Shortly after two, Norah went off to prepare her husband’s dinner. Also to cover her tracks. Before leaving for the pub, George had told Norah that she was never to speak to Annette again.
25
Some Expert Views
‘Of course I don’t condone the murder of these men,’ said Robert Washington. ‘As well as being morally wrong, murder is still, I believe, against the law.’ He smiled, as if he had been responsible for a great witticism. ‘I’m merely objecting to the description of the dead men as innocent victims. They weren’t innocent. They were moral degenerates.’
‘Are you saying,’ asked the interviewer, ‘that they deserved to die?’
‘I’m saying that they’d still be alive if they’d been true to their marriage vows.’
‘Anna Grant, what do you think? Did they deserve to die?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Anna Grant. ‘I don’t think that’s what Mr Washington means either. At least, I hope not.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Washington, ‘but aren’t you on record as saying that it’s always the women involved in prostitution who are punished, rather than the men who use them? That the balance is wrong?’
‘I meant that we should stop picking on the women. Not that we should start clobbering the men as well.’
‘So, instead of being even-handed in the punishment of sinners, we should let all of them go unscathed?’
‘I think we should leave out religion and the moral high ground,’ said Anna Grant. ‘Prostitution is a social issue, one that support groups like mine try to deal with. Murder is a crime, and that’s a matter for the police.’
The interviewer said, ‘And what about Robert Washington’s campaign of photographing the sauna customers?’
‘Silly and pointless. Apart from the fact, of course, that it’s an excellent marketing ploy. A few more people may actually open his rag instead of chucking it straight in the bin, and maybe they’ll notice a couple of adverts along the way.’
Anna Grant’s dislike of her fellow interviewee was now quite open. They presented quite a contrast. She could only have been a year or two younger than Washington, but they looked as if they belonged to different generations. He was the odd one out. His old-fashioned and formal dress style, which went well with his opinions, seemed to lend him added years, as it did with the people in old films and photographs.
Washington didn’t allow himself to be goaded by her remarks, but maintained his smirk of moral superiority. ‘Maybe being publicly exposed is preferable to being murdered.’
‘So you’re doing them a favour? Do us a favour.’
‘No, Miss Grant, I’m trying to discourage the evil and immoral practice of women selling themselves for money. You, on the other hand, with your so-called support group, obviously want to encourage it.’
‘We don’t encourage prostitution at all. We try to help the women already involved in it. It’s not the same thing.’
‘Anna Grant,’ said the interviewer, ‘Robert Washington, thank you both very much. We now turn to Dr Andrew MacDuff of Strathkelvin University, a specialist in criminal and deviant psychology. Dr MacDuff, what sort of person are the police looking for? Who would want to commit such crimes? What do you think his motive is?’
‘Her motive.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The killer,’ said Dr MacDuff, ‘is a woman.’ Pausing for dramatic effect, he lifted the glass of water in front of him and took a drink. He looked about forty, was plainly dressed and spoken, and might have been plucked out of a nearby pub rather than a university.
‘A woman?’ said the interviewer. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘The physical evidence alone points strongly in that direction. In each case, the killer relied on the element of surprise to overcome the victim. Richard McAlpine was initially felled from behind by a blow on the head, attacked at night in a quiet street. Arnold Bell was caught unawares on the doorstep of his own house, at ten thirty in the morning, not exactly when you’d be expecting a homicidal attack. He was also knocked unconscious, probably as soon as he opened the door. Steven Archer was drugged by chloroform, then tied up. What do we deduce from all this? That the killer couldn’t be sure of overcoming the victims by physical superiority. Exactly what you’d expect if the killer was a woman.’
‘Maybe so,’ said the interviewer. ‘But that’s hardly conclusive.’
‘It’s an indication. The psychological aspects clinch it. The killer is driven by an intense hatred, we know that. Each of the victims suffered multiple stab wounds, from a frenzied attack that must have continued long after unconsciousness, or even death. Who are the objects of that hatred? The clients of prostitutes. What sort of person would feel such hatred for that category of man? Most likely a prostitute herself.’
‘You think the killer’s a prostitute?’
‘Yes. Or a former prostitute.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Let’s try the following scenario for size,’ said Dr MacDuff. ‘It’s only one possibility, but it fits the bill. A woman has been sexually abused as a child, by her father or another male authority figure. As a child, her feelings for the father figure are ambivalent. She instinctively hates the abuse, but is dependent on the man for survival and emotional support. In adulthood, when she fully realises how her trust was betrayed, her feelings flower into a deep, unambiguous hatred. By this time she has drifted into prostitution, and feels for her clients the same ambivalent feelings she once felt for her father. In one sense, they are responsible for a continuation of the sexual abuse but, on the other hand, they also provide her with her livelihood. In her mind they become associated with the father who simultaneously betrayed and supported her. Then she grows older, and what happens?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the bemused interviewer.
‘Her clients begin to fall away. They abandon her for the younger models. The men who used and soiled her don’t even provide her with a living any more. Her feelings for them are no longer ambiguous. All the pent-up hatred of her father is transferred on to them. He’s probably dead by now, beyond her reach, but who cares? She has an endless line of father substitutes, all offering their necks for the chop.’
