Grave Passion

by Phillip Strang

  Not mine, Wendy thought. Hers was curly enough, and besides, she had heard similar stories before.

  ‘I stayed there for four months, saved up some money and went out on my own. Good money, decent men who paid well, and some of them even knew what they were doing.’

  ‘The photo?’ Gwen said.

  ‘There were other women there. One of them was the woman in the photo.’

  ‘Analyn?’

  ‘She didn’t use that name. She was there for a couple of weeks and disappeared, not that she ever fitted in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was clean, no drugs. She was popular, made decent money, but it was forced, as if she did it because she had to, as though she felt shame.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Never have, not really.’

  ‘Any idea what happened to her?’

  ‘Not after she left.’

  ‘An address for the brothel?’

  ‘Don’t say it was me that sent you. That’s the past, I’d prefer not to revisit it, and I’ve found myself another man. He’d not want to know the sordid details.’

  Wendy scrolled through the images on her phone, Meredith looking over her shoulder.

  ‘I know her,’ Meredith said.

  ‘Janice Robinson.’

  ‘Yes, Janice. I was friendly with her, although she was worse than me. Drugs, that was her problem, unable to keep away from them.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘It wasn’t so difficult. A good place in my life and they didn’t seem important, but Janice…’

  Wendy continued to scroll, Meredith looking more closely than before.

  ‘Stop. That one,’ Meredith said. ‘I know her.’

  ‘We’ve not found anyone who has met her before,’ Gwen said. ‘How come you do.’

  ‘She didn’t work in the brothel, but she knew the woman in charge. Sometimes she’d come in, look around, never spoke to any of the girls.’

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘I never heard it mentioned. She was an attractive woman, spoke well, could have made good money, but it’s not everyone’s idea of employment. Better than waitressing, though. Anything’s better than that.’

  ‘She’s dead, Kensal Green Cemetery. We need you at Challis Street for an interview. You, Meredith Temple, are an important person.’

  ‘Square it with her outside.’

  ‘By the way, what were you in prison for?’

  ‘I had this client who should have known better. He starts getting demonstrative, sprouting the bible at me, Sodom and Gomorrah, blaming me for his inability to get it up. I push him off the bed, and he bangs his head on the floor, suffers internal bleeding of the brain and dies in hospital. They said I had purposely banged his head on the floor, not that I did.

  ‘I’m sentenced for involuntary manslaughter, and then the man’s estranged wife turns up at her local police station, says that she’s been overseas in Nepal or some other place, explains that her husband had been diagnosed years before as susceptible to an aneurysm. No idea why it didn’t come out at the trial in the first place, but then a prostitute, a lawyer for a client – what could you expect?’

  ‘No more,’ Wendy said.

  Chapter 18

  Wendy wasn’t a fan of football, but her husband had been, the reason she had been to Wembley Stadium on a few occasions, the first time back in the eighties, and more recently on 17th May 2008, the FA cup final between Portsmouth and Cardiff City, with Portsmouth winning 1-0, the winning goal kicked by Nwankwo Kanu.

  The stadium loomed large as Wendy and Sergeant Garry Hopwood from the local police station – she had informed them out of courtesy, not wanting to encroach on the station’s area of operation – drew up outside the address that Meredith Temple said had been operating as a brothel.

  Entering a brothel came with certain risks, and too many brothels, even those close to Challis Street, were involved in the selling of illegal drugs.

  It was intended to be low-key, just the two sergeants, but Hopwood's senior, a bully of a man with pudgy hands, a tie off-centre, and perspiring, had been adamant. ‘No going in there unless all bases are covered,’ he had said.

  He was right, Wendy knew, and Detective Inspector Con Waverton had a good reputation, even if he was unpopular.

  At the rear of the premises, a three-storey terrace, two uniforms waited for those who’d be dashing out, not wanting to be caught, their names to be taken.

  It was ten in the evening, the busiest time of the day.

