Bitter Sweet (8 page)

Ivonne and I looked at each other. I didn’t know what she was thinking, but obviously Mike did not trust the police.

The front door opened, bouncing against its stopper with a thud. The door shivered on its hinges.

Mike straightened up.

A man in his late forties strode into the room.

I was guessing the bent cop.

No fat paunch, no short raincoat – ala Columbo, just an ordinary looking guy of average height, dressed in a plain grey M&S suit.

He did have a bulb
ous nose which had a good ruddy red colour – anger, not drink. He rapidly scanned the room, gave me and Ivonne the hard-police-stare, his eyes finally settling on Mike.

‘Who are you?’ the detective asked. His head twitched slightly.

‘Mike Marshall.’

‘Wot’s your game?’

Mike’s eyes narrowed briefly as he held the detective’s gaze. ‘I am an accountant.’ His voice was steady and calm. ‘These two young ladies are my clients.’

Yeeha
. Go for it Mike.

The detective snorted.

Mike ignored the ill-mannered response. ‘I didn’t catch your name, sir?’

‘Detective Sergeant Driscoll.’

Speak of the devil and he walks through the door!

I could see Driscoll’s eyes starting to bulge in exasperation. His nose maintained its ruddy complexion. He didn’t know where to look, so he kept on staring at Mike.

‘Miss Thompson,’ Mike said, ‘is cooperating fully with your colleagues.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Indeed. There is, however, the small matter of her mobile phones.’

‘You don’t say.’

Mike held the warrant up. ‘This document does not specifically detail mobile phones.’

Driscoll clenched his jaws together, his lips parted. It reminded me of a dog baring its teeth. In fact, his teeth needed cleaned; they were tea stained.

‘Now,’ Mike said.

Driscoll’s eyes narrowed.

‘In the spirit of cooperation,’ Mike continued, ‘and to avoid any loss of earnings for my clients, it would be a simple matter to access their phone records, if that were deemed to be necessary.’

‘Noted,’ Driscoll said, and jabbed a finger in Ivonne’s direction. ‘But first we’ll search her flat.’

Driscoll again clenched his jaw together; his head twitched slightly. He turned and walked briskly down the corridor.

Again, the door thudded against the stopper and shivered on its hinges.

The two detectives who had searched my apartment came back in.

‘Miss Adamoviča’s apartment?’ the elder one asked.

The two uniformed coppers started off along the corridor, followed by the two detectives, Mike came next, then Ivonne and I was last.

Mike walked out the front door, only to turn back, immediately.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Get back!’

Inside the apartment, he swivelled around and addressed the detecti
ves through the open doorway: ‘What’s going on out there?’

I’d never before heard such cold anger in his voice.

‘Why,’ he asked, ‘are the press out there?’

The detectives shrugged, looking bemused.

‘Get them out of here!’ Mike ordered.

The elder detective signalled to one of the uniformed boys. ‘Move them back – out of sight.’

‘Wait here,’ Mike ordered, and went out into the passageway.

I wondered if there would be a shot of Mike in the evening news. At least he’d had the courage to go back out, that way the press wouldn’t think he had something to hide. But what if his face did appear in the news? What would his wife think?

The way the raid was being conducted seemed to support Mike’s idea that Erjon was after the apartments on this floor. My website and Ivonne’s, and our profiles on Escort England had our photos on them, but our faces were concealed.

Had the press been able to film us coming out the door surrounded by police officers, although we were innocent, it wouldn’t stop the press from labelling us as suspects. And, our faces would have been exposed; another form of naming and s
haming. To boot no doubt, we’d have been labelled as suspected traffickers and drug abusers. 

Jeez, the press’s attitude to escorts was freaky enough, anyway. I c
ould already see the headline: City wide razzia on prostitution! City wide – ha, ha – probably just two buildings. Then an attention grabbing first paragraph. Police questioned one woman discovered at a flat in the city centre. A team of police officers equipped with specialist equipment including heavy-duty lock breakers had mustered nearby and took mere seconds to break into the locked flat after a knock to the door went unanswered.  Great, the poor woman might have had a client. I don’t answer my door, if after ten minutes of hard work I’ve just got the guy’s cock stiff.

