Missing in Soho

1

THURSDAY-TWELVE HOURS EARLIER

Misty knew how to spot them. The lookie-loos. The ones who came to a show at Lady's Bar just to get a glimpse at the drag queen who'd caught a murderer. The viral sensation: Misty Divine.

There were fewer of them now: a year had passed since the bar's previous owner and Misty's mentor, Lady Lady, had been murdered backstage, and the number of lookie-loos had steadily decreased.

But there was one tonight.

"A creeper," Plimberley, the long-legged lip-syncer who was famous for her acrobatic dips and flips, had called him "sitting at the end of the bar."

"Oh, I've seen him."

Misty had spotted him right away, the creeper. He was sixty-five, easy. Maybe seventy-five. And not a Lady's Bar regular. It was unusual for older men to show up at her cabaret club by themselves, so his demographic alone made him stand out. He was underdressed: for the venue, for the show. A slouchy pair of chinos and plain brown shoes so worn he might have run multiple marathons in them, Misty had clocked him as soon as he walked in.

You don't belong here . . . she thought, though she wasn't entirely sure she could explain why.

The shoes probably. The plain brown shoes.


Lady’s Bar was one of London’s hottest drag venues: a gorgeous underground auditorium accessed by a nondescript door on Old Compton Street in Soho, it had been a mainstay of the live cabaret scene for the past twenty years. When the previous host and owner, Lady Lady, died last year, Misty inherited ten percent of the bar, making her one of the city’s dwindling number of queer venue owners. The other ninety percent was owned by Mandy White, her business partner and friend. Misty had been delighted to jump from performer status to part owner. It had raised her profile in the community, given her purpose and drive, and let her quit her toxic day job as a bored and depressed hotel accounts assistant. This was hers: this club, this stage. This was where she belonged.

The only dark spot on Lady Lady's glittering gift from beyond the grave was the bribery. Oh, how Misty hated it. Atrax, the mysterious City firm that had been trying to shut down Lady's Bar, was always lurking beneath the surface of her thoughts. Even now, as she stood onstage in front of her adoring audience, she fought to keep it at bay. She spotted Mandy across the bar sitting with a group of patrons. Their shared secret and shame surged to the fore, the piles of cash they skimmed from the tills after closing . . .

Don't think about this now, she willed herself. It's showtime.

She beamed. Her teeth had been freshly whitened and she knew they were sparkling in contrast to tonight's deep red lipstick. Her corset was tight and so was her wig. The audience clapped, whistled, and cheered and Misty took the microphone to introduce the night's first act.


Plimberley was the opener, as she always was on a Thursday. She performed a limb-tastic display of gymnastic prowess while lip-syncing a track by Charli XCX. Her hair was long, down to her perfectly padded bottom, and her slinky bodysuit sparkled in the spotlight. Misty admired her from the side of the stage. Plim was young, twenty-three, and had had a tough life. Kicked out by her parents, couch surfing, and occasionally sleeping in a clapped-out car she called Calista. But she showed up, did the job, and brought the house down night after night. A real pro. An up-and-comer, Misty knew she was destined for greatness.

After Plim finished her number she took a long bow, panting and smiling and waving at the audience, enjoying her moment in the limelight.

Then Misty returned to the stage. "Let's hear it for Plimberley Walsh!" she called into the microphone, and the room went wild.

Everyone was whooping, wailing, clicking fingers in the air for the young queen, except one person. Misty could see him at the back of the auditorium. The creeper. He sat perfectly still, a glass of whiskey next to him on the bar, watching with a straight face and crisp eyes that were visibly blue even from the stage.

Maybe he's a journalist, she thought.

Occasionally, reporters would turn up unannounced, asking Misty about last year's murder. Was he one of those?

The applause died down and Misty smiled again, batting her lashes and winking to a handsome man in the front row. She looked effortless, she knew, beautiful, and much more flirtatious than she'd ever dare to be out of drag. Part of her job was having new costumes made, and tonight's was a bobby-dazzler: a lime-green strapless bodice with a taffeta train bejeweled with hundreds of rhinestones. Hot pink stilettos. White blond hair. Pink earrings. Perfection.

