Dancers in the Wind: a gripping psychological thriller

by Anne Coates

  From what he understood from research studies on the subject, and he had been doing a lot of reading up on prostitution, fear of detection was, for some men, all part of the excitement of going with whores. The reason for it, in some cases. He had ceased to be surprised by the cross-section of male society that found its way to the area, but it still made him feel uncomfortable. And catching women with their skirts up and men with their pants down was not what he joined the Force for.

  The photographer was easy to work with. Tom had felt self-conscious at first, but as Mike clicked away, he had relaxed. The journalist, on the other hand, was a different matter. Hannah Weybridge had unsettled him. She wasn’t what he’d expected. His image of female tabloid journalists was of hard-bitten hacks door-stepping the homes of victims of tragedies and scandals. Seducing friends and relations with the wave of a fat cheque. Hannah certainly didn’t fit that stereotype; she was rounded on the edges and he found himself feeling strangely protective of her. He was glad she hadn’t accompanied them for the photographs. The area was all so sordid with used condoms and needles adding to the other debris.

  Thinking of Hannah, he smiled to himself and rather hoped she would need to ring him. The article, at any rate, would be good PR. He’d been happy with what he’d seen in a preview of the documentary – the Force was definitely shown in a sympathetic, user-friendly way. The newspaper feature would reinforce the image and the powers-that-be would be pleased.

  As he walked through the open plan offices to his own partitioned-off area, WPC Avril Spenser called out, “How did it go, Sir?”

  Tom smiled. “No problem.”

  He repeated the same thought to the sergeant who came into his office a few moments later.

  “No awkward questions, then?” Brian Jones asked.

  “No, Jones, the news blackout has been effective and this was a soft touch. Women’s magazine stuff.” He sighed and looked at the file Brian Jones had placed before him. “No leads at all on this one?”

  “No and it’s not the usual sort of pimp’s revenge either. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Does murder ever make sense, Jones?” It was a rhetorical question but one it looked as though Jones was going to try and answer. Tom diverted him as he looked down at the scene of crime photos. “Alas poor Lisa,” he said, gently, “that you should amount to this.”

  Jones coughed. “You don’t think there’s something more to this, sir?”

  “In what way, sergeant?” Tom looked up, enquiringly.

  “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I get when I’m talking to the other women. It’s as though they know something but are too scared to talk.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I get the feeling that there’s some sort of group – organisation – behind all this.”

  “There are plenty of organised rackets around here.”

  “No, something more upmarket.” Tom raised an eyebrow at Jones’ choice of words. “Some sort of influential group of men, you know like the…”

  “Yes, Jones,” Tom cut him off. “I follow your meaning.” He closed the file abruptly, angry with both himself and Jones. This was the third dead prostitute on his manor and the feeling in his bones was that she wouldn’t be the last. But there was nothing to connect the three murders – yet. The irony was that he’d been brought in to clean up the area after the previous inspector been linked to various vice rackets and had been given medical retirement.

  Tom sighed and forced himself to smile, albeit wearily, at Jones. Now the unthinkable had happened. Things had actually got worse. “How about chasing up that post mortem report?” He twisted the ring on his finger absent-mindedly.

  EIGHT

  Tuesday 6 July, 1993

  Hannah was sitting at a desk in her study, which would have been the third bedroom in her turn-of-the-century terraced house. It had been her home now just over seven years and the rooms had evolved around her. Framed theatre programmes clustered on the walls in the hall. In every room, shelves bowed under the weight of books. Furniture had been collected by inspiration rather than design, so that a rosewood dresser in the dining-room was mate to a more modern gate-leg table that had been donated by an uncle.

  Edwardian knick-knacks received from her grandparents’ home and old, lovingly restored family photographs in ancient frames gave a sense of period to the dining and sitting rooms. Only the kitchen was really modern, gleaming white against a pale blue. Hannah liked to sit at the circular table with the book propped up against something as she ate a solitary breakfast – that is if she didn’t take a coffee at into the tiny garden that was so peaceful in the early morning. The high fences and trees from neighbouring gardens blocked noise, so that you’d hardly believe you were in the middle of a city.

