Deadly Secrets (Detective Erika Foster #6)(46)

The Matrix Club was on the corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton Street. The entrance was a small black door with a neon sign above. A small strip of the pavement was roped off, and a tall, thin black man stood at the door, behind a podium. He was dressed in a long, thick winter coat, wore bright blue eyeshadow and had a tiny pink fascinator stuck to the side of his shaved head.

‘Two tickets, please,’ said Erika as they approached him.

‘What’s the name?’ he asked, giving them the once-over.

‘Erika and James,’ she said, looking back at Peterson. Somehow, saying their first names made it feel like a date.

‘Your full names? I’m not just making conversation,’ he said, rolling his eyes and pointing to a clipboard. His nails were painted bright pink.

‘I didn’t book,’ said Erika, feeling stupid.

‘Then sorry. You are the Weakest Link, goodbye.’ He waved them away, and beckoned to another couple arriving behind them.

‘Cheeky fucker,’ said Peterson, getting out his warrant card.

‘Shit. I wanted us to go in like Joe Public, without them knowing we’re coppers.’ She pulled out her warrant card, feeling inept. It wasn’t like her to make mistakes. The couple who had been behind them were on the guest list, and the rope was unclipped for them with a flourish.

They went back to the podium. The guy on the door eyed Peterson.

‘Have you got any Caribbean in you?’

‘No.’

‘Would you like some?’

Erika had to suppress a smile.

‘I don’t need this,’ muttered Peterson.

‘What do you need?’ said the guy, suggestively leaning forward and feigning comedy desire. Erika stepped forward.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster; this is my colleague, Detective Inspector James Peterson. This is an informal visit, but I would appreciate your cooperation. One of the women who worked here, died a few days ago. She worked as…’

‘Honey Diamond,’ finished the doorman. The bitchy veneer dropped away. ‘Terrible tragedy. We’re putting together a benefit show. Do you think someone here did it?’

‘No, we’d like to speak to some of the people she worked with. I understand Martin Fisher works here?’

‘Yes. He’s the dresser.’

‘He worked for Honey Diamond, Marissa. We’d like to talk to him, just to get some background.’

‘Right, okay, follow me.’

He unclipped the rope and ushered them through the door. The club inside was beautiful, with black polished tables and chairs, dotted around a small stage with a red curtain. He took them to a table near the front.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Erika.

‘Mistress Ebony. By day, I’m Dwayne Morris,’ he said, pulling out a chair for Erika and using a cigarette lighter to light the small candle on the table. ‘It’s table service, and feel free to vape.’

He went off and a waitress came and took their order. They stuck to orange juice and Coke.

The club soon filled up, and then the show began. Whilst there was no full nudity, Erika felt awkward being there with Peterson. The acts were women and men of all different shapes and sizes. Some did traditional striptease, but there was a stripping Adolf Hitler, a Star Wars stormtrooper, and then there was a woman who came on dressed as a suicide bomber. She slowly stripped off her clothes whilst a ticking noise got louder, to reveal wires and sticks of dynamite covering her modesty. Then the lights went out, there was the sound of a huge explosion and when they came back up again, she was completely naked.

And that was the end of the show.

‘Blimey,’ said Peterson. ‘The last show I saw was Riverdance with my mum before Christmas.’

‘Yes, that was much more than an Irish jig,’ said Erika.

Dwayne appeared through the members of the audience who were moving towards the bar.

‘Martin wants to talk to you,’ he said. They picked up their coats and followed him up to the stage and through the velvet curtain. It came out into a chaotic little backstage area filled with stacking chairs, racks of costumes, and old takeaway containers. The door to a small office was open, where a large middle-aged man with a balding head and glasses was working behind a sewing machine. There were racks of costumes along one wall and behind him was a desk with a phone and computer. A huge poster of the original Broadway production of Mame was up on the wall behind him, and the remaining wall was covered by a huge mirror.

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster, and her colleague, Detective Inspector James Peterson,’ said Dwayne, and he left, closing the door.

‘Did you see the show?’ Martin asked, pressing the pedal of the sewing machine and pushing a large panel of blue fabric past the needle.

‘Yes,’ said Erika.

‘What did you think of the suicide bomber?’

‘It was very clever.’

He gave a smirk and adjusted his glasses. He lifted the needle off the fabric and examined the seam. ‘You want to know about Honey Diamond? AKA Marissa Lewis?’

‘You did alterations for her, and you designed the diamond emblem she has sewn on her costumes?’ asked Peterson.

‘Yes. Although, she was always late paying… I’m not going to sugar-coat it. She was a little bitch. I’m very sorry that she’s dead, but that doesn’t change things for me.’