‘Hello? DI Mayne.’
Pete would have preferred it if someone else had answered. Janine spent all her time with Richard and he knew the pair of them were good friends. He wondered sometimes if there was more to it. The thought made his jaw tense up.
‘Richard, it’s Pete.’
‘Ah.’ No mistaking the coolness in Mayne’s tone.
‘Is Janine there?’
‘She’s gone.’
‘She said she’d be back by now.’
‘Have you tried her mobile?’
‘Yes,’ Pete snapped, ‘she’s not answering.’
There was a pause. Then, ‘She left an hour ago.’
‘An hour?’ Concern pricked at Pete’s spine. ‘She should be home by now.’ He didn’t like this.
‘Right,’ Richard suddenly all business, ‘I’ll put a call out, all units on alert. We’ll find her.’
‘You’ll ring me, soon as you know anything.’
‘Of course.’
Any impatience on Pete’s part had drained away leaving him swamped by anxiety as he ended the call.
Each time a man entered the lobby, single or accompanied, Shap’s eyes flicked over to the receptionist. And so far he had been disappointed. No signal from the girl that here was the quarry. He entertained himself guessing what people were doing here: the smart business types in town to talk up deals; the trendy ones who might be in the media, actors or visiting musicians; and the visitors, here for pleasure, taking in the history or the culture, or the shopping.
He half hoped he’d spot a celebrity – The Midland was a popular meeting spot – maybe someone from Corrie or United; he could add them to his list along with Robbie Williams, David Jason, Victoria Wood and Michael Owen.
Another bloke approached the desk. He had blond hair, wore a long raincoat; he was carrying a laptop. Eyes alert, Shap waited. The way the man stood obscured Shap’s view of the girl on the desk. Come on, he thought, let the dog see the rabbit. The man took his key and moved away towards the lift. The receptionist gave a small shake of her head.
Shap sighed and sat back. What was Sulikov up to? Out on the town? They’d a pair of coppers posted at both the club and the brothel with strict instructions to make an arrest if the Polack turned up there. Someone who could afford to stay here could be living the high life: dinner at Simply Heathcoat’s, on to one of the city’s private members’ clubs. Or maybe he was out seeing what his rivals in the sex trade were up to this season, sampling the goods.
The thought made him cross his legs. Mind on the job. He watched a girl go by, nice looker. Mind you the girl behind the desk was quite a stunner, smiled a lot too. But she had laughed outright when he asked if she fancied a drink sometime. Like he’d made a joke. ‘Hah, hah, hah. I don’t think so,’ she’d giggle. Probably engaged, he decided. Not available rather than not interested.
