The Price of Love and Other Stories (34 page)

“Comes with the territory.” The SOCO grinned and walked back to join the others.

“Bunch of Grapes,” said Banks to Verity. “Know it?”

“I know it. It’s pretty new. We’re still keeping an eye on it. Could go either way.”

“Looks like it’s already gone one way to me.”

“That book of matches might have nothing to do with what happened here. It could have been lying around for weeks.”

“It was beside the ashtray,” the SOCO said over his shoulder from the bedroom. “And there are fresh tab ends.”

“Even so,” said Verity.

“Any connection with Micallef?” Banks asked him. “The Bunch of Grapes?”

“He’s been known to drop in on occasion. But he drops in at lots of places. How do we know for sure she’s a working girl?”

“We don’t,” said Banks. “And maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s just not fussy about where she picks up her men, or her matches. Or maybe the bloke she brought back here gave her them. But I’d say there’s a good chance she is. Either way, there’s a connection. Dead girl made up to look like a virgin. Bunch of Grapes Club. Matthew Micallef. It merits another chat, at any rate.”

“Christ,” said Verity. “Surely you can’t think Micallef’s behind this?”

“I don’t think anything yet, but he is connected. And I’m damn sure he knows a lot more than he’s saying.”

“We’re done here, lads,” said the head SOCO. “You can go in now.”

“Maureen Lillian Heseltine from Oldham, Lancashire,” said Banks to Jackie Simmons in the back room of the Dog and Duck, a small, narrow Victorian-style pub at the corner of Frith and Bateman streets. “Do you know her?”

It was six o’clock, and Jackie had said on the telephone that she had to head into the West End to work, so they had picked somewhere
on her way. The usual crowd milled around the bar, or outside, drinking, smoking and sharing jokes about their day at the office. The sky was still overcast and the humidity lingered. Banks’s shirt clung to his skin.

“What? Just because we’re all whores from up north you think we know one another?” said Jackie.

“I’m trying to find connections,” Banks said, sipping his Timothy Taylor’s Landlord. The pub was all dark panels and smoked glass, most of the tables occupied by noisy groups. Nobody paid any attention to Banks and Jackie in their intimate corner at the back.

“Sorry. I didn’t know her.” Jackie swept a long tress of hair back and stuck it behind her ear. She had tiny, pink ears, Banks noticed, delicate, the skin translucent where the light shone through. She had applied some makeup, but it didn’t quite cover the smattering of freckles, or the darkening bruise beside her left eye.

“Who did that?” Banks asked. “The club owners used to fine girls for coming to work with bruises.”

She put her hand to her cheek self-consciously. “Walked into a door.”

“What was this door called?”

Jackie shook her head. Banks could swear her eyes filled with tears, but they were gone as soon as they came, reabsorbed into the sponge of flesh. “An unsatisfied customer,” she whispered.

“I can’t imagine you having any of those.”

Jackie regained her composure, tilted her head to one side and almost smiled at him. “Are you flirting with me?”

Banks flushed. “No … I … ”

Then Jackie laughed and patted his arm. “That’s sweet of you to say, very
gallant
of you to defend a lady’s honour like that, but you don’t really know, do you?”

“Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time? Odd clients. Violent. Disturbed. A little crazy?”

Jackie pointed to her eye. “Like the door that did this?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a non-starter, in more ways than one. But I did think about it.”

“And?”

Jackie frowned. “Well, as I said before, you get a lot of weird people in this business. You expect it, learn to deal with them. And some of them are weird in a nice way.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, they fall in love with you, want to marry you, take you home to meet mother. Take you on a cruise around the world. You name it. But the point is, they’re harmless.”

“Not the man who killed Pamela and Maureen.”

“OK, no, I get your point. All I’m saying is just because a john’s weird it doesn’t mean he’s likely to be violent. You have to go a lot on instinct in this business, on gut feelings.”

“It didn’t do Pamela or Maureen much good, did it?”

“They probably realized too late.”

“Is there anyone –”

Jackie held her hand up. “Please, let me finish.” She lit a cigarette and swigged some lager from the bottle. “You have to develop a sort of built-in radar if you’re to survive.” Then she smiled and touched her cheek. “And even that doesn’t always work. But this was normal. I don’t expect you to understand, let alone accept, but it’s an occupational hazard.”

