by Mark Romain
“Don’t know,” Jack admitted, “but it’s a distinct possibility, and one we should look into.” A thought struck him. “Who here has been involved in financial investigations?” he asked, looking around the room hopefully. After a few moments passed, during which there was much shaking of heads, Deakin raised a reluctant hand, hoping his honesty wasn’t going to result in him being saddled with extra work.
Reading his mind, Tyler smiled. “Chris, I know you’ve got more than enough to do without this, but in light of your being the only person in the room with the necessary experience, I need you to get the serial numbers from the notes and make some enquiries to see if we can locate when and where they were issued. I’m guessing the answer will be a local hole in the wall.”
Deakin nodded. “Very probably,” he agreed. Forcing a smile, he tried to sound enthusiastic. “Leave it to me. I’ll get the details from George and start making some enquiries.”
Jack winked at him. “Thanks, mate. Okay, on to the family. Kelly’s our FLO. What have you got for us?”
Kelly explained that although the family was devastated, they were holding up as well as could be expected. She had obtained some sketchy background information, but nothing to influence the direction of the enquiry. Tracey’s mum knew she was taking drugs and, on the game, but she didn’t know where she bought her gear or where she sold her body. “Apparently, Tracey went completely off the rails a few years ago, after her father died, and since then her mother has never been able to break down the barrier she put up between them,” Kelly told the assembled detectives. “Her relationship with the kid, April, was more like that of a big sister than a mum. Rita has always performed the maternal role. The only other thing of note is that for the last few months Tracey has spent most of her time living in a squat on this side of the river. Rita doesn’t know where, just that it’s in the East End.”
Tyler looked at the analyst. “Brian, can you see what you can dig up for us. It might be important, it might not, but we need to know where she was putting her head down at night, and who with.”
“Leave it to me,” Johnson said, making a note in his daybook to allocate that task to one of the researchers after the meeting.
“Right, CCTV and house-to-house enquiries,” Jack said, nodding at Paul Evans and Colin Franklin respectively.
Evans said he had viewed what they could at the local authority office yesterday, but it hadn’t been easy, and as far as he could tell there was no sign of Tracey on it. He would be returning later today to collect all the footage Tyler had requested. “It may be that once I get the footage back here and view it on our equipment, we’ll have more luck,” Evans said.
“Yeah, especially if the Geek can work his magic,” Franklin chimed in.
The Geek was DC Reg Parker. A rotund man in his mid-thirties, Reggie had a cherubic face that belied a wicked – some would say irreverent – sense of humour. No one in the office was safe from his pranks.
“Good,” Tyler said. “What about house-to-house? Where are we with that?”
“It was all very hit and miss yesterday,” Franklin admitted, “but I’ll scope it properly this morning and then get the dockets put together,”
“I want you and Paul to sit down with me after this meeting and I’ll define the parameters for both CCTV and house-to-house,” Dillon said.
Then Jack asked Steve to talk them through Dawson’s arrest. This drew sniggers from the back of the room, which Jack silenced with a severe stare.
By this stage, everyone in the room, even the people on secondment from other teams, had heard about ‘the failed public relations exercise’. The general feeling was that they had scored an own goal by arresting Dawson, as it would be twice as hard to get any of the girls to trust them now.
Tim Barton had voiced the words that many of them had thought: Not even Steve Bull, who had more lives than a cat, could wriggle out of this one without getting his balls chewed off.
As Bull cleared his throat the room went quiet. “Although it was the last thing I’d intended to happen,” he said, staring directly at Jack, “arresting Sandra Dawson turned out to be a blessing in disguise.” He let his gaze wander around the assembled faces before continuing. “Because during the interview she told us who killed her friend, Tracey.”
The room erupted with noise. Just about everybody had something to say about this revelation, and they all wanted to say it at the same time.
“Quiet!” Dillon barked, and the room became hushed once more.
All eyes were riveted on Bull.
“Carry on, Steve,” Tyler told him. “Tell this lot what you told me and Mr Dillon just before the meeting.”
Taking a deep breath, Bull recanted Sandra’s story. As he shared her revelations a few of his colleagues grinned at each other; Steve ‘Teflon man’ Bull had come out smelling of roses yet again.
When Steve had described Winston’s facial injuries to his bosses, just before the meeting started, it had immediately dawned on Tyler that he’d already seen the man. Dillon had obviously been thinking the same thing because he’d nudged Tyler’s arm and whispered, “I knew that bugger was worth a stop. I told you so last night.”
“This information is crucial,” Tyler said. “Now we’ve got a clear direction to go in, so let’s get cracking.”