The next paragraph would read:
Three or four officers pushed the door open, rushed into the room shouting: 
police
and found the woman, of foreign appearance, inside. Police wearing rubber gloves conducted a thorough search and gathered evidence in a special bag.

Well, blimey. They
pushed
the door open, who doesn’t. And they shouted
police.
Well, what do you know? It sure wasn’t the electricity man, having busted open the door. And then:
of  foreign appearance.
You’d have to love that; a little bit of racism thrown in. And to crown it all;
the rubber gloves
. I mean, what was it an S & M studio?

I could
just hear some poor punter caught up in the raids cry out: “I know I asked for a mild domination role-play-fantasy, but don’t you think this is going a bit too far?”

Sensationalist journalism. Bound to be what was going to be doled out. A few pictures, or if the press got lucky a bit of film footage to spice it up. 

Worst of it all; there would be no one there to speak for the escorts. The talking heads would be the same; the do-gooders, the police and the politicians all carrying some cross. No one to negate the ignorant tripe and the clichés which, undoubtedly, would be served up.

Then there would be the clients, a lot of them running scared, thinking half the girls were being exploited, trafficked or on drugs. Oh, that part would feature in the media. All sorts of wild numbers would be bandied about as to the extent of sexual expl
oitation and trafficking. God forbid, no one wants exploitation or trafficking.

But, the
more clued-in punters might be thinking about The Policing and Crime Act 2009 which introduced an offence of paying for sex with someone whom a third party has coerced or deceived into providing the service – a strict liability offence. The client, even if he’s not aware of the coercion, is guilty.

  When all is said and done, prostitution – the act of providing sexual services in exchange for money – has always been legal in the UK. What’s more as a woman, oh, men as well, need a certificate to sell cooked food or a license to sell alcohol, but charging for your sexual skills . . . wink, wink, nod,
nod.

Amazing, absolutely bloody amazing; the press would feed upon the ignorance of the public, all sorts of
half-baked ideas would be aired and not one person would stand up and clarify the law. The blogs on Escort England, over the next couple of days, would be epic; full of gossip and opinion with none of the contributors even bothering to look at the links provided, detailing the law.

Ivonne was the first to leave my apartment. She stuck her head out, ready to duck back in if she spotted any of the media circus, which
just happened
to be in the building at the right time.

I took a deep breath and followed her. Mike was the last to leave the apartment, locking the door.

I whispered to Mike; ‘Hope the cops don’t find the CCTV camera in Ivonne’s place.’

He shook his head. ‘They won’t. They didn’t spot the cables in your flat.’

That was true. They looked like phone cables. Still . . .

The same show got underway in Ivonne’s apartment. I sat down on the sofa and leaned towards Mike, talking quietly, loud enough for Ivonne to hear, but not for the cops.

‘Can they search our homes?’

‘No,’ he said, fingering the warrant. ‘This doesn’t mention your home addresses.’

‘But—’

‘They can go back to the judge for another warrant.’ Mike glanced at Ivonne, raising an eyebrow. ‘Since nothing has been found . . .’

‘I told you I’m clean.’

‘Proving cause to a
judge will be difficult.’

‘What if they do?’ I asked.

‘Tina, the cat is out of the bag.’ Mike scratched his chin and looked at the detectives. ‘You could consult with counsel.’

‘Hire a lawyer?’

‘Counsel is a barrister. They’re the only ones allowed to appear before a judge in a Crown Court.’

I stared at my fingernails. There was something else, and I don’t think Mike knew. He’d done enough, he’d been a great help, but I didn’t want him any further into my life.

‘Tina,’ Mike said. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t want them in my home,’ I said lamely.

‘No deflecting.’

I looked at Mike; he was getting good at catching me out. ‘The terms of the lease on my apartment exclude business usage.’

Mike smiled ruefully. ‘You think of everything. Your landlord doesn’t know and probably doesn’t care. Anyway, I’d be more worried about HMRC. That has its good sides and its bad.’

