The dancer shook her head.
‘If Ruby was here, she wouldn’t be all right, by definition,’ she said. ‘But she’s not here. None of the girls go by that name.’
Heavy footsteps told Cook they were about to have company.
The dancer looked nervous. ‘Tell him you were looking for the toilets. Whatever you do, don’t make him angry.’
‘What happens to people who make him angry?’ Cook asked.
‘They end up in the river,’ a voice said, from behind Cook. A low voice, thick with gravel.
Mr Jones was a genteel-looking man. Expensive suit, well tailored but well worn. Elderly, in his seventies if he was a day. He looked familiar. An older version of the brothers at the hotel.
‘You’re the father,’ Cook said.
Mr Jones nodded. He seemed an agreeable sort. Someone Cook could reason with.
‘I’ve come from the Empire. Got a complaint about the service.’
Mr Jones raised his eyebrows.
‘And you are?’
‘I’m nobody,’ Cook said. ‘Looking for a girl. Seems like you’ve got the trade at the hotel sewn up, so you’ve probably seen her.’
Cook unfolded the picture, held it up to Mr Jones, who remained impassive. Cook passed it to the girls at the make-up station.’
‘I’ve seen her,’ the dancer said. ‘She’s a waitress at the Lyons.’
‘She’s been hanging around at the Empire,’ Cook said. ‘Maybe you saw her there.’
‘That’s right,’ the girl said. ‘She was having a barney with this spiv. New suit. Ginger hair. I reckon he was running some kind of scam and she sussed him out. He didn’t look too happy.’
Mr Jones smiled.
‘Happy to help,’ he said, holding out his hand to shake. ‘I hope you find your friend.’
They shook hands. The old man had a surprisingly firm grip. He put his other hand on top of Cook’s like some kind of blessing.
‘I think it’s best if you steer clear of the hotel from now on,’ he said. ‘Best for everyone.’
63
The phone box was dark. Ordinarily there’d be a light, so you could see what you were doing, but the bulb had been removed. Fine in daylight, but troublesome in the gloom of dusk, in a dark road surrounded by tall buildings.
The call went straight through, no operator. All very modern, compared to Cook’s experience making calls in Uckfield, where you had to announce your business to Mrs Filey at the telephone exchange.
‘Hello?’
The phone pipped urgently, and Cook forced his penny into the slot.
‘It’s Cook,’ he said, recognising Gracie’s voice on the other end.
‘I found out where she’s been spending her time,’ Cook said.
‘Where?’
‘The Empire.’
