Play With Fire

by William Shaw

  ‘Oh,’ she said, as the students who had just been painting her pushed past them. He scrutinised her face.

  ‘You’re Florence, aren’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘Not here I’m not, anyway,’ she said. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘If I’d known you were a copper I’d have had you thrown out of there.’

  ‘I apologise.’

  ‘For someone who’s just spent forty minutes staring at my naked fanny without asking permission, you’re suddenly very sensitive.’

  ‘I didn’t interrupt because I didn’t think these people would want to know that you also work as a prostitute’s madam.’

  ‘I’m a maid, not a madam. It’s completely different.’

  One of the students who had been watching this exchange, big-eyed, said, ‘Is he bothering you?’

  ‘This is an art school. If anything, working as a maid gives me a certain cachet. Did my body excite you, officer?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  She laughed; a rich, phlegmy cigarette-smoker’s laugh. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

  ‘I’ll have to arrest you then.’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘There was nothing in the papers, but I’ve seen the police at her flat. It’s not hard to work it out. I knew something was wrong.’ She looked up again, meeting Breen’s eye. ‘I called her, but nobody answered. So I knew why the police were there. Was it bad? I’d like to know.’

  ‘You should have come forward. We’ve wasted time looking for you.’

  ‘What? So you can arrest me?’

  ‘That depends on what you’ve done.’

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘What should I call you? Florence?’

  ‘You can call me Mrs Caulk,’ she said, descending the stairs. ‘How did you find me, then?’

  ‘Mr Payne showed me your painting. So I’ve seen you naked already.’

  ‘And still you come back for more?’ Another deep, rumbling laugh. ‘Poor Mr Payne. How is he? You’ve talked to him? I bet he loves all the coppers coming and going. He’s lonely.’

  He followed after her. They walked out into the brightness of George Street.

  ‘Why didn’t you contact the police when you suspected Miss Bobienski was dead?’

  ‘Why do you think? I’ve been busy,’ she said, looking down again.

  He stared at her some more. Was she hiding something, or was it just her profession’s usual reluctance to talk to policemen that made her so evasive? ‘When did you last see Miss Bobienski?’

  She set off again, walking back the way he’d come. ‘Thursday night. I’m busy now as a matter of fact.’

  ‘So let’s continue this conversation at the police station.’

  ‘Are you going to be boring?’ she said.

  ‘Very. Unless you talk to me now. You’re the last person we know of who saw her alive. And you’re a suspect, obviously.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Do I have to make you?’

  She stopped walking and scrutinised him. ‘What I really want,’ she said, ‘is an ice cream.’

  ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  They walked down George Street towards an Italian restaurant that Breen knew. The owner emerged from the kitchen to shake his hand. ‘What flavour do you want?’ asked Breen.

  ‘Strawberry,’ said Mrs Caulk.

  ‘Fragola,’ said the man.

  He returned two minutes later with two ice-cream cones. ‘No money,’ he said.

  Breen pulled out a ten-shilling note. ‘People might think you’re bribing me.’

  ‘I am trying,’ said the restaurateur, laughing.

  They sat on a bench in the sunshine in Manchester Square watching the crowd of girls who stood outside EMI Records.

  ‘Yes. I suppose I should have come to see you,’ said Mrs Caulk. ‘Poor Lena. Was it bad?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll be honest. I didn’t like her much, really.’

  ‘How long had you known her?’

  ‘Lena hired me about ten months ago,’ said Mrs Caulk. ‘She said she needed a maid. I wasn’t looking for new work, but the money was good, so…’

  ‘She dressed up as a teenager.’

  ‘Everything is about being young these days. Everybody wants to be young. She understood that.’

  ‘I saw her clothes.’

  She stuck out her tongue and ran it slowly up the side of her ice cream. ‘Oh God. This is the 1960s. Youth is everywhere. Some people, like you… I can see you looking at those young girls.’ She nodded towards the EMI building. ‘Some of them are young enough to be your daughter.’

  ‘I’m a policeman. It’s what we do. We look.’

  She took another lick and said, ‘The policemen I have dealings with don’t usually stop at just looking.’

  ‘It’s nothing I’m interested in.’

  ‘I expect you’re a poof, then,’ she said.

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Don’t get all huffy with me. There’s nothing wrong with poofs. They’re the most honest men I know. They’ve owned up to what they really want, at least. Plenty of men never do.’

  ‘And what do men really want?’ he asked.

  She was down to the cone already. She crunched through it loudly. ‘Power. To have it or to lose it. Some men like being spanked. They like being dominated. Others like to dominate. The men who used to come to Julie, they would have sex with those girls there if they could. They’re the ones who like that kind of power. Understand power and you can be rich.’

  Breen looked at the lovestruck teenagers across the road who spent their time mooning around outside recording studios, or some pop star’s flat in Montague Square.

  ‘What sort of men want to have sex with those girls over there?’ she asked.

  ‘Perverts, I suppose?’

  ‘“Pervert”. What does that even mean?’ she said. ‘Do my job for long enough and you’ll come to realise that all men are perverts.’

  ‘I’m a policeman. I think everyone’s a criminal.’

