The young black man holding a broom in one hand who had let her in led her across the dance floor, past the enormous sound system and into the lit room on the other side.

“The reporter woman,” he said to the two black men who were sitting in a cramped office, one light-skinned and short, with a tight, neat haircut, and a small goatee, the other taller, broader and darker and with a shock of dreadlocks down to his shoulders. The bigger man raised a fist in greeting while the other waved her into a chair.

“I’m Darryl Redmond. This is my DJ from last night, Dizzy B. You’re Laura, right? You want to write about the club?”

Laura nodded.

“You gonna give us a bad press?” Redmond asked, his eyes unfriendly. “This thing with the boy and the taxi was nowt to do wi’us, you know? We’re getting all this hassle and it was nowt to do wi’us.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Laura said. “I wanted to get your side of the story.” Persuading Ted Grant that the club might even have a side of the story had been a gargantuan struggle that morning, but she had prevailed eventually by suggesting, with a sweet smile, that even a night-club might sue if the Gazette suggested it was a source of illegal drugs without allowing it any right of reply.

“Oh, yeah,” Dizzy B said sceptically. “And how do we know you’ll tell it like it really is?”

“You have to trust me,” Laura said. “Believe me, the Gazette could have sent someone a lot nastier than me.” She tried her most trustworthy smile but it did not seem to impress her listeners.

“There’s nothing to tell, any road,” Darryl said. “We tell our door people not to let drugs in. You can’t ever be sure it works. An’ there’s nowt you can do with kids who’ve popped pills before they even got here. That boy didn’t get his Es in my club. I can tell you that for a fact. Maybe some ganja slipped in on Saturday but that ain’t no big deal. But no Es. And nothing harder either.”

“I had a good view of the dancers,” Dizzy B said flatly, dark eyes amused rather than anxious. “I don’ see no dealers in here that night though some of the kids maybe were high. A few brothers smokin’. Nothin’ more. An’ I had a frien’ wit’ me who’s a copper so I was keepin’ a good eye open. A very good eye. I didn’ want no trouble that night.”

“Police?” Laura’s surprise was obvious.

“You think we can’t have friends in the force?” Dizzy B asked, grinning broadly and abandoning his West Indian accent. “You should get out more, lady. I was in the Met myself for a little while. But the music called stronger.”

“There was a policeman inside the club all night?”

“Right,” Dizzy B said.

“And two good men on the doors,” Darryl insisted. “Though I reckon I’m going to have to get different security if I’m going to keep my licence here. Barry Foreman’s been on at me for months to give him the doors. Maybe that’s the price I’ll have to pay.”

“He’s reliable, is he?” Laura asked, recalling her brief acquaintance with the security boss and thinking that reliability was not the first word that sprang to mind.

“He has friends in high places,” Darryl said. “That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Laura was about to explore that interesting avenue when there was a crash from the far side of the club and an outraged shout from the man who had let her in earlier, who was now sweeping up around the DJ’s dais.

Darryl and Dizzy jumped to their feet, ran to the main doors and flung them open to find themselves faced with flames from some sort of fire which had been lit outside. While Darryl turned back for a fire extinguisher, Dizzy stamped on the burning rubbish and succeeded in kicking most of it away from the wooden doors and down the steps before it could do any serious damage. Outside the narrow street was deserted.

“There was a gang of Asian lads out there when I arrived,” Laura said, gazing at the smouldering mess on the pavement in horror.

“Surprise me,” Dizzy B said, standing aside to let Darryl douse the last of the fire in foam. “Darryl was just telling me that the Asians have been trying to get him closed down for months.”

“Why should they want to do that?” Laura asked.

Darryl shrugged.

“There’s no love lost between the two communities, you should know that if you live in Bradfield,” he said. “And we’re the wrong side of town here. The premises are cheap but we’re very close to the mosque. A bad influence, the old men in white pyjamas think. Might give their little girls the wrong idea entirely.”

“Just because we all have dark skin you think we all the same …” Dizzy B mocked Laura. “But if this place is anything like London, you’ve probably got the Asian gangs just as deep into drugs as anyone else - buying and selling.”

“So who’s your friend in the police then?” she asked waspishly. “Kevin Mower, I bet. He was in the Met.”

“Yo, you’re well informed,” the DJ said.

“He’s a friend of mine.”

“Close friend or just friend?”

“Just friend,” Laura said.

“Ah,” Dizzy B said. “And was the amazing Rita a friend of yours too?”

“I never met her,” Laura said. “But it was a big thing when she was shot, front page story in the nationals, the lot. She was very beautiful. Kevin was devastated.”

“So I’m told, so I’m told,” Dizzy B said, glancing away.

As the club’s cleaner appeared with his broom and began to sweep away the debris of the fire into the running water of the gutter, a car cruised slowly down the street and stopped beside them. Laura was surprised to recognise DC Val Ridley with DC Mohammed Sharif - universally known to colleagues as Omar, an alternative he seemed to approve of - beside her.

“Did you call the police?” she asked Darryl.

“No point,” the club proprietor said, surprised.

“Well, you’ve got them anyway,” Laura said as the two officers got out of their car and crossed the road.

Val nodded at Laura without much warmth.

“Just leaving, are you?” she asked.

“Looks as though I’ll have to,” Laura said, realising she would get no further now. “Some kids just lit a fire here. Dangerous that.”

Ridley and her companion looked at the still smoking rubbish.

“Did you see who it was,” Sharif asked.

“There was a gang of lads outside when I arrived,” Laura said. “Asian lads.”

“Most of them are round here,” Sharif said without acrimony. “Could you identify any of them again?”

“I doubt it,” Laura said. “I wasn’t taking much notice. They just seemed to be larking about at that stage.”

“It’s not the first time it’s happened,” Darryl Redmond broke in. “We don’t seem to get much protection.”

“I’ll get one of my crime protection colleagues to call,” Val Ridley, the sarcasm heavy. “In the meantime, can we get on?”

“The guest list seems to be wide open this morning,” the club proprietor said, following the two officers and Dizzy B inside and leaving Laura facing the doors again, frustrated in her morning’s work.

But when she got back to the office it did not seem to matter. Ted Grant waved her into his office with an unusually benign look on his face.

“Owt or nowt in that?” he asked, barely giving her time to reply before pointing at his flickering computer screen where Laura could half see a front-page layout. “Bob Baker came up with the goods any road,” Grant said and she knew that the editor had used his increasingly frequent tactic of setting one reporter up against another to see how far he could push them into sensation. He spun the computer monitor round in Laura’s direction with a wolfish grin so that she could read the headline: “Imam lashes ‘Satanic’ clubs.”

“Got an interview with the top man at the mosque and some good quotes from the local councillors. The Asians are launching a petition to get the place closed down. You can add a couple of pars at the end if you got owt of interest from the club people. You’ll just catch the edition if you’re quick.”