  The study overlooked the garden and Hannah sat at right angles to the window so she could turn and stare out whenever inspiration failed her. Now, however, she smiled at the photographs of Elizabeth arranged ad hoc on the wall in front of her.

  Until the birth of her daughter, Hannah had lived alone. Now sharing her home even with her own child, took some getting used to – the plastic ducks and all the paraphernalia in the bathroom, toys all over the house. Hannah wondered what it would be like as Elizabeth grew older and acquired more and more possessions… The thought made her feel guilty. Families of four or more lived quite happily in these houses. The house next door was home to a family of five.

  Hannah had been happy with her own company. Paul had only ever been an occasional weekend guest. They both liked their own space too much to consider sharing. At least that was what Hannah had thought. Her pregnancy had thrown new light on their relationship. Paul did want to marry one day, he said, but he didn’t want to tie himself to Hannah or her baby.

  “Are you sure it’s mine?” he asked, his eyes unable to meet hers.

  She shouldn’t have been shocked that Paul should come out with such an old line but she was. Her expression would have doused a blazing fire. He had the grace to apologise. But there was a sting.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s me or the baby. I just don’t want to be a father – yet.”

  It was the “yet” which hurt her most of all. Such a small word but a huge betrayal. Paul had taken her hand and stroked her palm. “You can still have me if…” He let the “if ” hang in the air and his tone assumed Hannah’s compliance. Another betrayal. He was stunned when she asked him to leave. She hadn’t seen him since and yet, sometimes, when she looked into her daughter’s face, her father’s expression seemed to mock her…

  The ringing of the phone broke into her reveries. Hannah always allowed it three rings before answering. It had become a ritual with her. Like counting the stairs as she went up them. It was, of course, reassuringly the same number every time.

  “Hello, Hannah Weybridge.”

  “Han – nah hi. Stewart Granger here. Great piece on the prostitute.”

  “Thank you.” Hannah held her breath, fingers crossed.

  “We just need a bit more detail about what she actually does.” Stewart stretched out each syllable to give it maximum impact. “You know the sort of thing.”

  Hannah’s heart sank. She hated having to fiddle with a piece once it was written and she had hoped Stewart’s call meant another commission. “But I thought The News was supposed to be a family newspaper?”

  “It is, it is. We just want you to put everything in and we’ll go through with the blue pencil this end.” His voice sounded even smarmier if that were possible.

  Hannah couldn’t see the point but she needed the money and couldn’t afford to upset anyone. “Fine. When do you want it by?”

  “Soon as. You know everything needed yesterday.”

  “I’ll fax it over to you this afternoon.”

  “Great stuff. It’s scheduled for Thursday week to tie in with the programme in the evening. Pics are super by the way.”

  “Oh good.” They would be wouldn’t they? “I’ll ring you this afte
rnoon when the copy’s ready.”

  “Great. Bye.”

  NINE

  Friday 9 July, 1993

  Princess was lying on top of her bed, writing in one of her red notebooks. She glanced at her watch. Five o’clock – plenty of time before she had to leave. She cupped her chin in her hand and paused for thought. So much was going round in her mind.

  The bed doubled as a sofa in the small room that comprised her home. A previous tenant had curtained off the kitchen alcove, hiding the stainless steel sink and the motley collection of pots and pans that she rarely used. There was a small fridge and a little spin dryer which she’d bought herself to save on visits to the launderette. And the other door in the room led to a tiny loo and shower room.

