The Price of Love and Other Stories (27 page)

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Authors: Peter Robinson

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BOOK: The Price of Love and Other Stories
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Verity patted his chest and grinned. “I’ll have to give up smoking,” he said. “Or climbing stairs.”

“Roly, what brings you here?” said Banks, as if he didn’t know. Though Verity technically outranked Banks, a DI didn’t have to call a DCI sir, and they knew each other well enough to be on first name terms.

“Word gets around,” said Verity. “Suspicious death in a knocking shop on my turf.”

To say this was his turf was no more true than describing the building they were in as a knocking shop, but Banks knew there was no point challenging him. Roly Verity worked Vice, and they also had their headquarters at West End Central, in Savile Row. The proximity to Soho, for many years London’s red light district, was certainly no coincidence, and it couldn’t be denied that Verity might have a legitimate interest in the investigation. Banks only hoped he
wasn’t going to throw his considerable weight around too much and get in the way. From what Banks knew, though, Verity was more interested in power and politics than in the mechanics and techniques of a murder investigation. He also had a reputation as an honest copper, but Banks had never fully trusted him.

Verity stood in the doorway, practically filling it with his bulk, and took a cursory glance at the victim, then he gave a world-weary nod towards Dr. O’Grady and turned back to Banks. “On your way out, were you?” he asked.

“The doctor would like a little air,” said Banks.

“And I’d like a pint,” said Verity. “There’s a decent enough boozer just around the corner. It’s warm enough to stand outside, so we can all get what we want. What say?”

Banks and O’Grady followed Verity down the creaky stairs.

“Stay here and deal with the SOCOs,” Banks said to Albright. “I’ll be back.”

“Sir,” said Albright, managing to put as much disbelief into the simple word as he put disappointment at being denied a pint himself.

It was a relief to get outside. Even though the evening was warm and close, the air was fresh and not tainted with the smell of stale sex and death, only with cigarette smoke and the occasional whiff of cigar or marijuana. The building was on a side street, a little off the beaten track, but even so a small crowd had gathered, and the PCs on duty had their work cut out moving people on. It was just an ordinary black door with a brass knocker, stuck between a sex shop and a sixties-style boutique, that led up to a number of rooms on the first, second and third floors, but there was already so much police activity, cars parked at odd angles, or in no-parking areas, and uniformed officers milling around, that people couldn’t fail to know something was amiss.

Banks turned the corner and walked a few yards up Old Compton Street, one of the busiest streets in Soho, where he saw WPC Brown
and Jackie Simmons sitting outside at the Italian coffee shop over the street. “I’ll catch up with you,” he said to Roly and O’Grady, then dashed over, dodging the traffic, to join the women.

“Sir,” said WPC Brown, standing up to leave when Banks sat at the table.

“No, it’s all right,” he said. “Sit down. Finish your coffee. I want you to stay.”

“All right, sir.” She sat down again and sipped from a cup of frothy liquid. It left a little white moustache on her upper lip, which she licked off and blushed when she saw that Banks was watching her. Banks just smiled.

Jackie Simmons wasn’t drinking anything, though a full cup of tea stood just beside her.

“I’d have some of that if I were you,” Banks said. “Hot sweet tea. Nothing like it when you’ve had a shock.”

She sniffed and shook her head, then wiped her eyes with a tissue. It was already damp and falling apart and Banks wished he had a fresh handkerchief to give her. He handed her a paper serviette instead. She took it and thanked him, then she blew her nose. “Sorry,” she said. “It just hit me, really. We were flatmates, Pam and me.”

“OK,” said Banks. “I’m going to need to ask you a few questions, and then WPC Brown here will take you home. I’ll send DS Albright with her, and they’ll need to have a look at Pamela’s room, at her things, if that’s all right?”

“She doesn’t have much, but it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“It could be important, that’s all. Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Pamela?”

“No. No one.”

“Ex-boyfriend, prospective boyfriend, or someone like that?”

“She had a boyfriend back home in West Yorkshire. Castleford. But she hasn’t seen him since she came here.”

“Is that why she came? To get away from him?”