Jack handed Dean Fletcher, his lead researcher, the piece of paper with Winston’s registration number written on it and asked him to check it out. He also told him to run Winston through every database they had access to and then phone the Regional Crime Squad offices in Hainault and the Customs and Excise people over at Customs House; if Winston was involved in smuggling contraband, they were likely to have a file on him. Lastly, they were to check with the Met’s drug squad. Winston was bound to be known to them.
“One last thing,” Tyler said, “Can you have a gander at the various charities working in and around Whitechapel, preferably ones that have good interaction with the street workers. I saw a mini-bus from an outfit called The Sutton Mission last night, and it got me wondering if we ought to get one of these charities on board, to act as an intermediary between us and the working girls.”
Brian Johnson appeared at Tyler’s side. “I might be able to save you some time on that front,” he said. “There are a few very good charities in the area, all doing sterling work. However, The Sutton Mission is probably as good a starting place as any. They mainly work with the homeless, but they also do a lot for local prostitutes and drug addicts. They’re based in Old Montague Street, and their Director, Simon Pritchard, is a golfing buddy of Chief Superintendent Porter. In fact, Pritchard is one of the borough’s Lay Advisors, so he would probably be a good person to speak to. Even if The Sutton Mission can’t provide the help we need, they will definitely be able to steer us in the right direction.”
Tyler nodded, impressed. “Thank you, Brian. Deano, you can cancel my last. We’ll start with a visit to The Sutton Mission and see where we go from there.” He glanced around the room, trying to decide who was best suited to make the approach. He needed someone who was personable, which eliminated Dillon. He was too busy to go himself, but it really ought to be a supervisor, to demonstrate the urgency of the request. After a few fruitless seconds scanning the room, his eyes settled on Steve Bull, and a smile crept onto his face. Stevie was the perfect choice: polite, professional and non-judgmental.
After giving his Case Officer the good news, Jack left Dillon to task the rest of the detectives and headed for the office to call Holland. He sat down and momentarily closed his eyes, picturing the expression on Winston’s face as he’d driven by the previous night, thinking about the arrogance and malice that had been etched into his features. He instinctively knew one thing for sure: he wouldn’t come quietly.
He picked up the phone, hesitated a few moments and then slowly lowered it back into its cradle. As promising as this tip-off sounded, there was no actual evidence to back up what the hooker had said, and his instinct was telling
him to hold fire on calling Holland until he had more. After all, he was under enough pressure already, without piling more on himself over a lead that might pan out to be nothing at all.
Jack blew out his cheeks and turned his attention to the mound of paperwork sprawled across his desk. Like the furry little Tribbles in Star Trek, the pages seemed to be self-replicating at an alarming rate.
CHAPTER 9
The Sutton Mission was located in Old Montague Street, just east of the junction with Brick Lane, a few doors along from The Archers Public House. The double fronted shop had a green façade with the words: ‘The Sutton Mission’ printed in bold white capitals above the entrance. It was nearly ten-thirty by the time Steve Bull pushed open the door, triggering a very loud and very annoying entry buzzer.
Biiiiiinnnng-booooooonnng.
He had the hump; partly because it had taken the best part of ten minutes to find a parking space, and partly because, despite all the flannel the boss had given him about him being the right man for the job, Steve couldn’t help but feel he had been lumbered.
A small glass partition in the wall, like the serving hatches he’d seen in houses built in the 1970s, separated the receptionist’s office from the waiting area, which contained half a dozen worn fabric chairs and a battered coffee table laden with out of date health magazines. A sprinkling of watercolours broke up the obligatory plethora of posters promoting local self-help groups, walk-in medical centres, and soup kitchens. The walls themselves were in desperate need of a fresh lick of paint, and the grey industrial carpet that covered the floor had obviously seen plenty of wear during its long lifetime. While the décor was a little shabby, at least the Sutton Mission was clean and odour free.
“Help you?” a bored voice enquired from within the serving hatch. It emanated from a twenty-something Asian girl in baggy blue jeans and a red woolly jumper, who was sitting at a cluttered desk inside the tiny office, filing her fingernails. Her jet-black hair was swept back and tied into a ponytail that reached just below her shoulders. The face, while undeniably pretty, was every bit as bored as the voice. A radio was playing quietly on a shelf just above and behind her head, and Bull could just about make out some of the words from Elton John’s 1973 ballad, Daniel.
“Hello,” he said, leaning into the small opening to show his warrant card. “My name’s Steve Bull. I’m a Detective Sergeant from the murder squad. I wonder if I might have a word with whoever is in charge.”
The receptionist regarded Bull with interest. “That sounds exciting,” she said. “Is it to do with the girl who was murdered in Quaker Street? I heard about that on the radio.”