"Before our next act," she said, as the crowd died down, "I wanted to give you a little gift. A special treat from me to you." On this cue, a track started playing, a relaxed, jazzy musical theater number that grew from a quiet beginning to a belting end. She started to sing.

Misty oozed confidence onstage, and she felt powerful, like she had the audience in the palm of her hand. A song like this was an adventure, a journey from one word to another, one note to the next. Building, always building, to the big showstopping moment, a key change, then a long high note. She knew before she even sang it that it would prompt a standing ovation. And it did. The whole auditorium on their feet, except the creeper.


It was tradition at Lady’s Bar for the performers to stay after the show and have at least one drink with the audience. It was a chance to mingle, chat, receive compliments, and promote the next night’s cabaret. Misty had enjoyed it when she was new at the bar, but now she was an owner and hostess she loved it. It was noisy and bustling and exciting. It made her feel like a superstar.

Tonight she made a beeline for the creeper. Misty Divine didn't hold herself back and she didn't mind a confrontation. If this ancient lookie-loo was a journalist, she wanted to talk to him immediately to put her mind at ease. As she hustled her way through the crowd, she said speedy thank-yous to gushing audience members, all delighted to tell her how great she was.

Who are you? she thought as she made her way toward him like a military missile.

As she reached him she noticed more about his outfit: a small tear in the worn trousers and deep scuffs on the sad shoes . . . Too old to be a journalist too, she thought. Up close he looked quite frail, like he should have retired many years ago.

"Hello," she said, holding out her bejeweled hand. "I'm Misty."

He clasped her fingers and his blue eyes shone in the lights of the bar. He looked kind, and this surprised her. He wasn't giving creeper vibes after all. He might just be a gentle pensioner who needs a wardrobe upgrade. She felt bad for having judged him from afar.

"I know who you are," he replied. "I need to talk to you."

"Oh?" Misty leaned across the bar and waved to Jan the bearded barman. He nodded and started preparing her a gin and tonic in a crystal glass. "How can I help?"

"It's a bit complicated," said the old man. "Is-is there somewhere quieter we could go?" She heard the jitter in his voice like he was nervous or on edge and guessed he was out of his comfort zone in Lady's Bar. It's true the room was rowdy, still buzzing with guests, and drag kings and queens circulating like royalty.

"Not right now, I'm afraid," said Misty. She could have taken him to the office, but she didn't want to. She didn't know anything about this guy. "Why don't you give me the headlines here?"

"Okay," he said, taking a sip of whiskey and a look around. "I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by the family of a missing man to try and find him. I need to ask you a few questions."

A missing man? A private investigator?

"What does this have to do with me?"

"That's what's complicated," said the investigator, glancing behind him and scanning the crowd. "That's what I want to talk to you about somewhere more . . . private."

Misty felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Oi!" shouted Plimberley above the hubbub of the crowd. "What's going on here then?"

Plim raised an eyebrow, asking without words if Misty needed rescuing, whether she should pull her away from the old man.

"We're fine, Plim," said Misty. "I'll come find you in a sec."

The old man stood up from his barstool.

"I'll come back another time," he said.

"What's the name of this missing man?" asked Misty. "Do I know him?"

It wasn't every day she was visited by a private detective, and she was intrigued. There was a flutter in her stomach. It was the same nervous thrill she'd felt a year ago when she started trying to work out who murdered Lady Lady.

"You're clearly busy. I'll come back tomorrow morning, if that's okay," he said. "I'll explain everything then."

The old man pulled a business card out of his trouser pocket. It was dog-eared and tatty, like he'd been carrying the same one for a long time. He handed it to Misty and then took a step toward her, standing uncomfortably close. He leaned in and spoke hot breath into her ear. "Don't tell anyone I was here, and if I don't make it back to see you, contact my assistant, Divya. Don't trust anybody else."

Whoa. This was a lot. Misty didn't know how to take it. It seemed ridiculous, like something out of a movie: a private detective showing up, whispering whiskey breath, telling her not to trust anyone. She almost laughed.

"Okay." She smiled. "I won't tell anyone you were here."

Suddenly the old man was serious, his eyes as icy as the cubes in Misty's gin. Her arms went cold.