  The walls were covered with photographs meticulously cut out from glossy magazines. Princess Di vied for position with a still from The Bodyguard and another from Sister Act. She loved the cinema. Sometimes she went to matinées with some of the girls, usually Lisa and Mimi. The photographs displayed a luxurious lifestyle that was in marked contrast to where they hung. Peeling paintwork, faded wallpaper, yellowed from a series of inhabitants’ smoking and a threadbare rug was hardly designer living. She’d only been here two weeks and hadn’t got round to smartening the place up.

  She’d had to leave the last flat rather quickly when the landlord discovered how she earned his rent and decided he’d like more of a cut. When Princess refused, he produced a knife and held it against her throat, promising a new look for her face if she didn’t comply next time he asked for a percentage.

  And he had someone watching the house. A few days later, Princess had left the building carrying the pink bag she often took out with her to work, only this time it was packed to capacity with her clothes, cosmetics and most treasured possession – a leather-bound frame of a young man in an army uniform. It now held pride of place on the wall.

  She had found the bedsit through Sam at the station’s lost property office. Princess and the other working girls often left things with him if they needed to during the day and he was always ready with a mug of tea and some gossip. He was the eyes and ears of the Cross; a sad character who always appeared chirpy. Most of the girls adored him and he was never charged for his “relief”.

  Now he was her neighbour in the next room and had offered to help decorate. Princess dreamed of the tastefully furnished hotel rooms and luxurious bathrooms she sometimes had use of, while Whitney Houston singing “I will always love you” blared from the room below and the couple above her were arguing noisily as usual. She could hear every single word they shouted and she knew their dialogue by heart. It was the same every afternoon when he returned from the pub. The sound of items of furniture being thrown no longer perturbed her. It was all so familiar.

  So was the feeling of lethargy that threatened to engulf her. Could she face going out, working tonight? She sighed, knowing the answer. She needed the money and she needed to see the other girls. Sometimes they had a real laugh together when there were no men around. Although that was rare – most of them had boyfriends who were their pimps. Princess had never had a boyfriend and had no pimp either but she did pay a couple of all-night car park attendants to come to her aid should the need arise. These days you could never be sure.

  Look at Lisa. She was the nearest thing to a best friend and now she was dead. Princess had heard about her death from Sam on the afternoon of the interview. He’d been questioned for three hours, though none of the women could think why. No one could suspect Sam. Princess hadn’t worked that night. Now she felt cold in spite of the heat in the room and lit another cigarette. The ashtray was already full. She inhaled deeply.

  She knew Lisa had been made an offer she couldn’t refuse, something to do with the guy who cruised round in the black Merc. Lisa wasn’t the only one. At the time, Princess had felt quite jealous but now… She had been found dead and Princess was ready to bet that that driver had something to do with it. She’d asked around and she was sure Mimi had also been approached. And she hadn’t seen Mimi for weeks. Nor Tracey.

  The police seemed to be looking the other way. If they didn’t spend so much bleeding time nicking us, they might solve a few real crimes, Princess thought, that is if they aren’t up to their ears in it themselves.

  Stretching her limbs, she turned her attention back to the red exercise book she had been writing in. It had become like a drug with her now – writing – and she re-read what she had just penned:

  I keep having nightmares. I keep dreaming about Frank. When he raped me. You’d think after all the men I’ve fucked, it wouldn’t make any difference. But it does. It still hurts, remembering…

  TEN

  Seven years earlier

  Caroline was drying herself in the bathroom. It was 2.30 in the afternoon and it was bliss having the place to herself. In fact, since soon after Frank had moved in, she only ever had a bath when the flat was empty. She hated the way he was always watching her, or rubbing up against her when her mother wasn’t looking. He always made the excuse that he needed to pee when she was in the bath so she stopped bathing when he was around.