  Meredith Temple had been at Challis Street from two in the afternoon until six in the evening. During that time, she had given a statement, scanned through hundreds of photos of women of the night. Apart from a couple of women, she hadn’t been able to identify anyone, other than to say that Eastern European women, mainly from Ukraine, were flooding in, and some of them were underage, and that the Asians were being pushed out to the more disreputable premises.

  Larry had the address of a third English woman that had been at the brothel. He intended to visit her.

  Waverton stood away from the front of the brothel, not far from a pub. Wendy knew where he would be heading afterwards, successful or not.

  Garry Hopwood knocked at the door, showed his warrant card; Wendy showing hers as well.

  ‘What do you want?’ an elderly woman said. Her hair was piled high and dyed a shade of blue. She wore a frilled white blouse, a short blue skirt and tottered on stiletto heels.

  ‘Running a brothel’s illegal,’ Hopwood said.

  Waverton should have taken the lead, which made Wendy think that the man was willing to take a backhander to look the other way, a freebie at a house of ill repute.

  Once the murders had been solved, she’d pass on her suspicions to her DCI. She wasn’t at the house to make arrests, only to find out who the dead woman was and where Analyn was.

  ‘So’s lying to the police,’ Wendy said. She went in the door, walking to the end of the long hallway, ensuring the back door was locked, removing the key.

  There was no doubt what was going on in the building. There was a distinct rustling upstairs, the men with their peccadilloes exposed, their marriages about to blow asunder.

  ‘I’ve lived here for twelve years, never a complaint,’ the woman said. It wasn’t true; Wendy had checked.

  A man dashed out from a room to the left and made for the back door. He didn’t get far, turning on the spot, aiming to get past the three standing in his way. ‘I can’t be found here,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll need a statement,’ Hopwood said to him.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘If you and the others could make yourselves comfortable, we won’t take long.’

  Two more police officers came in through the front door, showed the madam the search warrant. They climbed the stairs; a search for drugs was underway.

  ‘Your name?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Gwendoline.’

  ‘Your real name.’

  ‘Mary Wilton.’

  ‘Now Mrs Wilton, or is it Ms?’

  ‘Mrs will do.’

  ‘You had two women working here, one of them was Janice Robinson, the other was Meredith Temple.’

  ‘There’s not much point in denying it, is there?’

  ‘None. Drugs here?’

  ‘It’s clean.’

  Wendy thought it probably was. Apart from the house being used illegally, it was in good condition.

  ‘We know of another English woman. Any more?’

  ‘Not these days, and besides, they’re bad news. Drugs, they can’t keep off them. Janice and Meredith couldn’t.’

  ‘Nationalities here?’ Hopwood asked.

  ‘Eastern European, one Thai, two Vietnamese.’

  ‘Financial refugees?’

  ‘I don’t check. All I know is that they give me less trouble than the locals. And believe me, that’s the last thing we need. Enough with some of the men who come through the door.’

  ‘You’ve a c
ouple of men here if there’s any trouble?’

  ‘You’re remarkably well-informed. Who was it? Janice? Meredith?’

  ‘Neither. Meredith’s straightened herself out, no longer selling herself, and Janice is dead.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Murdered, and don’t pretend that you don’t know. It’s been plastered on the radio and television, and social media was full of it for a while.’

  Detective Inspector Waverton entered through the front door. Any more weight, Wendy thought, and he would have had to come in like a crab, sideways.

  Mary Wilton looked at Waverton, feigned a smile, changing it to a scowl. Waverton wouldn’t be getting special treatment that night, nor could he avoid arresting the woman.

  The four retreated to the back of the house, a small bar in one corner, two sofas where the women would wait, scantily dressed, while the men made their choice.

  Waverton took the most comfortable of the sofas, Wendy sitting alongside him. Hopwood remained standing, and Mary Wilton leaned against the wall, her arms folded.

  ‘Mrs Wilton,’ Wendy said, ‘you employed a woman from the Philippines, Analyn.’

