DARK HOUSES a gripping detective thriller full of suspense by Helen H. Durrant

mix-up over their identity. “Would you pass the information on to the Duggan? Did you get anything?”
    “A little. A man, a stranger, was seen on both streets over the weekend. Two witnesses gave the same general description and he drives a Ford Focus. Also the previous occupants of both the houses are now in the Park House care home. There could be something in that.”
    “Would you ring them? See what they can add — and well done. We’ll go through it when all the team are back. I’m making my way into town to visit the Rave club. Would you ask Speedy to join me there? And would you dig out a young man called Jack Howarth? This is his address. Ask him to come in and have a word with us.”
    * * *
    It was mid-morning by now and Oldston was busy. The traffic on the ring road leading into town was building up. As Greco drove, he spotted an advertising hoarding for the current issue of the Herald . It read: ‘ Police Haven’t a Clue.’ Perhaps it was time to speak to them.
    The Rave was in part of a disused warehouse just outside the town centre. In daylight it looked unprepossessing, a large square hulk of crumbling red brick with a flat roof. No doubt the entrance looked more impressive in darkness. It had multi-coloured lights strung around it. There were neon signs, and gaudy posters along the wall advertised forthcoming gigs.
    Greco banged on the doors. There was no response. The place was locked up tight.
    “I bet they don’t roll in until after lunch. They don’t close until the small hours, remember,” said Speedy, walking over to join him.
    “There must be someone here, even if it’s just to clean up from the night before,” said Greco.
    “I’ll try round the back.”
    Minutes later Speedy opened the doors and let Greco in. “Cleaning woman. She says the boss will be here shortly.”
    Greco walked into a huge chasm of a room. There were no windows and few seats.
    “Where do they drink?”
    “The bar is in the far corner. See the tall tables over there? They stand around them. There are booths for people to sit in but you probably have to reserve them,” said Speedy.
    The booths consisted of heavily worn fake-leather sofas in semi-circles, with metal tables in the centre.
    “The kids aren’t bothered what the place looks like. They come here to dance and listen to the music. They chat and they drink. No one sits down much. This isn’t a pub, sir.”
    The floor was concrete and sticky with spilt drinks. “This place should be condemned. It’s not fit to allow the public in,” said Greco, looking at them dubiously.
    “Once the lights are down low and the smoke machine gets going, no one notices the difference. You must have been young once?” Speedy smirked. “Don’t you remember what it was like?”
    Greco shuddered. “I would never have paid good money to come to a dump like this.”
    “It’s only a fiver on the door, but the drinks are top whack.”
    “Age range?”
    “Seventeen to twenty, no older. By the time they reach twenty they’ve got more sense.”
    A man came up behind them. He was heavily built and dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a leather jacket. “Joss Taylor. I’m the manager. I also double as a bouncer on week nights.”
    Greco showed him his badge. “So you were on the door last night?”
    The man looked puzzled. “What’s going on? The licence and everything is in order. We don’t get much trouble in here. There’s no drug-taking or dealing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    Greco let this pass. He showed Taylor the picture of Jenna Proctor. “We’re interested in this girl. She was here last night and left early, about eleven thirty or twelve.”
    Joss Taylor studied the photo for a few seconds. “Yes, I know her. Right little madam. Well, we operate a dress code here, Inspector.”
    Greco’s eyes widened. A dress code? In this dive!
    “We like the males to wear shirts, and the girls should be in dresses, not jeans. That sort of thing. We also