Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(39)

Brando meets him halfway. After a short discussion, the officers continue to mingle, stopping at each table. They’re showing people photographs. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a guy slinking through the kitchen doors. I hear the chef telling him the kitchen is off-limits, but he disappears out the fire door into a side alley before anyone can react.

I continue collecting glasses, until a constable steps in front of me. He’s holding a photograph.

‘Hi, sorry to bother you, miss.’

‘Don’t then,’ I say, stepping around him.

‘Do you recognise this woman?’

My automatic response is to shake my head, but I know that it’s Maya Kirk.

The constable has a dimpled chin and is standing so close that I can see the black hairs in his nose.

‘We’re trying to trace her movements. She was in this area on Sunday night.’

‘This is my first shift,’ I say, collecting another empty glass.

He turns to a woman at the nearest table.

‘How about you, miss, were you in the Lace Market last Sunday?’

The woman waves to her friend. ‘Hey, Toni. Have a look at this.’ Toni slides off her stool and tugs her dress down over her thighs. ‘Oh, aren’t you the handsome one,’ she says, eyeing the officer up and down.

Her friend shows her the photograph. ‘It’s that woman who got murdered near the abbey.’

‘She was at the Lace Market last Sunday,’ says the officer, who shows her a second photograph. ‘What about this man?’

‘Is he the one who killed her?’ asks Toni.

‘I know that guy,’ says her friend. ‘He’s always hanging around here like a bad smell. He told me he was a TV producer. Fat chance!’

‘Is he dangerous?’ asks Toni. ‘You’ll protect us, won’t you?’ She squeezes the constable’s forearm. ‘You’re very strong.’

A half-full glass of wine topples from my tray and spills over her tits. She lets out a squeal and flaps at the front of her dress, giving me the stink eye.

‘Oops!’ I say, smiling apologetically.

Brando turns up, bringing paper towels. He offers Toni a free drink and all is forgiven. Clearly, he wants the police to leave because they’re killing the buzz of the place.

Five minutes later they’re gone but the energy level isn’t the same. Around midnight, I take a break, sitting on a step in the alley, rubbing my feet. The police are still on the footpath, showing photographs to late-night diners and people heading home.

Brando finds me. ‘You’re needed in the women’s loo. Take a mop and bucket.’

‘I don’t get paid enough for this.’

‘You haven’t been paid at all.’

Stepping back into the kitchen, I fill a bucket with hot soapy water and carry it to the loos. The pool of vomit is just inside the door. Someone must have tried and failed to make it to the toilets. Breathing through my mouth, I start mopping, but hear a retching sound. One of the cubicle doors is closed.

‘Hello?’

No answer.

‘Is everything OK?’

I crouch and peer beneath the lower half of the door. A woman is kneeling with her head over the toilet bowl. She has bundled up a jacket beneath her knees, but her tights are torn. One sandal is lying next to her.

‘We’re closing soon. You can’t stay here. Do you have friends outside?’

‘They left to go dancing,’ she slurs. ‘I’ll catch up with them.’

She retches again and spits into the bowl before getting unsteadily to her feet.

The door unlatches. She’s older than I imagined, with short dark tousled hair and smeared make-up.

‘I’ll be fine now,’ she slurs, embarrassed. She picks up her jacket and walks unsteadily to the sink. Reaching out, she grips the sides and scoops water into her mouth. Spitting. Wiping. Adjusting her hair.

‘I’m such a lightweight. I barely drank a thing.’

Her words are slow and slurred, but she’s trying hard to pronounce them clearly.

‘Maybe it was the pizza we ate. Someone ordered anchovies.’ She shudders and begins patting at the pockets of her jacket. ‘My phone. I had it with me.’

‘Where did you have it last?’

‘It was on the table. I would have picked it up.’

‘Don’t panic. Where were you sitting?’

‘At one of the booths.’ She turns too quickly and stumbles. I catch her before she falls, letting go of the mop, which bounces loudly onto the tiles.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

‘Daniela.’

‘You sit down. I’ll look for your phone.’

I lead her into a cubicle and go back into the bar, where the crowd is thinning out. I peer under tables and chairs, looking in the darkest corners. I’m reluctant to get on my hands and knees – not on this floor. Botulism, Ebola, the plague, anything is possible.

I yell to Eric, ‘Did anyone hand in a phone?’

He relays the question to Grady, who answers with a shrug.

‘Who lost a phone?’ asks Brando.

‘The woman in the bathroom.’

‘The one who puked?’

‘Yeah. Her friends left her.’

‘Get her out of here.’