  ‘The name is not familiar.’ She knew the situation was tenuous, having been there before. Denying what was obvious wouldn’t assist her case, and the maximum sentence was between six months and seven years. She would be truthful.

  One of the uniforms came into the room. ‘No drugs, not that we can find.’

  A sniffer dog would have had more success, Wendy knew, but that was up to Waverton and the Brent Police. It wasn’t going to happen, and the woman would be charged with running a brothel, the women working there would be checked for their right to be in the country, their age, and cautioned. Yet again, Waverton’s decision.

  Wendy passed over a photo of Analyn, a blow-up from William Townsend’s phone. The definition had been lost in enlarging it, but it was clear enough for the purpose.

  ‘Not the name she used. She wasn’t here for long, no idea where she is now.’

  ‘I don’t have an issue with you on that,’ Wendy said. ‘The woman’s elusive, but we need to find her. Any idea where?’

  ‘Sorry, pointless asking. I just don’t know. Some of them breeze in, entertain a few men, and leave. Easy money, no references needed, just an ability to turn a few tricks, make a few lonely men happy for a while. Does no harm.’

  ‘As you say, but the law’s the law. The women haven’t committed a chargeable offence, you have.’

  ‘I know the drill. If I could help, I would. Assistance in a murder enquiry can only go in my favour.’

  Wendy could well imagine that in the dock at her trial, Mary Wilton would not be bedecked with her hair piled high, a shade of blue, and the blouse and the skirt, along with the stilettos, would be gone; all replaced by a sombre outfit more befitting the woman’s age.

  ‘What name did she use?’

  ‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth. She said she had been in the country for some time, had a British passport.’

  ‘Did you check it?’ Garry Hopwood asked.

  ‘I took her word for it.’

  ‘Which means,’ Waverton said, obviously feeling out of it and confident that Mary Wilton wasn’t going to spill the beans, ‘that she could have been underage, illegal.’

  ‘I trust my girls.’

  ‘Hopefully, the women in the house are all legal,’ Wendy said. ‘Are they?’

  ‘They are’

  ‘I’ve another photo, a woman who’s been in this house, not a prostitute from what we know. You must study it carefully and answer truthfully. People have died, continue to die. Why they do, we don’t know, but if we’re correct, you could be at risk and so could Meredith Temple and your girls.’

  Wendy handed the second photo to Mary Wilton.

  ‘Her name is Amanda Upton,’ the woman said.

  Wendy was so excited that she felt as though she wanted to kiss the woman, absolve her of all crimes. A name at last. She texted her DCI, ending the message with ‘more to come’.

  ‘What can you tell us about her?’

  ‘A shrewd woman, she made her money as a high-class escort. No drugs, worked out at the gym daily, financially sound after three years. She used to travel overseas, paid for by wealthy and secretive men who wanted absolute discretion, no two-bit hooker with a big mouth and genital herpes.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Is she dead? Is that why you’re here? Not for the other woman, but for Amanda?’

  ‘For both. The woman we know as Analyn, is, we believe, alive, although for how long we can’t be certain.’

  ‘Amanda?’

  ‘You obviously don’t keep abreast of the news.’

  ‘Never watch television or look at the internet. A Luddite, I suppose I am, but what about Amanda?’

  ‘Why are you so interested?’

  ‘She is, or should it be was, my daughter?’

  Wendy felt a lump in her throat, so did Sergeant Hopwood. DI Waverton looked into space, unable to comprehend the gravity of what had just been said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Wilton, but your daughter, Amanda, is dead.’

  Mary Wilton sat still, saying nothing. Eventually, she spoke. ‘I hardly ever saw her, not for years, and then one day, she turned up here.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘We weren’t close, although I did my best when she was younger. I paid for her to go to a good school, and she was a bright student, went to university, a degree in English. I was proud of her, not selling herself at first.’