  She’d bunked off school and crept back into the flat after her mother had set off for work and Frank had left for the pub. Now the radio was turned up full and she was singing along to Diana Ross’s “Chain Reaction”, Capital Radio’s current number one. Caroline cupped her budding breasts and admired them in the mirror on the opposite wall. Then she thought of her mother’s pendulous pair. If that’s what having kids did for you…

  Suddenly she had the uncanny sensation of being watched. Caroline turned off the radio. “Hel-lo?” she called into the silence. The hinges on the bathroom door creaked in protest as the door was flung back to reveal Frank, a horrible leer on his face. With one hand he reached out and grabbed Caroline’s shoulder while his other hand stroked his erect penis, which stuck out grotesquely from his open flies.

  “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you, you little bitch?” Frank’s fingers were biting into her flesh.

  “Get out!” Caroline shrieked.

  Frank didn’t move. “I’ve seen you bunking off with your little boyfriends, you dirty little whore.”

  “Don’t you dare touch me! I’ll tell mum!”

  The slap across her face sounded like the crack of the whip. “You tell no one, right? No one or I’ll do fer yer and yer bleedin’ mother, right?” He grabbed her hair and yanked it viciously to emphasis his point. Caroline screamed out in agony and in that moment Frank bent her head forward and thrust himself into her mouth.

  Caroline gagged; she was suffocating. She struggled but her efforts seemed to excite him more and there was little she could do against a man more than twice her weight. Bite him. Just as the thought came into her mind, Frank, anticipating her, removed his swollen organ.

  “Not so fast, bitch,” he whispered into her face, his foul breath making her retch before an even worse assault on her body made her scream out. Frank pushed her to the floor and rammed his penis into her. She thought she was being torn apart. The pain. On and on it seemed to go on forever as he pinched her nipple, bit into her breast and pounded his dreadful weight over and on her. Just when she thought she would die, Frank let out a terrible groan and collapsed onto her. She thought he was dead, then realised he was still breathing.

  A few moments later, he rolled off her and Caroline just made it to the toilet before vomiting violently. She could sense Frank standing behind. “You can clear up that mess as well, you hear.”

  Caroline glanced down to where he was pointing at the blood on the floor. She was aware of something trickling between her legs and felt her stomach retch in revolt as she noticed the blood smeared on her legs. The room span and her childhood was over.

  ◊◊◊

  Friday 9 July, 1993

  I did tell my mum. Mum didn’t believe me. She called me a liar. Said I’d never liked Frank and was always trying to spoil things for her. I hated her th
en. I still hate her. She’s done this to me. It’s all her fault.

  Then I missed a period and found out I was pregnant. My mum called me a whore and a bitch but she didn’t believe it was Frank’s or that he’d raped me. Mum took me to social services. They got rid of the baby. I was glad. I didn’t want that pig’s child.

  I thought I’d be safe in the children’s home. I was from Frank. But not from the boys or the staff. I was on the pill by then…

  “Oh shit!” Princess jumped up and grabbed her handbag – searching inside for the packet. She stared at it in dismay. Yesterday’s pill was the third she’d missed this month.

  “Fuck.” She took two for good measure then made herself a cup of tea. Whatever she’d told that journalist, she did sometimes do it without a rubber. Not often. Only when she thought the punter was safe – a nice married man – or when she was desperate for extra cash. Some men would pay double for it without a rubber.

  “That’s all I need,” she said to the pristine bride doll sitting on the table by her bed. She rearranged the folds of the long white dress before turning her less careful but more creative attentions to herself.

  ELEVEN

  Thursday 15 July, 1993

  The closing credits rolled. Hannah picked up the remote and rewound the video. She’d recorded the programme and had watched it twice. She hadn’t been impressed with the documentary. It was superficial; the programme makers should have come up with something more original after spending nearly three months at King’s Cross. The women came across as set piece stereotypes, everybody’s idea of a hooker – cheap, tarty, over made up and not too intelligent. The police emerged as caring social workers with a sense of humour and a conscience. Tom Jordan spoke off camera most of the time, but when he did appear on-screen, he looked a bit too squeaky clean. You’d learn more about prostitution at King’s Cross from watching “Mona Lisa”. Hannah thought dismissively. The film had been a favourite of hers.