do you need to know?"
"Nothing, it was nothing." The line goes dead.
OOOOO
Dempsey has been to four strip clubs. Move It, which was a cheap version of Stringfellows with pretty, scantily clan waitresses. Rum Rummers, Angels and Rejoice scandalously existed in an old church; the building had more appeal than the girls. A sure sign, he's pining. He would have been in heaven in a life once lived, not that long ago. He has hung out in bars, tucking notes into the thong of a hot girl at the tip rail with a wink, jeering his NYPD colleagues, and maybe getting a lap dance if a broad caught his eye.
In London, he's been to a few places outside hours with Harry on investigations; it's different in daylight. Women with tired faces, occasionally a toddler in tow, take turns on a pole in the middle of a sticky floor. Men built like bulldogs, eye up The Law with open aggression.
He's got to the next one on his list. The Electric Lady. It looks one up from the rest; the area looks a bit better too. The man on the door is a shade taller and looks like he eats cows for breakfast. There's a queue on a Thursday night which is unusual and talk of a new dancer called Marilyn.
Dempsey slips in with a crowd of men, for once trying to be invisible as possible. He's learned that it's impossible to ask if they have a blonde as most women wear wigs, and he's getting into fetish territory. He's lost without his badge which he can't use for fear of blowing any operation or word getting back to Spikings. He's hoping she's here; it costs a fortune.
He's got a plan. Catch Harry's eye at the bar and arrange to meet her after her shift to check if she's okay. Maybe get a coffee the following day. He fantasises that she'll be relieved to see him, and he'll get her back to his hotel room for a chat and to prove he's got more potential than those low lives at the tip rail.
He sits with the lurkers, as far back in the shadows as he can with a tall glass of beer, feeling like a sleazeball. There's no sign of her at the bar.
