‘What do you mean, for every one that gets the chop?’ asked Annette. ‘Do you expect this to be a trend?’
Claudia shrugged. ‘Wi’ any luck.’
‘Still, you can’t help feeling sorry for the poor guy. They say he was battered to death with a hammer and stabbed more than forty times. In his own house.’
‘I’m devastated.’
‘Apparently he was devoted to his wife. She’s got MS.’
‘They’re all devoted tae their wives,’ said Claudia. ‘It doesnae stop them comin’ here.’
Annette wondered if Claudia’s customers knew just how genuine was her contempt for them. It might spoil their fantasies a little. Or would it?
The subject of the murder came up again later, while Annette was with a customer. It was the one called Jack, who had first showed up a few weeks before and now appeared to be making it a habit. He seemed to have relaxed a bit since his first visit. She had expected him to choose Candy, but he had chosen her, even though Candy was free at the time. Maybe she could cultivate him as a regular. He seemed a lot more personable than some of them.
‘I was beginning to think I had horns,’ she said, when they were settled in the cabin.
‘Sorry?’
‘You’ve never chosen me before.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘I’m only kidding. We don’t bother about things like that.’
‘At least you remembered me. That’s nice.’
‘I never forget a face.’
‘The other week, Candy came into the pub where I work. I don’t think she recognised me.’
‘Did you have your trousers on?’
‘The boss usually insists on it.’
Annette laughed. ‘That explains it. Our boss takes a slightly different line.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’
She continued to massage his back. She didn’t feel like hurrying things along. It wasn’t her normal policy, and in any case there hadn’t been a queue of customers waiting.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Did you hear about that murder?’
Annette was taken by surprise. Should she say anything? She didn’t immediately reply.
‘The guy battered to death in his house. I recognised him. I met him in here the week before last.’
What was the point of denying it? It was just a coincidence that the man had been a customer. ‘I know. I gave him his massage. It was a shock when I saw the news.’
‘Did he come here often?’
‘Every time, as far as I know.’
‘I walked right into that one.’
‘You certainly did.’ She paused. ‘I suppose we shouldn’t joke about it. I feel sorry for his wife.’
‘I know. It’s a bummer.’
It also brought the conversation to a halt. Annette finished massaging his back and got him to turn over. She was still taking her time, when the silence was broken by the sound of Candy faking an orgasm in the next cabin. She certainly didn’t hang about: she’d still been in the lounge when Annette had gone off with Jack. Left to it, Candy was capable of getting through the afternoon shift single-handed. Time to get things moving.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ve really enjoyed the chat. Was that all you came here for?’
While she was settling up with Edna at the end of her shift, she mentioned the murder, just to see what Edna would say about it. Her boss was a good-looking woman of forty who had been in the profession most of her life and had now graduated from worker to employer. Not all girls could have made such a transition. As Candy characteristically put it, Edna had her head screwed on as well as her arse screwed off. Annette doubted whether a blacker pot had ever maligned a kettle, but why let that stand in the way of a good piece of bitchiness?
‘You’ve had a good day,’ said Edna.
‘It picked up towards the end.’
‘Candy did even better, though.’
‘Give us a break. She does better than everyone.’
‘Apart from Miranda.’
‘Keep my shifts away from that pair and I’ll do better too.’
Edna sighed. ‘You’ll have to join the queue. Still, your weans should get fed this week.’
‘They always do.’ Annette hesitated, then said, ‘Did you hear about that murder?’
‘What murder?’
Am I the only one who ever stays at home and watches the telly? Annette thought. Then she realised that Edna probably wouldn’t have recognised the victim. Apart from the occasional spell at the door, she only appeared twice a day to collect and count her cash. Annette told the story again and Edna listened in silence, apparently with interest. Maybe she was a real human being after all.
Then Edna said, ‘This has got nothin’ to do wi’ us. Make sure you keep your mouth shut about it, OK? I’ll tell the other girls.’
I might have known, thought Annette. And I thought she was feeling sorry for the poor man’s wife.
8
A Work of Art
I think the second murder was a great success. Not quite perfect, but a considerable improvement. Even more satisfying than the first one and a lot less risky.
Not that I mind a certain amount of danger. It helps to get the adrenaline flowing. But I can’t afford to be too careless, not when there’s so much left to do.
I keep reliving my triumph again and again, savouring every moment. It helps keep me subdued until the next time. Gives me the patience to complete the long and careful planning.
Waiting in the street until his wife and her nurse come out of the building, making sure they don’t see me, hanging on until they’re out of sight, checking that the street is empty before pressing the buzzer.
Getting the lift to the top floor without meeting anyone. If I’d run into another person, no matter who, I’d have postponed it. Frustrating, but necessary. Can’t have any witnesses. Luckily, there was no need.
Waiting until he opens the door, then moving quickly, taking him by surprise, hitting him with the hammer, pushing him back into the hall, slamming the door behind me. Checking he’s unconscious, hauling him into the nearest room. Then – and here’s the masterstroke – going into another room, taking off all my clothes, before returning to him and unleashing my frenzy with the knife. Half an hour later, washed in his shower, dressed again, completely free of bloodstains, I’m trotting down the stairs to an empty street.
