Ray slammed the door of his recently washed Audi; he was running late and would hit the early morning traffic heading into the city. The sun was low in the sky, offending his eyes as he reversed his car into the road and manoeuvred it towards the chaotic dual carriageway that wound its way around the outskirts of the city.

The radio hummed out traffic reports intermixed with the synthesized warbling of a pop band due to hit no.1. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for a gap on the dual carriageway. Drivers tended to be more forgiving in early morning rush hour rather than late rush hour as no one was really in a hurry to get to work; jobs were not that great in the city.

On his right he saw a heavily pregnant woman pushing a child barely over the age of two in a pushchair. The woman, he saw, was not a woman but a girl barely older than his youngest son. For a moment he saw his son’s face walking alongside her. No, she was alone. His heart went out to her, in a condescending way, before he remembered that she would have ample recompense from the government, and his pocket.

He pulled up outside the pompous building that enclosed his place of work. The word ‘Police’ was clearly lettered in a marble doorframe that surrounded a heavy, wooden, double door. The building was three stories high and boasted of a spire on its east wing with a clock set into the top so that the arrestees could see precisely what time they had been deprived of their freedom.

He was greeted inside with familiar faces. The receptionist, a young red-head suitable for his eldest son, sang “Morning Detective. Greg,” as he walked past. His last name was Gregard but that was slightly more difficult to say. He grabbed his signature first-thing coffee and entered the briefing room. Muloney and Jim were already in there discussing last night’s football match.

“Morning lads,” he said as he walked in.

“Alright Greggie. We’ve got a nasty one this morning.” Muloney was younger, at about 28, and almost seemed to revel in the city’s darker side.

“Oh?” Ray was not particularly surprised. Lately Birmingham was seeing an influx of gruesome crimes, particularly over the weekend.

“Yeah, we’ve got the Super coming in to brief us.”

More officers and detectives filtered in, some still struggling with last night’s intoxications of various sorts. The brief began and early morning chatter and banter began to die away. Images flickered on the newly purchased projector of a corpse and the Super droned over the top about what they had discovered.

“The victim was found in an alley off of Trident Row in the early hours of yesterday morning. It has been taken into pathology and results will come through either today or tomorrow determining the cause of death. So far we can say the victim is a white female between the age of twenty and twenty-five. We will be interviewing local bars that are open on Saturday night to see if there were any occurrences that can help to shed light on who this girl was or where she came from. Our main target is ‘Vincent’s’ which is the closest bar to the alley where the corpse was discovered. Detective Gregard and his team will start there …”

Ray tuned out. He was always being sent to some dodgy bar or another. The interviews were not his favourite part of the job; they always reminded him of the low-lives that poisoned the night. He worried when his sons went into town on a weekend and corpses that appeared alongside his early-morning coffee served to feed his paranoia.

Stepping out into the cold light of mid-afternoon Ray felt liberated from the oppressive offices of the station. Muloney and Jim followed him out, eyeing up the shiny Audi that they thought they would be taking into town. Their paycheques did not allow for such extravagances and they were always excited to be seen riding in it.

Ray headed towards to one of the standard issue squad cars; there was a simultaneous groan from the two. “Oh, come on,” they begged.

“Not in that area of town!” Ray chuckled.

They bundled into the squad car and headed towards what was nicknamed the “Goth Quarter” which housed numerous bars inhabited by people in dark clothes and strange combinations of makeup. Although by reputation they were not aggressive, the bodies found there were always more grotesque than those found near the popular bars.

‘Vincent’s’ was a small one storey bar set into a grimy row of buildings that once used to be factories in the ancient Industrial era. The windows were boarded up and decorated in two generations of graffiti. Ripped posters boasted of long-gone gigs that used to entertain before the ‘Goths’ swarmed in and claimed that area of town for themselves. If gigs still existed in this part of town outsiders were not welcomed in to partake. Ray rapped on the dishevelled door.

A minute passed and no one answered. Ray pressed his ear as close as he dared to the rank door and rapped again. He thought he heard a disturbance of wood scraped on stone. Footsteps. The door was unlatched and he jumped back, surprised. A weedy but tall figure stood in the shadowed doorway.

“Can I help?” The figure was a man but his voice was higher than that of most his age which Ray guessed to be about thirty.

“Can we step inside?” Ray was dressed in a suit and his colleagues in police uniforms. The man did not seem fazed and stepped aside to allow them to enter.