  ‘You were a prostitute?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Until I was too old. It’s for young women, but Amanda never saw any of the seedier side. I managed to buy a small flat, and I never messed with drugs. School holidays I’d be there for her; she boarded most of the time, so it wasn’t so difficult to make money, and then take the time for her.’

  ‘Her father?’ Waverton asked.

  ‘No idea. He could have been a banker or a labourer. I never knew, although he must have been honest and decent, otherwise she wouldn’t have grown up to be such a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Escorting?’

  ‘She had been kept away from it, as much as I could, but she knew that her childhood had been paid for by illicit earnings. Ambitious, ruthlessly ambitious, that was Amanda. I tried to talk her out of it, not that I was one to talk. She joined an agency that dealt with the wealthy and the discreet, men who wanted absolute silence and total involvement from the woman, not a five-minute screw or a blow job, but a weekend or a week, the sort of woman they could take to a function, impress with.’

  ‘Amanda was capable?’

  ‘I’m sure she was. And then she’s here, wanting to spend time with me.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘She left after twenty minutes, and I never saw her again.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Janice and Meredith were here, ask them.’

  ***

  Larry knew that Janice Robinson was dead, Meredith Temple was doing well at university, and Cathy Parkinson, the other English woman who had been at Mary Wilton’s brothel, was still prostituting. She was living in Hammersmith, not far from the station, and whereas the address indicated upmarket, the reality was anything but; it was a rundown hotel, a probable place where the women on the street could bring the men, no questions asked if a percentage of the price was handed over at reception.

  ‘Cathy Parkinson?’ Larry said at the reception.

  ‘She’s not been in for a few days,’ a long-haired male with a cleft chin, beady bloodshot eyes and a pointed nose, said. He looked between thirty-five and forty-five years of age, and he didn’t impress, so much so that Larry took hold of the register, spun it around and looked for the room number himself. Computers hadn’t made it to the hotel yet and weren’t likely to if it proved to be operating as a brothel.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ the man had protested. In vain, as far as Larry was concerned.


  ‘The room’s been paid for, up until the weekend.’

  Larry climbed the four flights of stairs, walked down a dark corridor – the lights didn’t work, not even the emergency lights.

  Outside, on the street, a uniform stood, another one in the small lane at the rear.

  Larry knocked on the door and waited. Inside the room, the sound of a television. It was late at night, and judging by no lights visible under the doors of the other rooms on the floor, no one else was staying the night.

  According to Meredith Temple’s description, Cathy Parkinson was beyond her use-by date, the first flush of womanhood long gone, replaced by a snarling woman who craved alcohol and drugs, not particular in which order, and she was usually the last one to be chosen at the brothel.

  He banged on the door again, harder than the first time. The volume on the television did not alter, nor was there the sound of someone moving around. Not willing to break the door with a firm shoulder, not as easy as it looked in the movies, with their paper-thin doors and make-believe locks, and the brooding hunk of a police officer, muscles bulging.

  Larry took out his phone and called down to reception. ‘Up here and with a key,’ he said. ‘And don’t take forever, or I’ll have you down the station, answering questions as to why you let women screw for money in your hotel.’

  A uniform brought the man up. ‘He tried to do a runner, but I caught him before he got far.’

  ‘Anything to say?’ Larry looked over at the receptionist, a bruise developing just under his eye where the uniform had smacked him one. Serves him right, Larry thought.

  The door opened with the master key. Larry gingerly opened it, ensuring he was wearing nitrile gloves. He stood at the door, not crossing the threshold.

  ‘Cathy Parkinson?’ he shouted once more.

  With no option, he entered the room, keeping to the centre, a bathroom to one side, an open wardrobe to the other, the ubiquitous metal hangers. No doubt a Gideon Bible in the drawer, he thought, not knowing who Gideon was and why so many bibles.

  The room was at least clean, probably because the woman lived there permanently, working from home.

  A small fridge, the television perched on top. Larry switched it off.