‘The good bit first.’

‘I’m an accountant.’

I curled my lip. ‘My white knight.’

Mike closed his eyes.

‘I’m sorry.’ I leaned across and put my hand on his arm. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean it that way.’

He took hold of my hand and squeezed. ‘The bad bit is they have greater search powers. But don’t worry, they’re more discreet. And, I know one of them. He told me this story about being out for dinner with his wife. The people at the next table started talking about cash deals for this and cash deals for that. He took hold of the menu, turned it over and started jotting down the details. You know what?’

I shook my head, intrigued.

‘The next morning he goes to his boss, discusses what he’d heard, hands over the menu, and his dinner bill.’

‘His dinner bill?’

‘Yeah, business expense. They paid up. He and his wife got a free dinner.’

The detectives and the uniformed cops left, having found nothing. There had been no further sign of Driscoll. We all leaned back on the sofa enjoying the moment.

I brought up Escort England on my phone; the chat had already started – semi paranoid twaddle along with some clued-up information from some of the escorts. 

Ivonne switched on the TV. The news channel came around to the story of the city-wide raids. None of us were to be seen, nor were our na
mes mentioned. The story was by-and-large as I had predicted. The whole razzia had been given substance by the discovery of two girls who were illegally in the country. A high-ranking police officer was interviewed, claiming a great success and at the same time warned the public about the dangers of the sex trade.

Status quo, I hoped.

Part II

9

Status quo – my arse. It’s amazing what you can fool yourself into believing, when you want to.

Just after four, I walked out of the lift on my floor and gritted my teeth. At the end of the passageway, where it turned to the right, two men were headed in my direction. Leather jackets, jeans, pointy-toed shoes, shaved heads and sunglasses; they had that walk – a type of strutting – common to men whose lives revolve around the macho-male-body-cult.

I continued walking towards my apartment
and averted my eyes, but kept the two yobs in my peripheral vision. I wasn’t going to reach my apartment in time to avoid meeting them in the passageway.

I saw them nudge each other. Their gait took on a swagger.
Pathetic
. It was a walk dominated by their crotches.

They reached the door to my apartment. There was no going back.

One of them licked his top lip; his tongue lingering and flicking, his mouth slightly parted.
Pervert
.  

Like I was going to be impressed by such a base gesture. There was a time and a place for lasciviousness, but these guys had it all wrong.

Five metres to go. I took a firm grip on my handbag – it was a weapon, and readied myself, various Taekwondo moves going through my head.

They swaggered on. The corridor was not wide enough for the three of us. I angled myself towards the wall. No way was I going to walk along the rails, not four stories up.

I avoided looking at the two yobs – the last thing I wanted was eye contact. Instead I kept glancing up and down the corridor; judging the distances. The one on my left nudged his pal and then moved to cut me off.

I was quicker. I sidestepped along the wall, scraping my jacket against the brickwork.
I avoided the urge to look back and instead kept going.

A couple of foreign sounding expletives followed me. I didn’t want to know what they meant. Damn, men should know to leave a lady alone.

I unlocked my apartment, scurried inside, closed and locked the door behind me. I leaned against the back of the door; the adrenalin coursing through my body. I knew I had lost out and had shown weakness sliding along the wall, but what else should I have done?

I looked down the corridor and saw the laptop on the table. What had those two thugs been up to?  

The skin around my fingernails took a terrible toll as I waited for the laptop to boot-up.

I rewound the footage to the point where the two yobs came in
to view, and watched fascinated my near confrontation and escape. Then I spooled back; attempting to identify which apartment the two men had come from. I was guessing it was Martha’s ex-apartment. The angle of the camera lens did not allow for a clear picture. I froze the footage, zooming in. I was right it was Martha’s place. I didn’t take a Mensa candidate to work it out. However, the speed of Martha’s departure and the subsequent re-letting did shock me.

Erjon and his goons now had control. The thin end of the wedge in the Merchant Building. Did that mean they had already installed some girls?