‘You seem very sure of this.’
‘As I said, it’s only one possibility. But I’d put money on it.’
‘Have the police asked for your help, Dr MacDuff?’
‘Not yet. So here’s a wee free gift, to get them interested. They’re looking for a woman, between thirty-five and forty-five, who works or has worked as a prostitute.’ He looked directly at the camera. ‘How about it, guys? There’s lots more where that came from. My fee’s reasonable.’
26
Diversification
‘Did you see that daft bastard on the telly?’ said Candy. ‘He thinks one of us is the murderer.’
‘That’ll be right,’ said Cleo. ‘Does he think we’d cut our own throats?’
‘I never knew you watched the telly,’ said Annette. ‘Which pub was it in?’
‘I was in here,’ said Candy. ‘There was fuck-all punters. What else could we do?’
Sitting alone in the lounge, they had no answer to that.
‘I saw it,’ said Annette.
‘Loada shite,’ said Candy. ‘My faither never laid a finger on me. He was never sober enough.’
‘You mean if he hadn’t been drunk he might have?’ said Cleo.
‘Did I fuck mean that,’ said Candy. ‘It would never have entered his head.’
‘Mine neither,’ said Annette with a shudder. ‘But I’m sure it happens.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Cleo. ‘I never even knew who mine was.’
Candy went up to the gambling machine, inserted a coin and pressed a button.
‘You won’t make your wages up that way,’ said Annette.
‘There’s a jackpot due.’
‘Aye, to Edna, when she comes in to empty it.’
‘No’ if I get in first,
’ said Candy, putting in more money. ‘What time is it?’
‘Four o’clock.’
‘Fucksake, is that all? What d’ye think she wants tae see us about?’
‘No idea,’ said Annette. ‘Maybe she’s going to pay us off.’
‘You’ve only just got back. Anyway why should she bother? She pays us bugger all up front an’ half the girls have left already.’
‘It would help if the competition was a bit more fair,’ said Cleo. She glared at Candy. ‘I’m on all day wi’ you and all day tomorrow wi’ Miranda. I’ll be lucky to get a single customer.’
Annette sighed. ‘Join the club.’
Annette’s unemployment had lasted less than a week, though her return had so far made little financial impact. Shortly after dismissing her, Edna had discovered the real source of the press story. Chantelle had gabbed to one of her friends, a girl working for a rival sauna, and the other girl had told her boss, who’d phoned the papers. Now Chantelle was working for the other sauna, and Edna, still assuming that the police and the press leaks had a common source, had apologised to Annette and asked her back. Apart from anything else, she needed replacements for the girls who had left.
Strangely, Candy and Miranda, the two who could most easily have found alternative employment, had so far stayed on. Annette suspected that their loyalty might have been subsidised by Edna, who would certainly want to hold on to that pair until times got better. And of course they still had the pick of whatever customers were left.
Annette said, ‘If the cops believe that psychologist guy, they’ll be back on top of us.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Candy. ‘Did you have to give them a freebie?’
‘Only those above the rank of sergeant. The rest had to pay the going rate. But seriously, if they think it might be one of us . . .’
Candy pressed a button on the machine and gave a yelp as it made a small payout. ‘If they believed that crap they’d have been back already.’
‘You think they’d want to check it out.’
‘Why should they? It’s shite. You know it an’ so do they.’
‘Are you still gettin’ bothered by reporters?’ Cleo asked Annette.
‘Now and then. It seems to have died down.’
All of them had been interviewed by the police, but since then there had been very little contact. A few had also been pestered by reporters, though none as much as Annette. One paper had featured an interview (given anonymously) with a girl who claimed to have worked for the Merchant City Health Centre. Most of it could have applied to any sauna, and there was little that the public hadn’t heard before. It might or might not have been authentic.
The police had told them to carry on as usual, in the hope of flushing out the killer. This plan had been frustrated, for the time being at least, when the story went public. The customers seemed reluctant to co-operate by acting as bait – not very public-spirited of them, if unsurprising. There was still the occasional bold (or stupid) punter who seemed to think that a fling with Candy or Miranda was worth risking his life for. And the phantom of the steam room continued to appear regularly for his celibate health kick; Candy, out of boredom as much as desperation, had made a fresh attempt to corrupt him, but without success.
‘He must think this is a real health centre,’ Annette had said.
‘It’s a pity we got rid of the exercise bike,’ said Candy. ‘We could’ve wiped the cobwebs aff it for him.’
One of the courageous survivors now appeared and took Candy away. Cleo took Candy’s place at the machine, in search of the elusive jackpot. Annette sighed and went for a walk around the deserted premises. It would be nice to have at least one customer before her shift ended, to cover her petrol and part of her childminding expenses; Linda had seemed unshaken by the discovery that she was being paid from immoral earnings, but Annette wasn’t sure how much longer she could afford her.