  She laughed, briefly. ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘It’s about to drip on your trousers. Don’t want any embarrassing stains, do we?’

  Vanilla ice cream was trickling down his hand. He walked to a bin and threw away his half-eaten cone, then wiped his hand with a handkerchief. As he did so, he watched a taxi arrive outside the record company. A doorman emerged to shoo the girls away. Some were cool and leggy in miniskirts, others dressed as if they didn’t care, in old leather jackets and boots. They hooted at the doorman; in return he shouted something back at them, but they didn’t budge.

  ‘They don’t look that easy to dominate, to me,’ said Breen.

  She laughed again, but then stopped just as abruptly. ‘You’re right. They’re not. They’re not like I was when I was their age. When I was a teenager I did what I was told. Mostly, at least. But that just makes them more desirable, doesn’t it?’

  ‘She pretended to be like that?’ He nodded towards the girls.

  ‘I’ve been a maid for a lot of women,’ she said. ‘Never one like her. She was a piece of work, I tell you. I mean, nothing against her. But she had an act. It was good. She didn’t mind turning it on to get what she wanted. I respected that. Didn’t like it, though.’

  ‘What sort of act?’

  ‘I thought it was a bit creepy, being honest, all that teenager thing. She always used to get the gentlemen to buy her presents. This little-girl show. “Promise me you’ll get me it?” She’d order them to bring her singles. Or clothes. Or chocolates. Jewellery. Underwear. She knew that would embarrass them. Just like a selfish little modern girl, really. It was this big performance and they lapped it up. She knew that they were all a bit frightened of little girls like that.’

  ‘S
he teased them?’

  ‘It’s what they came back for. They all bought presents. Like good little boys.’

  ‘So they were regulars?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Thirteen. No, twelve. They paid well. It’s all she needed. They were her sugar daddies. That was the ones she wanted. Regulars who came back. She cultivated the ones who she could control.’

  ‘So they might have been angry at her because of the way she manipulated them?’

  ‘Of course. It’s always dangerous. That’s why you have a maid outside. If you can afford it.’ She reached inside her shoulder bag and pulled out a cigarette, offering Breen one. ‘But I wasn’t there when it happened.’

  ‘Tell me about Thursday night.’

  ‘She worked three nights a week. Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Thursday she only had a couple of appointments.’

  ‘Was there anything different about that night?’

  ‘Not really. I remember she was a bit irritated that Zapata didn’t tip.’

  ‘His name was Zapata?’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t be stupid. I called him Zapata because he had a silly moustache. His first name is Torquil, I think, but none of them ever give their real names.’

  ‘So he left?’

  ‘Yes. Then at eleven it was Mr Bites-His-Nails.’

  ‘Another regular? Someone who bites his nails…’

  ‘Yes. But only on his left hand which I thought was strange. Like I said, she only has regulars. This wasn’t a walk-in business. It was specialist. These were big payers.’

  ‘Were you there when Mr… Nails left?’

  ‘Obviously. That’s my job. To stay till they’re finished. That’s what I’m paid for. That was how it worked. That was why it was odd when I came and she’d been entertaining after I’d gone. The place was a tip.’

  ‘It was? It was tidy when I first saw it.’

  ‘Because I’d cleaned it up. I got there on Friday and the room was a mess. Someone must have come around later.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘I doubt it. She didn’t have one. Not as far as I knew. She wasn’t like that. For someone whose job it was to look like she was enjoying herself, she never had any real fun. Not for herself, anyway. Besides, it’s not unusual for working girls not to have boyfriends. If they do, the boys either want them to stop working, or they’re cheeky bastards who want some of the money.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what the room looked like when you found it. What was different to normal?’

  ‘There was a champagne bottle on the floor, for starters. A couple of glasses. Cushions had been knocked about a bit. The bed wasn’t made.’

  ‘So it was someone she knew who’d been drinking with her?’

  ‘It certainly looked like it.’

  ‘And someone she’d gone to bed with?’

  ‘Not necessarily. She usually tidied up her bed sometime after the clients had been. Sometimes she left it to the morning. Maybe she hadn’t done that before…’

  ‘So you washed the glasses and threw away the bottle?’

  ‘I dropped it in the bin on the way out.’

  Blunt instrument, thought Breen.

  ‘Do you remember? Was the lift working on Thursday night?’

  ‘It wasn’t on Friday, that’s for sure. But I think it was fine the day before. In fact, yes. I remember Mr Bites-His-Nails taking it down. He was a little drunk. He took a while closing the lift door. It’s one of those gates, and unless you close it properly, it doesn’t work.’

  She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out on the pavement.

  ‘You realise you tidied up a crime scene? There might have been fingerprints.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t to know.’

  The leaves of the plane tree moved slowly in a breeze. ‘Do you make up names for all the men?’

  ‘Do I get protection?’

  ‘Why would you need it?’

  ‘Well, somebody did something to Lena, didn’t they? Because I’m not giving you anyone’s name unless you can guarantee my safety.’

  ‘You have their names?’

  ‘Not their real names, mostly. It’s like Zapata. I keep notes in my diary. A list of the johns. I was always careful.’

  ‘What about financial records?’

