Forty-Eight
For almost a century and a half, the Winter Gardens had stood a few hundred metres back from the front, midway between the North and Central Piers.
It was a huge entertainment complex that incorporated the Opera House, the Grand Theatre and the Empress Ballroom, and was only a hop, skip and a stumble from dozens of slightly less imposing – and less expensive – venues catering for those more interested in bingo and singalong nights.
Those keen on clubbing together to see how many pitchers of Sex on the Beach they could get for a hundred quid.
Five, on average.
Miller walked through the ornate entrance into the grand lobby.
The place was plastered with posters for the shows currently running – Holiday Hoofers, a ventriloquism spectacular called Keep Your Mouth Shut and a full production of Dreamgirls – as well as for forthcoming attractions.
Considering that the Beatles had once performed here – not to mention Jimi Hendrix and Frank Sinatra – it was a little dispiriting to see the number of tribute acts programmed.
The Faux Fighters, the Red Hot Silly Peppers and an easy listening/blues evening courtesy of Fleetwood Mac and Cheese.
Actually, Miller quite fancied that one.
He walked to the information window and explained that he was looking for a dancer called Nikki something.
‘I don’t have a second name,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ The woman behind the desk eyed him suspiciously, and her expression did not soften a great deal even when Miller produced his warrant card.
With a long-suffering sigh, she began tapping at a computer and eventually told him that there was a Nikki Wallace among the cast list for Holiday Hoofers.
‘That’ll be her,’ Miller said. ‘I know she’s a dancer.’ He waited, but the woman did not appear willing to assist him any further. ‘So, could you tell me where I can find her?’
The woman on the other side of the glass sighed again, then reached for a biro and a printed map of the complex. She scrawled a circle around ‘stage door’ and slid it across.
Miller took the sheet of paper and leaned close to the speaker built into the window.
He said, ‘Little tip for you. If you ever fancy a change of career, I think you might easily find alternative employment with the North Korean Ministry of State Security. Or maybe as a GP’s receptionist.’ He thanked her for her help and smiled, though the woman had already gone back to her Jeffrey Archer paperback. ‘It’s been lovely to chat,’ he said.
Five minutes later, Miller stood in a narrow corridor outside a dressing-room door with a cardboard star taped to it, on which someone had scribbled HH Dancers in felt-tip pen.
Thinking that Ralph Massey clearly spared every expense when it came to those whose talents helped him launder money, Miller knocked and waited.
‘We’re not decent.’
‘It’s OK,’ Miller said, leaning close to the door. ‘I’m a policeman. And I promise not to look.’ He was just about to knock again when the door opened and a woman put her head around it.
‘You got ID?’ she asked.
Miller reached into his pocket.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had some perv come knocking with a cock and bull story,’ the woman said. She peered at his warrant card and nodded, satisfied.
‘I need to speak to Nikki Wallace,’ Miller said.
The woman said, ‘Wait there,’ and closed the door again.
Miller waited, pressing himself back against the wall as a troop of male dancers in sparkly tuxedos trotted past. He thought he was almost certainly wasting his time, but as the search of Neil Battersby’s flat had yielded nothing to indicate where he might have taken Justin Cutler, the dancer with whom Battersby had claimed to have been getting jiggy was the only lead they had.
With a young man’s life on the line, it was a lead Miller had no choice but to follow.
He was idly wondering if tickets to Fleetwood Mac and Cheese were still available when the door opened and a different young woman – mid-twenties or thereabouts – stepped out.
Having clearly been interrupted in the process of applying her make-up, her hair was scraped back and she was wearing a multi-coloured dressing gown.
‘I’m Nikki Wallace,’ she said. ‘If this is about that slag I decked in Wetherspoons, she was asking for it, and she didn’t press charges anyway.’
‘It isn’t, but I’d quite like to hear about that some other time.’ Miller showed her his ID and introduced himself.
‘What do you want, then? Curtain goes up in twenty minutes and I’ve got a lot more slap to put on.’
‘I need to talk to you about your boyfriend,’ Miller said.
‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘OK, but you do know a man named Neil Battersby?’
Nikki Wallace nodded and rolled her eyes, as if this develop-ment was not entirely unexpected. ‘Yeah, but he wasn’t my boyfriend.’
‘Really? He certainly talked as if the two of you were … close.’
She scoffed. ‘Bragging about it, was he?’
‘You could say that.’
She looked as though she’d bitten into something sour. ‘So, what’s he done?’
‘I can’t go into details,’ Miller said. ‘We do need to find him urgently, though, and the nature of the investigation means that he very much doesn’t want to be found.
So I was wondering if he’d ever talked to you about somewhere …
secret, or special. A place he might go to hide away; be on his own.
Some location that meant something to him, maybe? ’
‘We didn’t do a lot of talking.’
‘Please, think carefully about this. Anything you can remember, anything at all that might help us.’ He studied the woman. It was hard to tell if she was racking her brains or just thinking about the show she had to get ready for. ‘It’s important, Nikki. A young man’s life is at stake.’
A few more seconds went by before she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. If I could remember anything, I’d tell you. Trust me, I’d be more than happy to help you catch him, but I honestly can’t think of anywhere.’
Miller nodded and reached for a card. ‘Well, if you do remember anything—’
The woman snatched the card. ‘Yeah, obviously.’ She stepped back into her dressing room and closed the door behind her.
Miller turned away and found himself face to face with a short, middle-aged man wearing a daft grin and with his hand up the backside of a spooky-looking ventriloquist’s doll. The doll and the ventriloquist wore matching suits and bow ties, and both had gingery combovers.
‘Cheer up, pal,’ the doll said. ‘It might never happen.’
‘What?’
‘Come on, why don’t you give us a nice gig smile?’ The ventriloquist was obviously not very good, and when the doll ‘chuckled’ its mouth fell open and clacked noisily. ‘No need to look so miserable when it’s a lovely, sunny day and you’re in glorious Glackpool!’
Miller stepped close and stared at the doll. ‘I’ve never nicked a puppet before, but there’s a first time for everything.’
‘Ooh, someone is in a gad mood.’
Miller reached forward to grab hold of the doll’s bow tie. He yanked it then let it snap back on its elastic. The ventriloquist winced as if he’d felt the pain himself. He drew his doll away and began muttering about calling security.
‘Oh, gugger off,’ Miller said.