Atrax, she thought. Stress frothed up. Her hands were clammy, her forehead beginning to sweat. This was panic, the start of pure unadulterated panique.

"Is this about . . ." She stopped herself before she said any more. Nobody knew about the Atrax situation apart from Mandy, and nobody should.

"You're in trouble, Misty," he said, and her breath hitched. "But I can help. I'll come back at ten tomorrow."

He finished his whiskey in one big gulp and walked away, abandoning her at the bar.

"What are you talking about?" she called after him. She needed to know what was going on. "What do you mean I'm in trouble?"

Panique.

She started to follow him, but a gay couple in their twenties stepped directly in front of her. "Oh my God," one of them said, "can I just say how amazing you were tonight?"

"Hold on," she said, trying to edge around them, now desperate to speak to the detective and wishing she'd let him talk to her in the office.

He was swallowed up by the crowd, his shoddy brown shoes disappearing into a sea of dazzling heels and designer trainers. Misty started after him, pushing past the gays and rushing into throngs of audience members.

She couldn't see him.

She stopped, looking all around her, trying to spot the detective, but she couldn't. She'd lost him in her own club.

Turning the tatty business card over in her hand, she looked at the small black writing.

Sylvester Green-Private Investigator

25 Great Windmill Street, Soho, London

2

Misty de-dragged alone, which was usual since taking over from Lady Lady, as the hosting job included her own private dressing room. Of course she'd redecorated it, recarpeted it, and tried to push thoughts of Lady Lady's murder out of her brain. This was where she'd been killed after all, right here on the plush pink carpet.

A year ago, on a beautiful summer's evening, Misty's drag mother had hosted her final show. She'd been nervous, Misty remembered, distracted, and when she retreated to her dressing room she'd been poisoned with chocolate left by a killer. Misty had found Lady Lady foaming at the mouth, a huge vein threaded under the skin of her pristinely painted forehead. The flashbacks came less often these days, but they did come. And perhaps this hint of danger, the appearance of Sylvester Green, had brought it all rushing back.

She sat at the dressing table to begin the de-dragging. Her intrigue levels were high but she was also worried. A private detective here in her club, asking her questions.

Why am I "in trouble"? Why shouldn't I trust anybody? This was gasp-inducingly dramatic and horribly unexpected and she didn't even know anybody who'd gone missing. That was the kind of thing she'd remember.

She started the process by taking off her eyelashes, then drenched a makeup wipe in micellar water to tackle the rest. Slowly, as today's perfect drag fantasy was washed away, she became Joe. Plain old Joe Brown. A thirty-five-year-old with mousy hair and a face that felt very bare compared to Misty's.


Joe tidied the makeup station and smartened the room, arranging their brushes in a perfect row on the counter and hanging up the taffeta costume. Within a few minutes it was ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Sylvester Green is coming at ten a.m. Joe looked at their watch: already almost midnight. They would have just enough time to get home, sleep, and be back here in the morning to find out what was going on.


When Joe arrived at the little flat they shared with their boyfriend, Miles, they found him still awake, sitting on the sofa waiting for them.

"Hi, love," he said as Joe stepped through the door.

"Hi, angel," Joe replied, dropping their backpack onto the floor. "Fancy a tea?"

"Ooh, yes," said Miles, "one of those Sleepytime ones. It's late."

Joe headed to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle.

"How was tonight?" Miles called from the sofa. "Good show?"

"Great show," said Joe. The frothing stress sensation returned.

Joe knew they would need to broach the Sylvester subject carefully, if they even broached it at all. Last year, when investigating the murder of Lady Lady, Miles had been seriously hurt, and it had taken months for him to get out of hospital and recover. He still had some nerve damage that was causing weakness in his left leg but it wouldn't last forever, they'd been told. Eventually the nerve would heal and Miles would be back to how he was before, physically at least. Mentally it might be a different story. Miles was more distant, and quieter than before. Staring death in the face and winning could have a strange impact on a person, Joe thought, as they poured hot water into Miles's favorite teacup. The Sleepytime brew was a powerful concoction of flowers and herbs that Joe could barely face at any time of day. They made a cup of good old Yorkshire for themself.