“I don’t think so. She just said he was a lazy sod and they were going nowhere fast.”

“How old are you, Jackie?”

“Me? Twenty-one.”

“And Pamela?”

“She was nineteen.”

“When did she come here?”

“Early in the new year. I can’t remember the exact date, but it was when it was really cold, like minus twenty or something. Poor thing didn’t even have a proper winter coat.”

“Where do you share a flat?”

“Shoreditch.”

“What did Pamela do for a living?”

Jackie seemed embarrassed. There was nobody sitting next to them and the people at the other tables were deep in their own conversations. “I think you probably know that already, if you saw her,” she said finally. “She did what she had to do to make a living.”

“I want you to tell me. Exotic dancing? Prostitution?”

“It sounds so ugly when you put it like that.”

“How else should I put it?”

Jackie looked down at her clasped hands. She was playing with a ring on her thumb. “No, I don’t mean it’s wrong to call it what it is.” She gave him a brief smile, and he saw in the split second it took what a sweet beauty she was, and what intelligence there was in her eyes. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, and her silky long hair had covered most of her features, her slightly upturned nose and almond-shaped eyes a little red from sniffling and crying, but she was certainly an attractive young woman. “It’s just that none of us like to admit the truth if we don’t have to,” she said. “We talk about dancing and dates as if taking your clothes off and sleeping with strange men for money were a perfectly normal thing to do.”

“Well, it
is
the oldest profession,” said Banks, “so I imagine there must be something in it.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I suppose I do. But that doesn’t concern me right now. It’s Pamela and what happened to her that interests me.”

“God, I saw her,” said Jackie. “What could he … I mean, why … ?” Her eyes filled with tears again.

“She was posed in an unusual way,” said Banks. “Any idea why?”

“No. How could I? It was like one of those carved figures you see on old stone coffins in churches. It was spooky.”

“We don’t know why she was posed that way, either, yet. And we don’t want anyone else to know that she was. This is very important, Jackie. These are the sort of details we like to keep out of the papers. I’m sure you wouldn’t want what you’ve just seen to be splashed all over the front pages in a lurid way.”

“God, no. I won’t say anything.”

“What can you tell me about Pamela?”

“She was a good person. I liked her. Not terribly bright, perhaps, but good-natured, good-hearted. She’d do anything for you.”

“Where did she dance?”

“Different places. Mostly Naughty Nites. Other places too, but that was the main one.”

“And you?”

“I helped get her the dancing job.”

“And the other work?”

Jackie buried her face in her hands. “Yes,” she whispered. “God forgive me.”

Banks touched her lightly on the arm. “It wasn’t your fault, Jackie. There’s nothing to forgive. I need to know about the room, then you can go home. How did you know about it? How did you know where to find her? What happened there?”

“I think you can guess what happened there,” Jackie said. “It was a room she used for … for entertaining men friends.”

“How did she find these men friends?”

“Well, she didn’t walk the streets. Just people she met, I suppose,
at the clubs … you know. She danced at some of them, and in others she … you know, she was a hostess. She chatted with the customers, drank with them, made them feel good.”

“She rented the room?”

Jackie shrugged.

“Who did she rent it from?”

“Dunno.”

“Who takes care of her, Jackie?”

“I don’t know. Really, I don’t.”

Banks could tell she was lying by her slight hesitation and the way she averted her eyes, but he decided to leave it for the moment. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out. “OK,” he said. “How did you know she would be in the room? Did she have a date?”

“Last night. Yes. She didn’t come home all night or all day, which wasn’t too unusual, but when she didn’t turn up at the club tonight, I got worried. You get fined by the owner for being late, you see, and Pam couldn’t afford that. The room was the only place I could think to look, really. The door wasn’t locked, nobody answered, so I went in and found her there.”

“Do you know who the date was with?”

“No. She didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t touch anything?”

“Nothing. I ran straight out and rang the police.”

“Thanks for doing that,” said Banks.

She glared at him. “I might be a whore, but I’m not a fool,” she said.

Banks stood up and glanced at WPC Brown. “I’ll send Ozzy round,” he said. “Can one of you also get in touch with the local police in West Yorkshire and have someone tell her parents? We’ll need them to identify the body as soon as possible.”