  ‘They all paid in cash, so there were no cheques. We didn’t accept them. You can always cancel a cheque after. Once they get home to their wives the poor little boys are ashamed of what they’ve done. If I talk to you, how are you going to guarantee my safety?’

  ‘Were any of them ever violent with Miss Bobienski?’

  ‘Other girls I’ve worked with, they’ve been attacked. Some men like to be rough. That’s why I keep all the names, as much detail as I can. It’s part of the job. But nobody touched Lena. Except… well, obviously they did in the end, didn’t they?’ Her hands shook a little, as she said it, but her face showed no emotion.

  The square was filling up with office workers taking a lunch break. Men with their jackets off; women in dark glasses. They unwrapped packets of sandwiches and pulled out flasks, sitting on the grass.

  ‘So let me get this straight. The men call up to make appointments?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did they speak to Lena, or to you?’

  ‘She preferred it that they called in the evenings when I was working there. Thursday to Saturday. She didn’t like to be the one taking the calls and discussing fees. It didn’t fit with her little-girl act. And that way I knew all her appointments, see?’

  ‘I’ll need that diary you talked about.’

  ‘I don’t really think so,’ said Mrs Caulk. ‘It’s personal.’

  ‘It was business, you said.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you want to help catch someone who killed the woman you worked with?’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘I don’t prosecute you for living off immoral earnings.’

  ‘You’re such a bloody policeman, you know that?’ She sat for a while, a dark look on her face, then opened her shoulder bag, lifted out her purse, then pulled out a desk diary. ‘I always carry it with me. Force of habit.’ She held it out. ‘I want it back.’

  ‘It’s evidence.’

  ‘Copy it out then. But that’s mine.’

  It was a well-thumbed black book with ‘1969’ in silver on the cover. Breen flicked through the pages. The bottom of Lena’s working days was ruled off into several sections. There were names written into each slot. Some were simple enough. Bill. Harry. Mr Jones. Others looked like they had been more obviously made up. Vincent Price; Fingers.

  ‘Vincent Price?’ he said, looking up.

  ‘If they didn’t give their name, either she’d make one up for them or I would, so we’d both know who it was. He’s a regular. He looks a bit like Vincent Price, that’s all. That’s not going to help you much.’

  He turned to Thursday, 3 July. Just as she said, there were two names. 7 p.m. Zapata. 11 p.m. Bites-His-Nails. It was a neat, businesslike, if slightly unconventional record.

  ‘You didn’t like her, though, did you?’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t lie. There was not much of her to like. She worked. She did the Julie Teenager act and she was very good at it. But a little ruthless, even for my taste.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It was a job, that was all. And maybe she could be a bit cruel, too. There was one man. Public school. Oxbridge.’

  ‘He told you this?’

  ‘They don’t have to. You can tell. The way they talk and dress. All buttoned up and shy. It’s like they’re fighting to catch up with the modern world. Like you.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about me,’ said Breen.

  ‘You’d be surprised. That haircut. Those shoes. Working-class boy made good. The way you look at those girls.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he said.

  �
�This one called himself Ronnie, and in his case I think that probably was his real name. No surname though. He was only young. Married. Children too, I think. He always took his ring off but you could see the mark on his finger. Some of our johns are just playing a game. Others fall in love. It’s bad when that happens. God, he fell in love. And she played him. She made him buy presents. Little things, but quite expensive.’

  ‘She blackmailed him?’

  ‘Oh no. It wasn’t like that. It was funny, some of it. She’d asked for jewellery or something, and he turned up with this piece of antique jet – a necklace. It looked like he’d inherited it from a maiden aunt. Lena burst into tears like she was some disappointed teenager. Fake tears of course. I don’t think anything real ever made her cry. But she did it so well it was creepy. He came back next week with this Andrew Grima ring.’

  He must have looked blank.

  ‘Grima, for pity’s sake,’ she said. ‘He does all Princess Margaret’s stuff. Has a shop in Jermyn Street. You’ve honestly never heard of him?’

  ‘How do you spell it?’

  She grabbed his notebook and wrote down the name. ‘It was a pretty thing. A bit gaudy, perhaps. Something like that would have cost at least sixty quid. Imagine. God knows what Ronnie’s family were living off. And when I asked to see the ring later, she told me she didn’t have it any more.’ She looked at him then added, ‘I bet she just flogged it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘’Bout a month ago.’ She grabbed the diary off him and scanned the pages. ‘There,’ she said, pointing to a date in May.

  He took it back from her and looked at the page. Ronnie. 9 p.m. 16 May. A Friday. ‘So it could have been him?’

  ‘It could have been any of them.’

  He turned back through the days. Ronnie’s previous appointment had been the weekend before. He pointed at the entry: ‘So that’s when he offered her the necklace?’

  ‘Yes. It must have been.’

  ‘Did she ever talk about her family?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I asked about it once. I think her father was a big war hero. She never really talked about him, though. It was only business.’

  ‘What about this coming weekend?’ He flicked forward a few pages.

  ‘Quiet, so far. They only tend to book a week in advance. And of course, this weekend I wasn’t there to take anything. I think there’s a couple on Thursday, though.’