Murder two was a triumph of careful preparation. My ground rules are developing well.
One, select the subject. Note the careful choice of word. He’s not a victim, but a criminal receiving justice. The choice isn’t easy when the list’s so long. Some of them will have to wait, but I’ll get to them eventually.
Two, watch the subject and know his movements. This was where the last killing scored so heavily over my street attack. After a week’s observation, I knew that he’d be alone in the house in the morning, that the wife and nurse would be gone for an hour, possibly more. That I’d have time to clean up afterwards, not only myself, but any traces I might have left in the house. I don’t think the police forensic team will find anything useful.
Three. A new rule, to be followed next time, if possible. Having a chance to talk to the subject. Letting him know that he’s about to die and the reason for it. This could be tricky. They’re all grown men, and so far I’ve relied on the element of surprise in order to overpower them. In a fair fight, I might well lose. Still it’s an important point. Not being able to talk to them spoiled my pleasure – just a little bit – in the first two kills. Maybe I can get a gun to threaten him with. Or I could knock him out, tie him up, then let him regain consciousness . . .
I’ll think of something. This is more than justice, it’s an art form.
9
An Interesting Day
On the week following the murder, during Annette’s Monday shift, two customers got into a fight over Miranda. At least it added a little excitement, almost as much as dealing with drunks at
the end of an evening shift.
The two customers were rather alike, sharing similar objectionable qualities. Both were in their thirties, good-looking in a smooth sort of way, beginning to show the effects of good living and self-indulgence. Annette didn’t know what they did for a living, but could imagine either of them driving a flash company car and conducting much business on the golf course. One of them called himself Martin and the other John; some customers gave their real names, but these were probably pseudonyms. The book at the front desk was half full of johns called John.
Annette’s character assessments were not based on first impressions; they were both regular customers, though they had possibly not run into each other before.
They arrived in the early afternoon, and spent some time sweating off their business lunches in the sauna and steam room respectively. Probably not a very healthy practice, Annette reflected optimistically. Martin was first to arrive in the lounge, but John was only a few moments behind him. Sylvia served them both with cold drinks, following it up with the usual attempts at small talk. Annette was disinclined to make the effort.
After a very short time, John gulped down the last of his drink and turned to Miranda. ‘Can I have a massage?’ No ‘please’ or ‘are you free?’, Annette noted.
Miranda rose to her feet, giving him her special smile, the one that mesmerised the customers and enraged the other girls.
Then Martin said, ‘Hang on, mate. I was here first.’
John regarded him coolly. ‘Too bad. I asked first.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘I don’t see the problem. There are two other girls here. You can have them both together, if you’ve got the cash. And the stamina.’
‘I want Miranda.’
‘Fine. You can have her after me.’
‘Why the hell should I hang about for half an hour, waiting for your leftovers?’
Miranda had stopped on the way to the door. She said nothing, but continued to smile, in stand-by mode.
Sylvia said, ‘Why don’t you toss for it?’
‘I suppose you’ll want to do the tossing,’ John said with a sneer. ‘Seeing as it’s one of your specialities.’
‘It takes one tosser to know another,’ said Martin.
By now they were both on their feet, facing each other, about a yard between them. They seemed about to resort to fisticuffs.
‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ said Annette, in what she hoped was a placatory tone. ‘Why don’t you try to settle this amicably?’
Neither of them replied, but both cast the same contemptuous look in her direction. It seemed to say, ‘Shut up, whore. What’s this got to do with you?’ Annette felt her face flush, equally from anger and humiliation. She resisted the temptation to reply and, like Sylvia, withdrew from involvement.
It was clear that it could only be settled by Miranda herself. This had been apparent for some time, but only now did she seem prepared to do anything about it. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘it looks as if it’s up to me. I wish I could keep you both happy, I really do. But you came in at more or less the same time, and John did ask first.’
Martin had little alternative but to accept this decision, though he did so with bad grace, not helped by John’s beam of triumph. ‘I’m sure Annette or Sylvia would love to help you out,’ Miranda said to him with a parting simper. ‘Or you can have another drink and wait for me, if you like.’
Martin said nothing until she and John were out of the room. Then, still flushed with anger, he turned to Annette. ‘I’m fucked if I’m waiting till he’s done. You’d better give me the massage instead.’
Fuck you, thought Annette, about to refuse. Then she drew upon the waning reserves of her professional cool. ‘I’d love to,’ she said smiling, and led him to the cabin.
It was hard work, but she managed it. She wasn’t sure if she’d been entirely successful in disguising her feelings, but could see that he was too insensitive to notice.
When they were finished, she waited in the cabin until she was sure he was out of the way. Then she had a shower before returning to the lounge. There she found the customer called Jack, sitting between Miranda and Sylvia and waiting for her.
