Things started to go wrong almost as soon as he sat down.

Having selected a table in one of the darker corners of the club, he had been hoping to keep an eye on the proceedings without drawing too much attention to himself. He was familiar with a good many of the more specialised venues in south London - had found them useful on more than one occasion - but sitting among a vibrant set of men in women's clothing was new and he would have liked a little time to get settled.

This was not going to happen.

"John Wren."

The woman standing at his elbow had made no pretence of searching the room, but headed straight for him, followed by two large men.

He turned without apparent concern. "I assume you're addressing me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Who else? That's your name."

"I'd be interested to know why you think so." He moved his chair away from the table, leaving his untouched drink to drip condensation behind him, and looked up at the woman. His disadvantage irked him. He felt a fool in stockings and skirt and to be picked up before getting his bearings seemed unfair.

"Let's cut the crap," she said without changing tone. "Look at me."

He looked her up and down as she presented herself, hands on hips. She was probably the most understated person in the room. Slim bare legs led up from practical black slip-on shoes to a short leather skirt and black lycra top. Her long straight hair appeared to be dyed. It was dark red and pulled back with a simple clip from a face that was so immaculately proportioned as to be rather unmemorable. When he glanced away, only the glittery eyes and the crimson lipstick stayed in his memory.

Am I who you're looking for?" she asked, one elegant eyebrow raised again.

He let some of his annoyance show. "Does this kind of thing go on a lot here? I've never seen you before . . . I've never been here before and if the management let paying customers be hassled like this, I won't again."

This was the truth but only part of it. To his concealed dismay, his questioner's confident self-control didn't falter.

She gazed at him for a long second, then turned to one of her silent companions. "Put him on the table, would you, Steve?"

His frantic review of the options lasted a moment too long and he stumbled on his unfamiliar high heels in jumping up. "Hey, let go!" burst from him as the looming Steve gripped both his upper arms from behind and deposited him with no difficulty next to his untouched glass. He would have got down instantly, but one large hand still held him firmly upright and he had no desire to draw even more attention to himself, so he surveyed the scene with an effort at dignity.

Surprisingly, very few others appeared to have noticed anything going on. The lights were low and the room was subtly divided by columns and vaguely erotic sculptures. People who glanced over for more than a second were quickly distracted by their fellows. Many of the tables were glass topped and he could see one slimly attractive transvestite provocatively spread his knees and reach across to his partner's hand. He began to realise that the woman - who did indeed appear to be the one he had been seeking - was more important in this setting than he had considered.

She watched him as he watched the room. "As you can see," she told him in a casual tone, "the regular customers treat the management with respect and don't interfere. The management, of course, being myself. Any of these lovely ladies -this with a general wave of the hand at the nearest bewigged men "- ld answer questions all night if I wanted. They know my temper."

There was a pause in which she seemed to expect a reply. As he said nothing, she gave a little twitch of impatience. "We're not getting anywhere,"she said. "Bring Mr Wren through and we'll talk in my office."

She strode away, and not one pair of eyes strayed their way as he was hauled along behind.

 

The office was not large, but was unusually bare. Wren realised that the big window looking across the club was the mirror he had seen behind the bar. There was no direct connection between the rooms and he had been marched along two corridors before arriving at the office, but as he entered the room he saw a man adjusting his long blonde wig while apparently staring straight at him and knew how he had been picked out.

In contrast to the uncluttered floor, an expanse of deep red carpet, the plain cream walls were full. An amazing array of whips, chains and restraints hung from chrome racks separated by monochrome prints of nudes. Shiny metal-framed chairs spaced irregularly around the edges of the room gave the impression of a shrunken arena, only broken by a matching table at one end of the room which appeared to be used as a desk, with three neat piles of paper surrounding a computer terminal.

The woman turned on her heel and faced Wren. "Ignore my decorations," she said. "Just please be sensible and stop pretending. I happen to know that you are an investigator hired by my husband to find me. Now can we talk?"

