by Anne Coates
“That’s okay.”
“Do you have access to a fax?”
“We’ve got one here.” Karen gave her the number and they both switched on their cassette recorders.
◊◊◊
Going home in the taxi, Hannah mulled over the interview. The Collective was highly politicised. She couldn’t imagine Princess fitting into that group. They were adamant that prostitutes should not be portrayed as victims. They were women who saw sex as an easy way of making more money for less work. Most were mothers, working to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads. With the recession came an increase of women on the game. Karen did not express any view as to the desirability of this.
The police were seen as totally corrupt. A far cry from Tom’s portrayal of the Force. Karen claimed women were victimised, abused, threatened and blackmailed by the law enforcers and when it came to reporting crimes against them, the police just weren’t interested.
“One woman,” Karen told her, “reported a violent pimp and even gave the police his car registration number. He had threatened to slash her face. And what did the police do?” She stared at Hannah. “They told her to come back when he’d cut her up. They make me spit.”
That was about the only personal comment she made. The Collective never revealed which of them were working prostitutes, to protect themselves. Hannah was left wondering about Karen.
But she wasn’t left in any doubt about over legalising prostitution. Basically, Karen explained, prostitution itself wasn’t illegal, but soliciting, advertising, and women working together, constituting a brothel, were. What the Collective wanted was decriminalisation, not state-run brothels. Hannah had a great deal of sympathy for the cause, having read accounts of how such brothels were run abroad.
When she had asked her about the four murdered women, Karen had given her an odd look, which Hannah hadn’t been able to fathom.
“When the first one was found,” she said after the briefest pause, “the police were swarming all over the place. Then everything went quiet. Nobody cares about a dead prostitute.” She shrugged. “They’re making a bit of a fuss now, but maybe that’s just because four dead prostitutes make their files look untidy.”
Hannah thought about Tom. He hadn’t given her that impression. He appeared to care. But maybe for reasons of his own.
“Have the women who work the area any ideas?”
“No.” The answer was too ready and brooked no further discussion. As Hannah was leaving she said, “I can arrange for you to interview prostitute women – it’s £100 per hour and more for photos.”
Hannah gulped. That was a damn sight more than she earned. “I don’t think the magazine will stretch to that. We’re working to a tight budget.”
As the door closed behind her, Hannah smiled. She hadn’t liked Karen at all and she was glad she’d made her own arrangements for interviewing some prostitute women.
THIRTY
Tuesday 10 August
Hannah walked into the greasy spoon in the corner of Balfe Street. After all the glorious sunshine, the weather had changed. It was a grey, overcast day and the interior actually looked more inviting than it had appeared from the other side of the steamed-up windows. She walked over to the counter and ordered herself a black coffee. In the time it had taken to be poured and paid for, Hannah had made a swift assessment of every female in the room.
Coffee in hand, Hannah made for a corner table. “Mind if I join you?” she asked the woman sitting there reading a paperback: Felix Holt by George Eliot.
Dark grey eyes peering over half-moon glasses took her measure. “Suit yourself.” She returned to her book.
Hannah sipped her coffee and burned her tongue. “Shit.” The woman looked up. Her expression was not inviting. Hannah activated the hidden recorder and cleared her throat. “You’re Marti, aren’t you?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, but Hannah knew she was right. Caroline, albeit unwittingly, had supplied her with plenty of information. They had watched the documentary programme together – Caroline hadn’t seen it previously. Hannah made mental notes as Caroline pointed out landmarks and named cafés and bars they used, giving her very clear clues as to where to find two of the women who had appeared with her in the documentary – although she wouldn’t have recognised Marti from the film. In the light of day, she looked older, more tired and very definitely guarded.
“Who’s asking?” Her accent was hard to define. There was a Somerset burr underling her hard nasal London tones.
“My name’s Hannah Weybridge. I’m a journalist. I interviewed a girl called Princess…”
The woman scraped her chair back. Hannah reached out and caught her arm and in doing so knocked over her coffee. There were some paper serviettes on the table and she mopped up the mess quickly. “Please don’t go. I want to help. I’ll pay you for your time… I …”
Marti closed her book having carefully inserted a piece of paper to mark the page she was reading. “And just what do you think you can do?”
“I’m writing a piece for The News about Princess’s disappearance. They’re offering a reward for information. Something’s got to be done before more women get murdered.”
The woman snorted. “More girls you mean. It’s only the young, good-looking ones they’re after.”
“Who?”
Marti looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go and collect the kids from school.” She stood up and walked out. Hannah followed her and fell in step as they walked up the Caledonian Road.
“Did you know the murdered girls well?”
“No.”
“Do you have any dealings with someone called Don?” Hannah persisted.
“No I don’t!” The woman stopped short. “Look I don’t know nothing, right? All I know is that four girls have been killed and nobody seems to be doing much about it.”
“Perhaps the article will help… Someone may know where Princess has disappeared to…”
“And what good’s that going to do? Fuck all!” Marti looked furious.