Whether the boozer was a decent one or not didn’t really matter, as O’Grady and Verity were standing outside on the pavement when
Banks joined them. O’Grady was sipping a double brandy instead of his customary glass of wine. He told Banks that he’d asked the barman about the wine selection and was told that he could have red or white, sweet or dry, so he’d chosen brandy instead. Verity had a pint of lager and Banks stuck with bitter.

“So who is she?” Verity asked.

“Her name’s Pamela Morrison,” Banks told him. “Ring any bells?”

“They come and go. How and when was she found?”

Banks told Verity what Jackie Simmons had just told him.

Verity grunted. “This girlfriend a tom, too?”

“So it seems.”

“Most of them are. Any particular club connection?”

“Naughty Nites Club, mostly.”

“I know it,” said Verity. “As such places go, it’s not bad.”

O’Grady put his empty glass down on the window ledge. “Unless there’s anything else,” he said, “I’m off. Busy day tomorrow. I’ll give you a bell when I’m ready to start. Oh, what about the parents?”

“They’ll be told tonight,” Banks said, “and we’ll get a driver to bring them down from Castleford first thing in the morning.”

“Right ho.” O’Grady wandered off towards the Tottenham Court Road tube.

“He’s looking old,” said Verity, staring after the doctor. “Another pint?”

“Better not,” Banks said. “I should get back and see how the SOCOs are doing.”

“They won’t thank you for it.”

Banks laughed. “Don’t I know it? Maybe some other time.” He turned to leave. Before he had moved away he felt Verity’s hand tighten around his upper arm, almost circling it completely. “I might be able to help you on this,” Verity said. “The bloke you want to talk to is called Matthew Micallef. Maltese.”

“And he does what?”

“He’s a pimp.” Verity gestured towards the house. “If this Pamela Morrison was connected to Naughty Nites and she was on the game, it’s likely she was one of his. He does the rounds, takes the pick of the crop. Just trying to save you a bit of legwork.”

“Thanks, Roly,” said Banks. “I appreciate it.”

“And this Micallef … ”

“Yes?”

“Tread carefully. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Keep me informed.”

The Naughty Nites Club was just getting into its swing when Banks arrived there close to midnight. A doorman built like a brick shit-house tried to block his way, but Banks flashed his warrant card and was reluctantly waved in. A well-endowed young black girl in white bra and panties was going through the motions on stage to an old Stones number while punters watched from tables or bar stools. Booths around the walls offered some privacy, and Banks noticed a couple of groups of businessmen – or gangsters, perhaps – involved in intense discussions. In most booths, though, a girl or two would be having a drink with customers and maybe negotiating terms for a little extra entertainment later. The lighting was such that everything white glowed like an advert for Daz. The black girl slipped out of her bra, and some audience members cheered. You wouldn’t get cheering like that in a real top-of-the-line club, Banks thought. Probably a bunch of northern oiks down for a football match.

After taking in the lie of the land, Banks ventured over to the bar. Mirrors reflected the rows of bottles, and the bar staff consisted entirely of attractive young women in low-cut tops, fishnet tights and
skimpy red satin shorts. Banks caught the attention of the nearest girl and asked for the manager. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard over the music. Finally, she understood and pointed to a burly, bald man in a tight-fitting black suit near the door. Banks knew he wasn’t the manager; he was more of a bouncer or a minder, but he would do for a start. He went over, flashed his card and said, “Take me to your leader.”

The bouncer pulled a face then gestured for Banks to follow him. They went through a door marked private and along a narrow corridor before arriving at another door at the end. It was unmarked. “This it?” Banks asked.

“This is it,” said the bouncer, and turned to leave. He seemed to be smiling to himself.

Banks tapped quickly on the door and opened it. The man he took to be the manager was slouching at his desk, chair pushed back a few feet, head tilted, breathing fast and muttering words of obscene encouragement to the woman on her knees before him. When he saw Banks, he sat up and the woman almost fell on her face. She pulled herself to her feet, fussed with the few clothes she was wearing and left the room with as much dignity as she could muster.

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