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his lad, who sat there with his hands wedged between his thighs, uncomfortable and shamefaced.
    â€˜That’s why I’m here,’ Henry said. ‘I’ve been given the job of finding him.’
    â€˜Hm,’ the father breathed, unimpressed.
    â€˜How can we help?’ the mother asked. She was dressed in a dour skirt and apron and could have been a character from an early episode of
Coronation Street
. All that was missing was a hairnet, curlers, blue rinse and bottle of stout. ‘We didn’t have much to do with the man … at least, me and Norman didn’t.’ She glanced at her husband, then at her son. ‘Eric did …’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly, disappointment evident.
    Eric, the son, mid-twenties, slim build, round face and long eyelashes, gave Henry a wan look and a shrug.
    â€˜He was a thievin’, devious, perverted bastard,’ the father blurted. ‘A conman and a killer. It’s lucky you’re still alive, by all accounts,’ he said to Eric. ‘You could’ve ended up under a fuckin’ patio.’
    â€˜Norm!’ the wife cut in. ‘No need to swear.’
    Norman’s mouth clamped shut with impatience and became a tight line of disapproval. But then he muttered, ‘Shit-shovellers.’
    Henry observed the exchange, feeling the tension in the room.
    â€˜Perhaps if I could have a word with Eric – alone?’ he ventured.
    Eric breathed a sigh of relief.
    â€˜You’re welcome to him,’ Dad said and barged out of the room.
    â€˜Do you want me to stay, darling?’ Eric’s mum asked him.
    â€˜Ma, I’m twenty-three. I know I’m gay and I know I got conned, but I can deal with this.’
    She nodded, smiling sadly at Henry and rose to leave.
    â€˜Thank Christ for that,’ Eric breathed when they were alone. ‘They make everything ten times harder than it has to be. OK, I’m a big disappointment to them, can’t help it. Dad wanted me to be a mechanic like him. Not into cars.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Embroidery, yes.’
    Henry chuckled. ‘OK, Eric. I’ve read your statement and I don’t really feel I need to go over the actual offences Downie committed against you …’
    â€˜I knew him as Robinson.’
    â€˜I’m aware of that.’
    â€˜So what do you want from me?’
    â€˜A chat about the man himself, anything he might have said to you, any indication where I might start looking to find him. That sort of thing.’
    â€˜Well,’ Pussy Beaver said. From his face he pushed back his superbly trimmed, bobbed silver hair, dusted with a sprinkling of glitter. ‘Let’s have a proper look.’ He held out his finely manicured hand and tapped his thumb and forefinger together indicating he wanted to peer more closely at the photograph Henry Christie was showing him. Beaver was smoking a cigar-ette which had been inserted into a long, fat penis-shaped holder.
    Henry handed him the photograph of Anthony Downie and gave Beaver a quick once-over. As ever, he found that he looked stunning. From the low-cut silk blouse, tightly wrapped around and displaying one of the finest pairs of breasts Henry had ever seen wobble, to the equally tight, short skirt with a split, from which a pair of long, tapering legs extended of which Cyd Charisse would have been envious. The effect was slightly marred by the unmistakable male bulge at the groin, which Beaver made no effort to conceal. Pussy Beaver may have had the breasts, but was just as proud of his tackle and never wanted to lose it.
    He and Henry were in the admin office behind the box office at the Pink Ladies’ Club, which Beaver – real name John Howard – ran efficiently and well above the law. Howard described himself as Head Pussy and by running this establishment on the Promenade at Blackpool, one of the country’s leading nightspots, he had become a