“As is murder?”

“Not quite. I know it seems the air’s full of it right now, but it’s really very rare, even in our business. So my radar’s tuned in such a way that if my breath catches in my throat, if I just feel for no obvious reason that I have to get away, get as far away from a john as possible, money or no money, then I follow that instinct.”

“And has this happened recently?”

“It was a few weeks ago. Long enough before Pam’s death that I’d put it out of my mind. You have to move on, don’t you? But when
you asked me to think back, and when I found myself dwelling on what had happened to Pam, well … ”

“You remembered.”

“Yes. There was a bloke. Ordinary bloke. Perhaps a cut above the average. A gent, you might say. Nice tailored suit. None of your off-the-rack trash for him. Hand-made leather shoes. Posh accent. Polite. Gentle, even. Anyway, to cut a long story short, afterwards he just didn’t want to leave. He was talking about innocence and stuff, telling me I should stop being a whore and become innocent again, that he could help me. I told him it was probably a bit late for that, but he wasn’t having any of it. He said it’s never too late. He could show me. Perhaps I’d like to see him again and he would show me how my innocence could be restored. That’s the word he used.
Restored
. Well, you get a pretty high creep factor in this job, but quite honestly, this bloke was freaking me out. It wasn’t anything he did, or even what he said – as I told you before, I meet plenty of johns who want to save me and reform me – but it was something about the
way
he spoke, the soft, insistent voice. Have you seen that film about Reginald Christie?”

“
10
Rillington Place
?” said Banks. “Yes. Ages ago.”

“It was like that. His voice. The way Richard Attenborough says, ‘Just a little gas,’ as if it’s the nicest, most natural thing in the world. It was his icy calm and that one-track way he just wouldn’t let go that started giving me the signals. Innocence. Purity. Virginity. As if they were holy mantras or something. Anyway, we’d finished our business –”

“Was that –”

“He didn’t have any problems, no. Except he didn’t want to use a condom. I insisted and he didn’t like it, but I gave him no choice. He wasn’t violent or forceful in any way.”

“Pamela –”

“Pamela was a fool. Just because she was on the pill. I’m sorry if that sounds a bit harsh, but … It’s not as if it’s only the clap you have
to worry about these days, is it? You hear about that new one, AIDS, and it doesn’t sound as if there’s a cure.”

“How did he react when you contradicted him?”

“That’s just the thing,” Jackie said. “He never got angry. He would just … he had this sort of faraway smile … and his manner would get even milder. He would chastise me like you’d tick off a wayward child, but gently, out of a desire for correction, not anger. I think that was what set off my warning bells in the end. That he just didn’t get angry.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m still here, aren’t I? In the end, he left. I’d agreed to see him again just to get rid of him, but I had no intention of ever being alone in a room with him again.”

“Did you see him again after that?”

“Once or twice. Around the clubs. But he left me alone.”

“Did you see him go with any of the other girls?”

“No. But I wasn’t watching.”

“Pamela?”

“I never saw them together.”

Banks leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Another drink?”

“Sure,” said Jackie. “But will you be much longer? I have to go soon.”

“As long as it takes you to have one more drink.” Banks made his way to the bar and picked up another lager and a pint. He noticed it was raining outside now and most of the people had come in.

When he got back to the table he asked Jackie to describe the man. About medium height, she told him, not much hair, and what there was, fuzzy around the ears and sides, was silvery. He was perhaps a little overweight, a bit of belly, and she would put his age at around fifty, maybe a little older.

“Distinguishing features?”

“Yeah, he was hung like a horse.”

Banks gaped at her.

“Only joking. No, none. I don’t even know if a horse is hung or not.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No. He never told me, and if he had I wouldn’t have believed him. They all lie.”

“How did you meet him?” Banks asked finally.

“I didn’t. I mean, not before, you know, in the room.”

“So what made him choose you? Was it just blind chance?”

“It’s rarely that. Unless that’s what the john wants.”

“Then what?”

Jackie examined the dregs of her bottle, stubbed out a cigarette and finished off the lager. Her eyes darted around the pub before she leaned slightly forward and looked Banks in the eye. “He’s a business colleague of Matthew’s,” she said finally. “He saw me dance and wanted to meet me. Matthew said to be nice to him.”

