I wasn’t familiar with the club scene in Manchester, though I knew it was thriving. I bought a copy of City Life and studied the descriptions of the various night spots. A rough guide to music, clientele, dress-sense. I tried to imagine Martin and his ‘partner’. The images I came up with were sophisticated or seedy. ‘Riding round in an Aston Martin, eating out every night.’ JB’s words, Martin’s originally, came back to me. There were loads of pubs and clubs that seemed possible. Too many for me to tramp round.
I rang Harry, my journalist friend. He’s a mine of information; his freelance career depends on it. I explained my problem.
‘Try Natterjacks. Everybody goes there now and again. It’s a good mixture – some rent scene, tie and shirt brigade too. Barney’s is just down the road – that’s worth checking out; quite a few prostitutes use it, male and female. If you want somewhere more upmarket, try The Galaxy Club.’
I tried them all that night. I got the lay of the land and even plucked up enough courage to ask a group of teenagers at Barney’s if they’d seen Martin, producing
his photograph. No response. I decided I’d try them all again the following night and then consider my duty done.
Thursday night. Eleven-thirty. I’d already looked in at The Galaxy Club and driven down to Princess Street where both the other places were. After half an hour in Natterjacks, seedy but popular; I crossed the road and walked down to Barney’s. Small pillars framed the doorway, which was lit by large brass carriage-lamps. Inside, it was a mix of regency stripes in red and cream and lots of long, rectangular mirrors. And it was heaving.
I ordered an expensive orange juice and, when the man behind the bar brought it over, I showed him Martin’s photograph.
‘I couldn’t tell you dear,’ he said, ‘I never remember a face. But I’ll tell you this,’ he paused for dramatic effect and leant nearer, ‘you’re the second person in here flashing photos at me.’
‘Same photo?’
‘Don’t know, as I said, I never remember a face.’
‘When was it?’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘days I’m very good at. Wednesday, last Wednesday.’
It had to be JB.
I wandered round the place to check the dance floor, which was out of sight of the main bar, before I found a perch in a corner of the room where I could see the entrance. I tried to look occupied, as though I was expecting someone at any moment. No-one bothered me. The music in the club was loud and fast, pulsing from the dance floor at the back. By twelve-thirty, it felt as if all the air had been used up. The place was heaving, hot and noisy. The smell of expensive aftershave mingled with the pall of smoke. And I had a crashing headache. My temple pulsed with each beat of the hi-energy music. Everyone else was having a whale of a time.
