In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(124)

When she drew breath, Lynley spoke. “Madam, if we wanted to close you down—”

“You can't. As I've said, this is a private club. We've got a solicitor from Liberty, so we know our rights.”

Lynley aimed for patience with his reply. “I'm very glad of that. I find that the average man on the average street is remarkably uninformed. But as you're not in that position yourself, you'll know that if we wanted to close you down or even attempt to do so, we'd hardly present ourselves at the entrance with our identifications. My colleague and I are in CID, not in undercover investigations.”

Next to Lynley, Nkata shuffled on his feet. He was looking as if he didn't quite know where to direct his eyes. The elderly woman's décolletage was directly in his line of vision, and he'd probably never had the opportunity to examine flesh less suitable for examination.

“We're trying to locate someone called Shelly Platt,” Lynley explained to the woman. “We were told your barman knows her whereabouts. If you'll fetch him, we can talk to him right here. Or we can go below. The choice is yours.”

“He's working,” she said.

“As are we.” Lynley smiled. “And the sooner we talk to him, the sooner we take our work elsewhere.”

Reluctantly, she said, “Right,” and punched a number on the phone. She spoke into the receiver but she kept her eyes glued to Nkata and Lynley, as if they'd bolt for the staircase otherwise. She said, “I got two busies up here wanting to find a Shelly Platt …. They say you know her …. No. CID. D'you want to come up or shall I … You're sure? Right. Will do.” She replaced the receiver and inclined her head towards the stairs. “Down you go,” she said. “He can't leave the bar, as we're shorthanded at the moment. He can give you five minutes, he said.”

“His name?” Lynley asked.

“You can call him Lash.”

“Is that Mr. Lash?” Lynley enquired soberly.

To which the woman disciplined a smile from twitching her lips. She said, “You've a pretty enough face, luv, but don't push your luck.”

They descended the stairs into a passageway where red lights hung above bare walls painted black. At the end of this corridor, a black velvet curtain hung over a doorway. And through this, evidently, lay The Stocks.

Music filtered through the velvet like beams of light, not the raucous heavy metal of punk guitars screeching like robots put to the rack but what sounded like a Gregorian devotional chanted by monks on their way to prayer. It was louder than monks would have chanted it, however, as if volume rather than meaning were what was required by the ceremony going on. “Agnus dei qui tollis peccata mundi” the voices sang. As if in answer, a whip cracked like a pistol shot.

“Ah. Welcome to the world of's and M,” Lynley said to Nkata as he drew the curtain to one side.

“Lord, what's my mum goin’ t'say to all this?” was the DCs response.

On an early Saturday afternoon, Lynley expected the club to be deserted, but that wasn't the case. Although he suspected that nightfall would bring many more members slithering out from beneath whatever stones they hid during the day, there were still present enough devotees of the dungeon to get an idea of what The Stocks was like when filled to capacity.

Central to the club was the eponymous mediaeval device of public punishment. It had positions for five miscreants, but on this Saturday only one sinner was paying the price for a malefaction: A thickset man with a shiny bald head was being whipped by a barrel-shaped woman shouting “Naughty! Naughty! Naughty!” with every blow. He was naked; she wore a black leather corset to which lace stockings were fastened. On her feet were shoes with heels so high that she could have toe-danced with very little effort.

Up above them, a light fixture revolved. It was fitted with spots, one of which pooled illumination directly downwards round the stocks, and others which were appendant like arms, and which revolved as the fixture did and slowly illuminated the rest of the action within the club.

“Oh my,” Nkata murmured.

Lynley couldn't fault the DC's reaction.

To the rhythms of the Gregorian chant, several men in dog collars attached to leads were being led round the club by fierce-looking women in black body-suits or leather G-strings and thigh-high boots. An elderly gentleman in a Nazi uniform was attaching something to the testicles of a naked younger man manacled to a black brick wall while a woman strapped to a nearby rack writhed and shouted “More!” as a steaming substance was poured from a tin jug onto her bare chest and between her legs. A blowsy blonde in a PVC waistcoat with a cinched-in waist stood arms akimbo on one of the club's tables as a leather-masked man in a metal G-string ran his tongue round the spike heels of her patent leather shoes. And while these activities were going on in nooks, in crannies, and in the open, a costume stall appeared to be doing a satisfactory business with club members who were hiring everything from cardinals’ red cassocks to cats-o’-nine-tails.

Next to Lynley, Nkata took out a snowy handkerchief and pressed it quickly to his forehead.

Lynley eyed him. “For a man who once organised Brixton's knife fights, you've led something of a sheltered existence, Winston. Let's see what Lash has to say for himself.”

The man in question seemed completely oblivious of the activities going on in the club. He didn't acknowledge the presence of the two detectives until he'd counted six shots of gin into a shaker, added vermouth, and dashed into the mix a few splashes of juice from ajar of green olives. He screwed the cap onto the cocktail shaker and began to do the shaking, which was when he looked their way.