I rewound the tape to earlier in the day and let the computer program run the images on fast forward. Interminable. A cleaning lady came and went. Heads appeared. I clicked the mouse, hitting freeze-frame – four men and three women. I clicked the mouse again, allowing the frames to roll on. I couldn’t see any faces – they were walking away from the camera. Two of the men, I was sure, were the yobs who’d tried to hassle me in the passageway. One of the men meant nothing, but the fourth was unmistakably Erjon.

The girls wore tracksuits; all
with hoodies. The way they walked left no doubt – female. And, they were loosely encircled by the men.

They all entered Martha’s apartment. I checked the time on the CCTV footage; 3.45pm.

Ten minutes later Erjon came back out, walked along the passageway and gave Ivonne’s door and mine the finger.

I let the recording run on. Nothing more happened. I sat down and started to think. Mike had wanted to take the recording of Erjon attacking Markus to the police. And he had also wanted to run to ground who had been working on the Merchant Building’s own surveillance system; we knew it hadn’t been the security company responsible for its installation and maintenance.

Mike had also been concerned that Alfred, the caretaker, might have been in cahoots with whoever had been working on the system. I found it hard to believe that Alfred was involved; he was a pensioner who wouldn’t retire, a man who didn’t know what to do with himself if he wasn’t at work. He grumbled a bit, as his age group is inclined to do, but I didn’t suspect him of dishonesty. If anything he’d been hoodwinked.

I decided it was time to get to the bottom of the matter and find out if the CCTV system on my floor was working. With Erjon and his cronies now ensconced at the end of the passageway the harder element of society would be passing my door. Security and safety was important, one of the considerations in choosing the Merchant Building, a factor now under threat.

At
five I walked out of the lift. In the foyer the first wave of office workers were returning home. Alfred was busy with their requests.

I used the opportunity and crossed over towards the bin room, veering right at the last moment. I was now behind
Alfred, who along with another occupant had their heads down filling out a form.

I checked that no one else was watching and sidled along the wall to the office door. After five o’clock the office was no longer occupied, but I knew that
Alfred never bothered to lock the door. I pushed gently down on the handle – no click. In one fluid movement, I slid through the gap and eased the door closed.

I took a moment to let my adrenalin level settle and looked around the office.

Too good to be true; one of the computer displays was on screen-saver mode, not something I had been banking on. In fact, I’d planned on distracting Alfred with some errand in the hope of having a peek at the console located behind his desk.

I couldn’t let the opportunity go, despite being in a room with only one door, a room restricted for personnel only.

I tapped the return key; the screen sprang into life. Whew – no login; direct access. I brought up the program menu and scanned the list. Shit, nothing resembling CCTV or surveillance. Next option; desktop icons, again nothing. Beginning to feel desperate, I opted for the hard drive. Click, click, open a folder, close a folder; nothing. Fraught with worries about being caught out and having taken a risk with no reward, I gave it one last shot – the menu bar along the bottom of the screen. Got you!

An external hard drive – CCTV backup.

What to do? I couldn’t sit here all night wading through hours of surveillance footage; Alfred might pop his head in any minute.

I didn’t have a memory stick. Hell, I had no idea how many megabits, for that matter gigabits, were on the hard drive.

Burning disks? Nah.

Inspiration struck: email it to myself.

I slipped over to the door, opened it a crack and peered out. The guy who’d been filling out the form with Alfred dashed his signature along the bottom.

I rocked up and down on the balls of my feet. Should I make a fast exit, or wait and get trapped in the office? What if
Alfred decided to bring the form in here?

Oh shit,
Alfred lifted the form.

I turned and rapidly scanned the office, deciding to take the risk and stay put. If need be, I’d hide under a desk.

I peeked out around the doorframe, half expecting to have to dive under a table. Reprieve. A woman in a charcoal suit took the guy’s place. And even better, she and Alfred headed for the lifts. A real gentleman is our Alfred, always willing to help the ladies, bless his soul.

I raced back to the desk and brought up an internet explorer, and stopped.

Could the email be traced? Yes, but not with a casual inspection, and not if I deleted the web history. And, even if I didn’t get to delete the web history, all it would show was a hotmail webpage.