Immediately, she began to feel better. She had stolen two customers in a row from Miranda. Did she see awareness of this register in her rival’s Barbie-doll features? She hoped it wasn’t just her imagination. Also, it was a relief to get a customer she liked. After Martin, Jack seemed like the nicest man in the world.
Annette’s shift was due to end at five o’clock, but she didn’t finish with her last customer until twenty past. When she went to Edna’s office to settle up, she found her boss having an argument with Miranda.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ said Miranda. ‘I only want to use the phone. I can afford to pay for the call, if that’s it.’ She didn’t actually sound angry, but this was the nearest to it that Annette had ever witnessed, a slightly exasperated, ultra-reasonable tone.
‘You’re no’ phonin’ the police fae here,’ said Edna. ‘And that’s final.’
‘But my car’s been stolen. What am I supposed to do?’
‘Phone the police. Fae a call box, or fae home. Or go to the station.’
‘But I only want to use the phone. The sooner I report it, the better chance they have of finding it. They won’t know where I’m phoning from.’
‘They can check the number.’
‘Why should they? The police know what we do here. They’re not going to raid the place just because I report a stolen car.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Edna. ‘But there’s nae point in lookin’ for trouble.’
Miranda’s face was now slightly flushed, her tone of exasperation a little less mild. So she does have emotions, thought Annette. Maybe she comes from this planet after all. However, though it wasn’t her natural instinct to side with Miranda, she had to agree that Edna was being a little unfair. She also decided not to get involved. Edna’s memories of their profession went back a long way, to a time when the police were less tolerant. She was acting from a deep-rooted instinct.
Miranda said nothing more, obviously sensing that it was a waste of time. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Edna. ‘But it’s a basic rule of this business. You don’t draw attention to yoursel’ beyond what’s needed to get the punters in. It’s bad enough our customers gettin’ murdered, withoot phonin’ the cops to remind them where we are.’
This diverted Miranda’s attention from her immediate problem. She looked startled. ‘What do you mean our customers getting murdered?’
She doesn’t know? thought Annette. It showed you how often the other girls spoke to her. ‘That accountant who got murdered last week,’ she said. ‘Battered and stabbed in his own house. He was one of our regulars.’
‘But that’s awful,’ said Miranda. ‘I didn’t know anything about it.’
‘It’s just a coincidence,’ said Edna, now looking sorry that she’d mentioned it. ‘It’s got nae mair to do wi’ us than if he’d got knocked doon in the street. But it’s better if we don’t mention it, especially to the other customers.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Miranda. It was clear that she still couldn’t see why this should prevent her from using the phone, but was past arguing. She took her leave.
‘She thinks I’m being unreasonable,’ Edna said to Annette when Miranda had gone. ‘But I’ve been in this game too long tae take unnecessary chances.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Annette tactfully.
In the street where she’d parked her own car, Annette ran into Miranda again. She was talking to a man who had just got out of a blue Ford. But wasn’t that Miranda’s car? Annette had seen it quite a few times, parked near her own. Miranda and the man were too deep in conversation to see Annette approach.
‘Did you find it then?’ she asked.
Miranda looked round. ‘Oh, hello, Annette. What do you think? It wasn’t stolen at all. Derek had just borrowed it and hadn’t b
rought it back in time.’ She didn’t seem particularly annoyed with Derek, whoever he was. Her usual poise had returned.
‘Just as well you didn’t phone the police after all,’ said Annette.
‘I know,’ said Miranda. ‘After all that fuss too. Still, it would have served him right, giving me a fright like that.’
‘I got stuck in traffic,’ said Derek, coming round from the other side of the car. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Miranda. ‘Annette, this is my husband, Derek. Annette works beside me.’
Presumably Derek knew what the job was, but no indication of this showed in his manner. ‘Nice to meet you, Annette,’ he said, shaking her hand warmly. He seemed much more open and forthcoming than Miranda. He was possibly a few years older than her – early thirties maybe. He was handsome, stylishly dressed, and slight in build, only marginally taller than his wife. They looked like a perfect match.
Annette chatted inconsequentially with them for a few moments, then took her leave. Until then, she had not even known that Miranda was married. Annette wondered what Derek did for a living and what he thought about the way his wife earned hers. He seemed very relaxed about it. Maybe he thought they both really were bona fide nurses in a private clinic.
As she slowly eased her car through the rush hour traffic, negotiating her way around pedestrian areas and one-way streets on her way to the motorway, she forgot about Miranda. Normally she’d have put her work entirely out of her mind, as she crossed the line between the two quite different worlds she inhabited.
Instead, she found her thoughts turning to the customer called Jack. It looked as if he might be developing into a regular. She liked him: he was easy to talk to and had a good sense of humour. And he had preferred her to Miranda, a sure sign of intelligence . . .
And next week he might be back with Miranda or Candy or with one of the other girls. Or off to another sauna. He was just another customer, no more reliable than any of the others. It was time to forget about her work for another day.
She reached the motorway and soon was speeding back towards her home and her children.
Murder in the Merchant City Page 4