Inside the bar smelled of stale smoke, spilt alcohol and vomit. The usual combination for any backstreet bar even though smoking in bars had been outlawed for over a hundred years. The man led them to a table spotted with ring upon ring of residue from thousands of punters. A brimming ashtray was quickly discarded to a nearby table and the man took a seat opposite the three standing officers. He indicated for them to sit.

“Do you know why we are here Mr- ?” Ray began, hoping for some eye movement to belie the man’s guilt.

“Harris,” the man offered. “Vincent Harris. This is my bar.”

“Do you know why we are here Mr Harris?”

“Not a clue Mr-” Vincent mimicked Ray’s way of ascertaining a name.

“Detective Greg.”

“We want to know if anything unusual occurred in your bar on Saturday night, some punters, perhaps, that do not usually come in.”

“Hmm …” Vincent drifted off into his thoughts. He was melodramatic in his pose, squinching together his brow and resting a forefinger on his lips as if to prevent any wayward thoughts from escaping. “There was one group, I haven’t seem them before. And they kept to themselves which isn’t the usual atmosphere of my bar.”

Ray withdrew a shiny metallic rectangle and a plastic pen ready to take down details.

“Male or female?”

“Male, definitely.” Vincent seemed overly proud at being able to distinguish the gender. Ray looked up, was this guy being sarcastic.

“Age?”

“They didn’t settle up at the end of the night so I didn’t get their details. My bouncers are on the case though, no need for you to get involved.”

“We’re not in the habit of chasing down Bolters, its up to your own security to keep them in check. Could I have a look at your Credit Receipt History for Saturday night.”

Vincent’s face tightened. “I assume you have a warrant.”

Ray suppressed an angry glare, citizens who ‘knew their rights’ were notoriously difficult, often holding up cases where there was no reason. “No Sir, we were hoping you’d offer the information of your own will. I assume you have nothing to hide.”

The corner of Vincent’s mouth twitched at Ray’s mimicry of his tone.

“Of course not, but then I do not know why you are here.”

“So you will give us a copy of your takings on Saturday night.” Ray pressed the point leaning in towards the blond haired male. Ray detected a hint of eye-liner and worn away lipstick. The way his wife used to look when she was young and had stayed in his arms at an all-night party. A twinge of nostalgia insulted his hands as he almost felt her, back then, tiny waist.

“Yes Detective, I’ll just be a minute.”

Vincent went over to the bar and spun round the till so that he could access it from this side. The card reader on its side clunked against the grimy, heavy wooden bar on which the till sat. An ingenious piece of technology that recorded exactly who bought drinks, what they ordered and brief personal details. This had made tracing people a lot easier rather than hours spent in front of sketchy images recorded on primitive cameras trying to guess whether the person was who they were looking for. Some of the more ancient officers claimed that it took the ‘fun’ out of investigating but the Government argued that it meant less of the police-budget was spent on people sat in front of television screens drinking coffee and eating doughnuts.

“Here we go.”

Ray got up from the table which he had been careful not to lean his expensive elbows on. He opened a flap on the bottom of his Handheld Notetaker and withdrew a short universal wire that plugged into all but the archaic machines. He downloaded the information and replaced the Notetaker in his inside suit pocket.

“Thank you for your co-operation Mr. Harris. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions. I have your details now.”

Vincent saw them into the harsh late winter afternoon and the door to the other side of life was shut behind them. Outside the relatively quiet Muloney and Jim exploded into excited chatter.

“Did you smell that smoke! If the Government ever got wind of that he’d be flushed out before he even had chance to put his make-up back on. Definitely gay.”

“These days, Jim, everybody who isn’t in the government or public services is gay. It’s how they compensate for the over-population of our tired little country. Especially now immigration and emigration has been completely banned.” Ray tried to educate his younger colleagues on the meagre state of the world, but they continued to exist in their innocent bubbles which only adverts and pre-approved documentaries were able to penetrate.

“You’re such a pessimist, Greggie.”

“I prefer the term wise.”

*

As Ray settled down in bed next to his asthmatic wife, already snoring, images of the corpse flashed through his mind. It felt as though it had been burned onto the back of his eyelids. On the picture the corpse had looked as though it was shrivelled, been there for days perhaps. He tried to concentrate on the news he had heard when he got in from work earlier that evening; his son had passed a recent university examination with a First. Shrivelled. Mentally shaking his head the corpse was eventually replaced with a faceless shapely figure with blond hair and piercing blue eyes.