So what? Assuming everything went wrong and
Alfred walked in, catching me in the act, I’d have time with one mouse click to dump the internet explorer.

I opened my
Hotmail account, typed in my AOL screen name, clicked attachments, found the external hard drive and clicked on it.

Shit, problem. The attachment function wouldn’t accept the hard drive.

Start again. I looked at the contents of the external hard drive – it was full of numbered folders.

Click, click,
click. The attachments started to upload to my AOL account. I set the mouse directly over the close-webpage symbol and looked at the office door – better check.

Carefully, I poked my head out the door. People were queuing for the lifts. I looked at the displays above them; one was on the tenth floor, the other on the seventh. But, most importantly there was no sign of
Alfred.

Back to the computer – still uploading. Back to the door; the one lift showed six, and descending. The other one was still on ten.

Another look at the computer – frigging hell, would it ever finish?

I raced
back to the door.

The one lift showed three, and going down. Sod’s law;
Alfred was bound to be on that lift.

Wow! It stopped on two.

Back to the computer. Yes, yes, yes. Clicked the mouse, closed the webpage. Brought up internet options and delete history. Done. Better be safe; I pressed the on-off button for the monitor.

I stuck my head out the door. No
Alfred, but the lift display showed G. The bell pinged.

Out I went, head down, watching the lift’s doors. Halfway to the bin room, the lift opened, and out stepped
Alfred.

Whew!

‘Hi, T
ina.’

I looked up, recognising Ivonne’s voice. I was halfway between the office and the bin room. Had she seen me coming out of the office?

‘Hi, Ivonne.’             

She came over and gave me the European
-double-kiss, one on each cheek and then squinted at me.

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s go up together.’

She didn’t move. ‘What have you been up to?’

I took her elbow, steering her towards the lifts. ‘I’ll tell you upstairs.’

‘Okay.’

I tried to steer around
Alfred, but the other people in the lobby were in the way and it seemed as if Alfred was veering towards us.

‘Hi,
Alfred,’ I said, my face brightening with a smile. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Rushed off my feet.’

Ivonne gave him a sympathetic smile. And then we were passed.

‘What were you up to?’ Ivonne asked. ‘You were trying to avoid him, and then you gave him a real cracking smile.’

‘Upstairs,’ I repeated.

Good, no one wanted out of the lift. We were the first stop on four. The doors opened, we went out.

Ivonne stopped, bursting with curiosity. ‘Now tell me!’

‘Okay, okay. First, Erjon has got three girls in Martha’s apartment.’

Ivonne stared at me, her mouth forming an O.

‘Second, I had to slide past his goons. They were on their way out; I was on my way in. You know, the male-macho-shit, tried to squeeze me up against the wall.’

Ivonne let out a Polish expletive.

‘Third, you remember there was work being done on the CCTV system?’

Ivonne nodded.

‘Well, Mike checked. It wasn’t the Merchant Building’s contractor on the job.’

‘And?’

‘We never found out who it was, kinda forgot. So, I sneaked into the office. Wanted to check and see if it’s working on our floor.’

‘Is it?’

‘Don’t know yet. I didn’t have time to look.’

‘Now what?’

‘Ivonne, I didn’t try to look at the monitors.’

‘What were you up to?

‘I emailed the surveillance backup to myself.’

‘Clever.’

‘Still have to see what’s on it.’

Ivonne looked at her watch. ‘First appointment is in half an hour. Let’s have a look.’

We started off along the passageway, only to stop. The door to Martha’s apartment opened. A girl’s
head appeared. She looked around, before easing the door closed behind her. Then she took off at a run.

‘Oh, oh,’ I said, starting to walk towards the fleeing girl.

Ivonne let out another Polish expletive and followed me.

The girl ran straight into my arms. She was shaking, her eyes darting wildly in every direction. She opened her mouth to speak; the lower jaw shivering.

‘Shush,’ I said. ‘Don’t speak.’

I looked at Ivonne
who stood beside me, her lower lip trapped between her teeth.