He was uncertain how to reply. Finally, he nodded. It seemed less of a commitment than a spoken agreement.

"Good." she said. "Now, you'll understand that it would be a bit awkward for me if you went running off. Clive will show you to your seat - and then you and Steve can leave us, Clive."

Wren was shepherded to one of the chairs near the table. As he sat down, his wrists were expertly locked into padded cuffs which were attached to the rear legs of the chair. The woman waited until the men left the room, closing the door gently behind them, then sat on the edge of a chair facing Wren, with her elbow on the table.

"You are Mrs Andrews then?" he asked, seeing no reason to be evasive.

She laughed softly. "I was Mrs Andrews." she answered. "I suppose I still am when it suits me, but you won't find anyone who knows me by that name."

After a pause, she said, "Can I guess you, now? Your name's John Wren, you have a one-man private investigation business, specialising mainly in credit checking and scandal-digging. You live alone and your last girlfriend left ten months ago, as you spend too much time on your business and it isn't as glamorous as anyone thinks. My beloved husband is paying you quite a large sum to locate me, but he hasn't said why he wouldn't go to a bigger and - forgive me - more reputable firm, let alone the police. In your research you found two successive credit card payments in this establishment, both on Wednesday evenings and here you are investigating like your job description says. How am I doing?"

Wren couldn't fault her summation and said so. "But why?" he had to ask. "I mean, it's easy enough to find out about anyone if you need to, I know that. But you must have been watching me as long as I've been after you. What's that all about? You could have saved me a lot of trouble if you were always going to jump in like this."

She regarded him with amusement, leaning a little further on her elbow. "Oh, I have saved you trouble." she told him. "You couldn't have found me without my little trail. I liked your looks, you're kind of naive for a private detective, not at all like I imagined. This kind of thing really isn't your usual line, is it?"

"No, it isn't." Wren freely admitted. "But your husband is a generous man and I have to say I always fancied getting into the cloak-and-dagger stuff. You can't imagine how boring it can get proving to a suspicious wife that her spouse actually is fucking his secretary. Ninety percent of the time they know anyway. And of course nobody wants to pay for bad news. A runaway wife is quite a big change for me, and this . . ." he jerked his chin at his false breasts, "is as near to a disguise as I've ever come."

"I think it suits you," she said, leaning forward to study him with a faint air of amusement. "Are you sure you're not used to these clothes? You're cooler than I would have expected in the circumstances."

He flushed a little. "Of course not - well, hardly." He was rather gratified at his own lack of panic, though and was pleased to have her acknowledge it. Many hours had passed while he waited for business in his single room above a high-street shop and most of them had been spent hoping for an interesting client while imagining the desperate situations they could lead him into and the resource he could demonstrate in the tightest spot. Handcuffs and a disconcerting feeling that he knew less than he should were not great odds and conversational sparring with an attractive woman was almost a treat.

Her lip twitched just once and a few lines appeared at the corners of her dark eyes. "It's good that you're not ranting at me, or a quivering wreck, because I want you to tell me everything that led you to this point." She folded her arms and Wren couldn't help glancing at the resulting cleavage showing at the scoop-neck of her top. "You can skip your life history, but I want to know everything my husband said to you."

"Couldn't you let me be more comfortable first?" he asked, "And it would help to know what you like to be called. You say you don't use 'Mrs Andrews', and I have a thing about telling stories to nameless strangers, however charming."

A full smile transformed her face and Wren felt himself mesmerised - or more accurately more mesmerised.

"Because I like you, you can call me Helen," she told him, and leaning forward put a hand gently on his stocking-covered knee. "But please indulge me with your story before I show you what my hospitality can be."

The warm hand, the sparkling eyes and the subtle female scent drifting from her were too much for Wren and being able to look right down between her breasts finished him. He had to wriggle on the padded seat before starting.