Hannah shrugged. “Thanks for your time anyway. If you think of anything, my telephone number’s written on this.” She handed the woman a £20 note and walked briskly back the way they had come. She was thrown by the encounter. Although she hadn’t known what reaction to expect, she had thought that Marti would open up to her. A naïve assumption as it turned out. Or maybe, as Marti claimed, she really didn’t know anything.
At the Queen’s Head, Hannah drew another blank, Jaynie was not in evidence. She asked the barman if he’d seen her but he said she hadn’t been in for a while.
“Try the Mucky Duck round the corner,” he suggested, after accepting the proffered £10 note.
Hannah thanked him and left. The Mucky Duck was in fact the White Swan. Hannah ordered a dry white wine; it was so warm, she had to ask for some ice. Jaynie, she discovered, was the young woman sitting smoking gloomily in an alcove.
“What’s she drinking?”
“Bacardi and coke?” The barmaid gave her an old-fashioned look,
“Make it a double and have one yourself,” Hannah rather enjoyed having the news desk cash.
“Thanks.” The barmaid poured the drinks and handed Hannah her change.
Jaynie looked up suspiciously when Hannah joined her with the drinks.
“The barmaid said you were drinking Bacardi,” Hannah pushed the drink over to her.
“And who the fuck are you? My fairy fucking godmother?”
“Nothing so glamorous. I’m looking for someone and I thought you might know her.” Hannah thought a different tack might be appropriate.
“Oh yeah?” There was no spark of interest. Jaynie’s bleached hair was cut short. Her make-up was heavy and not particularly flattering. Hannah thought of how different Caroline looked now. Jaynie must be about the same age.
“I’m looking for a girl named Princess –” the deceit came easier with practice.
“Why?”
“Sh
e’s missing.”
“So?”
“I’m trying to find her.”
“Why?” Jaynie gulped her drink. “What’s she to you?”
“I interviewed her a month or so ago, for a newspaper.”
Jaynie snorted. “We’re running a story on her disappearance.”
“Big fucking deal.” The voice had an affected weariness.
Hannah pulled out some notes. “I can pay you…”
“Lazy bitch!” Hannah hadn’t heard the man approach and was stunned as a hand hit Jaynie full in the face.
“What the ...?” Hannah tried to intervene.
“Out.” The man’s voice brooked no argument, Hannah turned to see a pale, pimply face. The nose looked as though it had been broken several times and there was a long scar running from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth. It made him look as though he had a perpetual smile that was clearly at variance with his usual mood, if now was anything to go by.
Jaynie got up. “I was only ’aving a drink,” she said sullenly.
“Outside!”
Hannah swallowed hard as Jaynie moved quickly to avoid another assault.
“And you –” the man turned his attention to Hannah and she tried not to flinch – “you fuck off and leave my woman alone. Right?”
Hannah could only nod. The sheer brutality of the man and the menace in his voice had frightened her more that she cared to admit. She wanted to explain, but decided anything she said would be taken the wrong way and probably make matters worse. She watched him walk unhurriedly out of the bar. The few other drinkers made sure they didn’t catch his eye. No one said anything.
Breathing deeply, Hannah concentrated her mind on a mental picture of Elizabeth. When her hand had stopped shaking, she finished her drink and left the bar, aware that at least one pair of eyes was riveted to her movements. In the back of the cab going home, Hannah’s composure disintegrated and she gave way to the tears of frustration and anger. She simply wasn’t cut out for this type of work.
◊◊◊
When Hannah got home, there was only one message on the answerphone. Rory’s voice came over loud and clear: “Hi, Hannah. Not much joy with the check you asked us to run. We know he moved to the Cross when he said he did but before then seems a bit of a fudge. Stonewalling all round. If we get anything concrete, will fax it over. Take care, won’t you.”
The message did nothing to allay her fears.
◊◊◊
As she got into bed that night, her mind replayed the scene in the White Swan. And the English Collective thinks prostitutes aren’t victims, she said to herself. She wondered if she should tell the girl in the next room, then thought the better of it. Caroline would only tell her what a naïve fool she’d been. I just don’t know anything, do I? she whispered to the shadows.
THIRTY-ONE
Writing about someone who was missing, even presumed dead, in the sure knowledge that she was very much alive and well and sunbathing in your garden, was proving a difficult task for Hannah. She began her piece several times before she was even remotely happy with it. Facts, she told herself over and over again. Stick with the facts you have been given.
Once or twice she realised she’d written something which implied a deeper knowledge, revealing information she did in fact have but couldn’t possibly be expected to know. Careful, she admonished herself and felt sick in the pit of her stomach. This was much harder than she’d anticipated. The pink bag was a clue. She’d learned from Caroline that she often left it at the lost property office at the station. She’d dithered about including it, but in the end she did and hoped the subs would delete it as padding.
She read and reread her article, reluctant to let it go. But in the end, there was nothing more she could add – or subtract. The deed was done and she telephoned Rory to say the fax was on its way.
As always when a task was completed, Hannah felt full of energy. She went out into the garden. Caroline was on a lounger. “You’re burning. Put some more of this on if you won’t cover up.”
“Don’t nag.” Caroline sat up and pushed the sunhat further back on her head. “I don’t know, your bathroom’s like a chemist’s with all those lotions and creams and things. You must spend a fortune.”
