Their Lost Daughters (DI Jackman & DS Evans #2)(38)

Rosie tried to hide a smile. She knew that the boy was referring to a tattoo worn just above the girl’s bottom.

The other two girls, arm in arm, tottering along in their high-heeled fashion boots, laughed loudly. ‘Yeah! We saw you, Calvin. Couldn’t take your eyes off her tits, could you?’

Calvin continued to stroll calmly along. ‘Bollocks. You were all too wasted to know what was happening.’

Rosie had been hoping to slip into the venue as part of the group, but as they moved towards the dark hulk of the boathouse, she decided to hang back and go in alone. If there was to be any confrontation, it would be better to be away from other kids.

As it turned out, it was easy.

‘I don’t know you.’ The man who stood just inside the door was slim and well-dressed with a slight northern accent. He took her wrist and held her back.

‘I’m a friend of Luke’s,’ said Rosie with a bored smile. ‘He can’t make it tonight, but he told me I might enjoy myself.’ She looked the man full in the eyes and ran her tongue slowly around her scarlet lips. ‘Do you think I’d enjoy myself here?’

The man let go of her hand and smirked. ‘Oh, I should think you’ll have a ball, angel. Maybe several if you’re lucky.’ He grinned at her. ‘And if you do have a good time, come and see me before you leave. Maybe I can arrange to make you a regular.’

‘Thank you.’ Rosie blew him a kiss and disappeared into the boathouse. ‘Oh, so easy’, she whispered, knowing that Max and Charlie would be somewhere close by, listening to her every word.

Somewhere up ahead, Rosie heard music. She followed some other revellers through a big deserted area lined with metal racks protruding from the walls. She guessed that rowing boats would have been stored here once.

‘This way.’ A man stood in the shadows, ushering the teenagers into a big, crowded back room. There were a dozen small tables with empty wine bottles holding candles. Considering that it was such a dump, the room had an oddly cosy feel. The techno music was loud and the beat reverberated through her body, making her wonder what effect it would have on her microphone.

‘Drink? It’s free.’ An older man took her arm and drew her towards a table crammed full of beer and cider cans and dozens of plastic glasses of wine. ‘You’re new, aren’t you? And all alone?’ He peered at her inquisitively. ‘Now would that be gutsy, or foolish, I wonder?’

Rosie took a mental snapshot. The man was around forty, with thin straggly hair, small eyes and a narrow sharp nose. The waistband of his cheap suit fought with his gut. He had very bad taste in clothes.

‘I do as I please,’ she said disdainfully, picking up a glass of white wine that she had absolutely no intention of drinking. ‘I don’t need a bodyguard.’

‘Well, it gets pretty intense in here as the night goes on. I hope you’re up for it.’

I’m up for seeing you in a holding cell, you scumbag. Rosie shrugged and said, ‘I like intense.’

The man leered at her and she felt his eyes on her short, shiny red miniskirt.

‘So how did you find out about us?’ he asked, sipping what looked like neat Scotch from a straight-sided glass.

‘A friend told me.’

‘And who would that friend be?’ His piggy eyes never left hers.

‘Luke, if it’s any of your business.’

‘Luke Jones?’

Rosie thought quickly. Luke and Chloe’s surname was Perry, but did he use an alias when he came here? ‘Luke with black hair and a blonde Mohican stripe, and breath that could unblock drains.’

‘Ah.’ The man smiled and stepped away from her.

‘Well, enjoy yourself, sweetheart. Er, what is your name?’

‘Petra,’ said Rosie, then remembering why she was there said, ‘And yours?’

The man’s lips tightened and he stared hard at her. Clearly no one had ever asked that question before. ‘Harry.’

‘Dirty Harry?’ She ran her fingers across the lapel of his cheap suit and saw his Adam’s apple move up and down. ‘Sometimes,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.

Rosie took that as her cue to leave. ‘Then see you later, Harry . . . maybe.’ Or maybe not, you tosser!

Rosie moved towards some kids who were swaying around a makeshift dance floor. No one took any notice of her as she danced between them until she spotted a place on the far side of the room where she could get a good look around.

She needed to find a regular, someone that would talk to her. She pretended to sip her wine as she checked out the possible candidates. It would have to be a boy. The girls wouldn’t be friendly, they would see her as a threat.

After a while she spotted a slightly older-looking boy, sitting alone with only a can of lager for company. As far as she could tell, there were no girls hanging around him, and he hadn’t made any effort to dance, or chat anyone up.

‘Moving in for a chat with a local,’ she whispered to the invisible Max.

‘This chair taken?’ Not waiting for a reply, Rosie sat down and crossed her long legs seductively.

‘Looks like it is now.’ For a moment she thought he was going to get up and move away.

‘I don’t know anyone here,’ she said softly.

‘Well, you’re not missing much.’ He looked around. ‘Load of wankers.’