Free The One a Month Man by Michael Litchfield Page A

supplying strippers for stag parties and escorts; I heard something like that on the grapevine.’
    ‘In Bournemouth?’
    ‘Bournemouth or Brighton; one or the other. What’s the difference ?’
    ‘Only about a hundred miles, three counties, and a culture gap as wide as a strip joint from the Royal Opera House,’ I said.
    ‘Not much difference, after all, then.’
    ‘Got a number for him?’
    ‘Haven’t you been listening?’
    ‘How about the name of the bar?’
    ‘Inspector, he’s been off my radar for light years. Now, that all?’
    ‘For now.’ My favourite one-liner sign-off. ‘Thanks for your help.’
    ‘Any time,’ he said, duplicitously.
    I passed the phone back to Jasmine.
    With her eyes throwing daggers in my direction, she said into the mouthpiece, ‘Sorry to have troubled you again, Lenny.’
    ‘Get rid of the jerk,’ I heard Lenny say, snarling.
    ‘Just going,’ I said, sufficiently loudly for Lenny to hear.
    Jasmine blushed. Bless her. Such innocence! I picked myself up, brushed myself down, and ambled to the door, departing with a one-fingered salute over my shoulder.
    ‘Good riddance!’ Jasmine seethed.
    ‘Mutual,’ I retorted, resorting to kindergarten retaliation.

6
    I lunched on a burger and a double espresso on the South Bank, beside the London Eye. At an outdoor table, in the welcome shade of a tree that smelled as if all the dogs in the neighbourhood had left their calling cards, I phoned the Bournemouth Central Police Station and asked for Detective Sergeant Charlie Mullet. I knew Mullet from his days with the Met. He’d migrated south a few years ago with his wife and two kids, in search of a better quality of life; by that, he meant schools where the curriculum didn’t major on designer drugs and how to use knives to achieve maximum penetration. Whether he’d found his Eden, I had no idea. We hadn’t spoken since the night of his roistering farewell shindig, when the rest of us had pooled our pocket money to hire a stripper to mortify him. Mullet was very much a slippers-and-fireside guy, which meant he was probably more suited to the provinces than the big, bad metropolis, where sin was the signature, along with the dog piss.
    Mullet was at his desk when he took my call, the first five minutes of which were spent on catch-up. With that out of the way, I said, ‘You might be able to help me with a cold case I’m working.’
    ‘With a Bournemouth connection?’ he said, perking up, clearly itching for some big-time action.
    ‘Tenuous,’ I said, hosing his enthusiasm.
    ‘Oh,’ he said, suitably watered down.
    ‘Does the name Frankie Cullis mean anything to you, by any chance?’
    He didn’t need thinking time. ‘You bet.’
    My pulse rate increased to a trot. ‘I wasn’t sure he was on your turf.’
    ‘He’s one of our celebrity sewer-rats. A poison-paw in every mouldy pie. What’s your interest in him?’
    ‘I’m hoping he’s a stepping-stone, leading me to someone else I need to track down.’
    ‘He hasn’t made his name down here as a Good Samaritan, especially when it comes to helping the law. He doesn’t do favours, unless it’s worth his while, which requires a bung.’
    ‘OK, I’m listening,’ I said, offhandedly. ‘What’s he up to?’
    ‘Everything he shouldn’t be doing. But he’s a skilled tightrope-walker. He somehow manages to keep his footing and, so far, he hasn’t fallen into our net. He and his missus run an online dating agency, among other dodgy things.’
    ‘A front for prostitution?’ I said.
    ‘Naturally, but they’re not brothel-keeping.’
    ‘Living off immoral earnings, though,’ I said.
    ‘What other way of living is there for that type? But try proving it. They sail close to the wind, but they’re crafty navigators.’
    ‘Have you had personal dealings with them?’
    ‘Several run-ins. Nicked them a few times, but they always walked; spiked by the CPS before I even got them in court. He protests that he’s