Hannah laughed. “Not guilty. They’re all samples. I write beauty features and get to test the products.”
“Nice one.” Caroline smoothed more cream on her legs. Hannah watched her. She’d put on a few pounds and, relaxed like this, she looked lovely. What a difference to the beaten-up whore who’d arrived on her doorstep and, thank God, to the photos that were going to appear the day after tomorrow with her article.
“Right.” Hannah stood up, “I’m off to collect Elizabeth. Can I interest you in a walk in the park?”
Caroline made a face. “Thought not.” Hannah smiled. “See you later.”
THIRTY-TWO
Thursday 12 August, 1993
Hannah hardly recognised her own article in the double page spread before her. The subs had really gone to town on it. Someone had also managed to get a few good quotes from prostitutes at King’s Cross. It made Hannah’s sense of failure there even more keen. They hadn’t tinkered with Tom’s words. Hannah was grateful for small mercies. And mentions of Tony Vitello were fairly tame. The photos of Princess had a very different effect in black and white, somehow more sordid.
The telephone rang, making Hannah jump. “Think it will do any good?” Tom’s voice sounded warm and strangely intimate.
“I don’t know. I’d like to think so,” she said, metaphorically crossing her fingers at the lie. “How are you? I didn’t thank you properly for the meal. It was a lovely evening.”
“I’m sorry it had to be cut short.” Tom’s voice was soft. Hannah wondered exactly what he meant and felt herself blushing.
“Yes… perhaps you’d like to come here for a meal some time?”
“I’d be delighted… Just a minute…” Hannah heard him talking to someone else who’d obviously just come into the room. “Sorry Hannah, something’s just come up. I’ll have to phone you back. Bye.”
◊◊◊
“There’s a cab driver downstairs, sir. He thinks he may have picked up Princess a few weeks ago.”
“And no doubt is interested in The News reward money?” Tom sighed. This was just the beginning. All sorts would be crawling out of the woodwork at the smell of money.
WPC Spenser shrugged. “It sounds quite promising. He picked up a girl answering to Princess’s description in Kentish Town about three to four weeks ago. She’d been badly beaten up.”
Tom Jordan tensed. Kentish Town. That tied in with some other information they’d received. This could just be the lead they’d been waiting for. The link they needed. Perhaps Princess had escaped the murderers’ clutches. “And?”
“Apparently he didn’t realise how badly she’d been injured until he collected his next fare.” She paused, guessing what the inspector’s reaction would be. “The back seat was covered in blood.”
Tom slammed down a file on his desk. “I thought we had an arrangement with these drivers. They’re supposed to report anything like that.”
Tom turned on WPC Spenser. The anger in his eyes made her take an involuntary step backwards. “I don’t know sir, I…”
“And why hasn’t he come forward before?”
“He’s been away… on holiday… he…”
Tom stopped pacing. “I’m sorry, Avril. I shouldn’t be grilling you. I know it’s not your fault. It’s just we’ve been working so long in the dark getting nowhere. Then some tabloid rag offers a huge reward for information and hey presto we have a lead. Come on,” he said, picking up his jacket, “let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”
◊◊◊
The taxi driver, Jim Cole, was in his late 50s; he was thickset with grey hair and a lined face that rarely betrayed his true feelings. He looked as though he might have been a boxer in his youth. He had a paternalistic a
ir. He rarely did stations, he said. And so had slipped the net when the police were interviewing black cab drivers using the King’s Cross rank.
“I’ve been away see… holiday…”
“And why didn’t you report the incident before, Jim?”
The driver spread his hands, “Look guv, live and let live I say. She was on the game, right? Got done over? Why should I add to her misery?”
Tom ignored this. “Describe her.”
“Well, she didn’t look much like them photos. Slim, long blond hair. But she looked a mess. Black eye. Could hardly speak. I did ask her if she wanted an ’ospital but she said no.”
“So how did you connect the two?”
Jim was enjoying this and wanted to prolong his moment of triumph. “I didn’t at first, did I? When I got the paper last night, I skipped the words an’ just looked at the photos. Then later something jolted me. The bracelet she was wearing in the pictures.”
“Go on.” Tom leaned forward, his whole body tensing.
“Well, I remember noticing it in the street light, didn’t I? And the pink bag.” Jim paused, knowing he now held their interest.
“Yes?”
“I took ’er back to some street off the Cross and she went into an house and collected this pink bag. Big fluorescent thing it was. She paid me an’ asked me to wait. I say ask, it was more like a croak. She could hardly speak, poor cow. Looked like someone had gone for her throat.”
Tom and Avril exchanged glances.
“The bag, Jim.”
“Yeah. It mentions a pink bag in the paper.” He had hoped for more of a reaction, but the two faces before him were deadpan.
“So what happened then, Jim?” Avril spoke for the first time.
“It was a quiet night for fares so I waited, didn’t I? She come back and give me a piece of paper with an address on it. Then she slumped in the back of the cab till we got there.”
“And you didn’t notice all the blood until later?”
Tom swore under his breath at WPC Spenser’s intervention. The blood was the last thing he was worried about. He didn’t give the driver time to reply.