Edna was at the front desk. One of her first economy measures had been to pay off Moira and the other woman who, between them, covered the door for most of the shifts. Now she either did it herself or got one of the girls to fill in, without payment of course. It didn’t make much difference to them whether the afternoon was spent looking at an empty lounge or at a closed door.
‘Still nothing doing?’ Annette asked.
‘You’d be the first to know,’ said Edna.
‘It can’t go on like this.’
‘I know, that’s what I want to see you all about.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘It’s OK, I’m no’ gonnae sack you again.’
‘You might as well, for all the money I’m making.’
‘Just you stick wi’ Auntie Edna. I’ve got it all worked out.’
She was prevented from elaborating upon this mysterious statement by the sound of the doorbell. So rare an event had this become, that they both jumped. Edna let in the visitor, a slightly-built man of about thirty-five. Annette immediately recognised him and her brief hope of a last-minute bonus disappeared. Edna gave him her usual false smile of welcome.
‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘A half-hour massage, please.’ Edna took his money and entered his particulars in the book. He went off down the corridor with his towel and wallet.
‘Go on,’ said Edna. ‘What are you waitin’ for?’
‘There’s no point,’ said Annette. ‘He’ll be back.’
Sure enough, he returned to the desk a few moments later, still dressed. ‘Where’s Miranda?’ he asked.
‘She’s not on until five,’ said Edna. ‘But we have three other nice girls. This is Annette and . . .’
‘I want Miranda,’ said the man. ‘She’s always here on Monday afternoons.’
‘She used to be, but now she’s here on Monday evenings.’
‘I phoned earlier and you said she was on.’
‘I’m afraid you must have misunderstood me,’ said Edna. It was much more likely, thought Annette, that she had simply lied, hoping that he would show up and accept a substitute. ‘Anyway,’ continued Edna, ‘she’ll be here soon. Meanwhile, we have a steam room and sauna, refreshments in the lounge – tea, coffee, or something stronger if you prefer. There’s also TV and a gaming machine. Or,’ – she treated the customer to a sly, confidential smile
– ‘if you’d like to retire to one of the cabins, we have a fine selection of adult films.’
Annette listened to this with some admiration. Obviously the prospect of having to return a ten-pound entrance fee had stimulated Edna into a flurry of creative thought.
‘I don’t know,’ said the man. ‘I thought Miranda would be here.’
‘In half an hour. I’ll tell her you’re here . . . Johnny,’ said Edna, picking up the name, which she’d already forgotten, from the book in front of her. ‘You’ll be first on her list.’
The man hesitated for a moment, then went back down the corridor.
‘That guy gives me the creeps,’ said Annette.
‘You mean some of them don’t?’
‘There’s something about him. All the girls feel it. He’s obsessed with Miranda. He won’t look at anyone else.’
‘Him an’ half the other punters. That’s why she makes so much, or why she used to. I’m just relieved some of them still show up.’
‘You should see the looks he gives the other customers, especially if they go with Miranda. As if he’d like to—’
Edna looked at her sharply. ‘As if what?’
‘Nothing.’
Edna didn’t pursue it, but Annette had suddenly remembered Jack’s story about the ‘wee guy’ who had followed him and taken his photograph, the one his barmaid friend had seen near the last murder scene. At the time she’d been too angry at him and feeling too sorry for herself to pay it much attention, but now . . . No, it was nonsense. Jack had never been with Miranda, had he? Once or twice maybe, right at the beginning, before he had settled on her as his favourite.
Common sense returned. In a situation like this, it was too easy to let your imagination run wild. If Miranda’s customers were the target, the murderer had set himself a formidable task. His list must be a very long one. She and Edna chatted on for a while, then Annette returned to the lounge. No new customers appeared. At a quarter to five, Miranda’s admirer left the sauna and came into the lounge, thereby blighting the girls’ conversation. He sat opposite the door, looking down the corridor. For all the notice he took of the other girls he might have been alone in the room.
Then the evening shift arrived. At the first glimpse of blonde curls in the corridor, the customer came to life, then slumped back in his seat as Miranda vanished into the girls’ changing room. ‘She may be a minute or two,’ said Annette, with a trace of malice. ‘The boss wants to see us all.’
The man ignored her.
The girls assembled in Edna’s office: Annette, Candy, Cleo, Miranda and Claudia. Annette noted that there were only two on the evening shift. This could have been a favour to Miranda, in order to leave the field even more clear for her, or it might have been due to the other girls giving her a wide berth. Claudia seemed unbothered. She had her own customers, few of whom had deserted her. Possibly it was something to do with the type of service she provided. Maybe to them a death threat was a bonus.
‘You know what it’s been like the last week or so,’ said Edna. ‘If we don’t do somethin’ about it, we might as well shut up shop. I’ve decided we should branch out intae visitin’ massage.’
The air of expectation in the room turned to disappointment. ‘We do that already,’ said Candy.
‘I know,’ said Edna. ‘Under the same name and the same number. The customers are still scared off. So I’m gettin’ a new phone line installed, wi’ a different number. Then I’ll advertise a visitin’ massage service, under a different name. Naebody’ll know we’re workin’ fae here.’
Murder in the Merchant City Page 14