“Mr. Micallef,” said Banks. “Good afternoon.”

Micallef swivelled in his chair. “It’s you again. Inspector Banks, isn’t it? Nice to see you. And your sergeant, too. That’ll be all, Benny. You can leave us alone now. What can I do for you this time, gentlemen?”

They weren’t in the Chinese restaurant, but in Micallef’s office above a music shop on Denmark Street. The building was old, but the second floor had clearly been gutted and refurbished. One of those new Macintosh computers sat on Micallef’s desk. Banks had read about them in a Sunday supplement but didn’t know what he would do with one if he had one. He supposed it was useful for running a business. He could see Albright’s eyes practically bulging out of their sockets at the sight of it. On the wall were framed, signed photographs of Micallef with a showbiz personality, Micallef with minor royalty, Micallef with a championship heavyweight boxer, and Micallef with a lot of people Banks didn’t recognize.

“The wall of infamy?” he said.

Micallef laughed. “I’d hardly say that, Inspector. Some of those people are pillars of the establishment.”

“I’ve often thought the establishment was built on very shaky ground.”

“Well, that’s very interesting, and it would make a fascinating argument sometime, but I’m a busy man. What do you want? Do I need my solicitor?”

“Not unless you’re going to confess to murder, sir,” said Albright.

“Very funny, sergeant. That’s definitely not on the cards.”

“Just another friendly chat,” said Banks.

“About?”

“Maureen Heseltine.”

Micallef feigned a frown. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name.”

“Well, it’s a strange coincidence,” Banks said, “but her body was found in yet another building you own just off Charlotte Street.”

“I own several buildings. I don’t know my tenants personally.”

“Nor would I expect you to know the name of every girl who works for you,” said Banks. “But it’s getting to be a bit of a habit, isn’t it? Girls getting murdered in your buildings. Perhaps one may be seen as simple bad luck, but two … ?”

“What happens in my buildings isn’t my problem.”

Banks reached for his briefcase, pulled out a photograph and dropped it on the desk in front of Micallef. “Maureen Heseltine. Perhaps this might serve as an
aide memoire
.”

Micallef glanced at the photograph. It showed Maureen when she was alive and smiling. “She does look rather familiar,” he said. “A dancer, you say?”

“I didn’t say, but I do believe she tripped the light fantastic from time to time, between entertaining men in the flat she rented from you.”

“Then it’s possible I came across her in a business capacity,” said Micallef. “You know I have an interest in several local clubs as a property owner. But I certainly don’t recognize her.”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“I’ve been out of town,” said Micallef. “Just got back this morning. I had some business in Paris.”

“How long were you away?”

“Three days. Why? Does that give me an alibi?”

“If it can be verified.”

“Oh, it can. Besides, I don’t believe you would see me as a suspect anyway, given the kind of accusations you bandy about. If I’m what you say I am – which I very strenuously deny – then I’d hardly be likely to kill my own girls and Sellotape their cunts shut, would I?”

The expression had a familiar ring to it, thought Banks. Hadn’t Roly Verity used exactly the same words just a few days ago? Still, it was part of Verity’s job to hobnob with villains like Micallef, and a man like Roly Verity would probably be so proud of coining such a phrase that he would be bound to go around repeating it to all and sundry. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything of the kind,” said Banks. “We all know exactly what you are and what you do, so why don’t we just cut the crap and you answer some questions?”

Micallef looked at Banks through narrowed eyes and made a steeple of his fingers, then he glanced at Albright. “Is he always like this?”

“Almost always when a young girl gets murdered, sir,” Albright replied.

Banks dropped another picture on the desk in front of Micallef, this one a photofit recreation of the man Jackie Simmons had described. “Recognize this man?”

“I don’t know him,” said Micallef.

“Well dressed, posh, not short of a bob or two.”

“Still don’t know him.”

“Mr. Micallef,” Banks said slowly. “We believe that this man indicated an interest in one or more of your girls, and that you set him up with dates. We’re trying to find him in connection with two murders. Right now, he’s about the only lead we’ve got. If you can
help us at all, then I think you should seriously consider doing so.”