Before he could answer, the telephone rang and she immediately picked it up, motioning Bull to wait with an upraised index finger. “Hello, The Sutton Mission, Charise speaking, how can I help you?” Her features reverted to ‘bored’ while she listened to the caller speaking. “Okay, thanks for letting us know. I’ll let Mrs Pritchard know you’re running late.” She hung up and scribbled a note on the pad in front of her.
“As I was saying –” Steve said.
Charise held up her finger again. “Sorry, hon,” she said. “Just gotta let the boss know her ten-thirty is gonna be late.” She dialled an internal four-digit number, which was picked up almost instantly. “Oh, hello, Sarah. Just to let you and Dr Pritchard know, Jim Sellers has phoned to say he’s going to be delayed by about thirty minutes due to bad traffic. He sends his apologies and promises he’ll be as quick as he can.”
As soon as she hung up, Steve tried again. “As I was saying…”
“Oh yes,” she smiled at him conspiratorially. “You were just about to tell me all about that grisly murder.”
“Actually, Miss, I was going to ask if I can speak to your boss. Sarah, was it?”
The look Charise gave him implied that he’d just deprived her of the only excitement her otherwise boring day would contain, but she redialed the extension she’d rung a few seconds earlier without protesting. “Hi, Sarah – me again. I’ve got a police officer here who wants to talk to you about that murdered prostitute.” She looked up at Bull and said, “Yes, very important from the sound of it, and very hush-hush, too”. She shook her head in response to something her boss had just said and gave him a sad pout. “No, he won’t tell me anything more, says he needs to speak to you in person.”
Bull shrugged apologetically. Sorry, he mouthed.
Charise cradled the phone. “Sarah will be right out,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“For the record,” Charise said, smiling knowingly, “I would have cracked you, given a few more minutes. Not that it really matters. Sarah will tell me all about it when you’ve gone.”
Bull grinned back at her. “I’m sure she will,” he said.
A door at the far end of the waiting area opened and a slender, middle-aged woman with silvery blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and a radiant smile emerged. She wore faded jeans and a blue V-neck sweater over a white cotton blouse. A worn pair of Timberlands completed the outfit.
“Detective Sergeant Bull?” she enquired.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bull replied, guessing that this must be Sarah. The woman stepped forward to shake his hand warmly. “I’m Sarah Pritchard. I run The Sutton Mission. Let’s go to my office where we can talk in private. Please come this way,” she said, retreating through the door she’d appeared from.
As he followed, Bull glanced back over his shoulder at the receptionist. “Nice to have met you, Charise,” he said.
Charise gave him an impish wink and resumed filling her nails.
Sarah Pritchard led Bull along a narrow corridor lined with rooms to a large office at the far end. She opened the door and waved him inside. “Take a seat,” she said, gesturing towards a brown leather sofa by the far wall. Apart from the sofa, the office contained an old mahogany desk, a couple of dented filing cabinets and a small fridge.
As he sat down, Steve’s eye was drawn to a large colourful painting that hung on the wall behind the desk. It featured a pair of carefree teenagers, siblings judging by the striking similarity of their facial features, standing side by side in a farmyard. Both had wavy blond hair, with the boy’s being only marginally shorter than his sister’s. Both were clad in well-worn dungarees and mud-stained work boots. One held a rake, the other a hoe. Both were smiling contentedly, and the boy had an arm draped protectively around the girl’s shoulders. The girl looked vaguely familiar.
“That’s me and my twin brother, Edward Sutton,” Sarah said, following his gaze. “We were inseparable in our youth. I founded this Mission five years ago to honour his memory.”
“What happened to him?” Steve asked.
“He died in his mid-twenties from a heroin overdose. Actually, his body was found in a squat not too far from here.”
Bull could see that the pain of her loss was still raw, even after all these years. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “Was he living rough?”
She gave him a sad smile. “Eddie and I came from what you might call a very privileged background. Unfortunately, after Eddie moved to London he started mixing with the wrong people and they got him hooked on drugs.”
“I see,” Bull told her, not knowing what else to say.
“When my father passed and I inherited his wealth, I decided to put some of the money to good use. It was too late to help my brother, of course, but at least I could do something to help the many others like him.” Sarah Pritchard sat down next to Steve Bull, closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “But that’s enough about me and my family. Why don’t you tell me what brings you to the Mission?”
“Well,” Steve began, “a young sex worker called Tracey Phillips was found murdered at a building site in Quaker Street in the early hours of yesterday morning.” He removed the photograph that Rita had supplied from his inside jacket pocket and showed it to her. “Do you know her?” he asked.
Sarah studied the photograph carefully for a
few moments and then shook her head. “No, she’s not one of ours,” she said with certainty.
Steve pocketed the photograph. “It’s possible that some of the other working girls have information that would help us identify and catch her killer, but none of them are willing to talk to us.”
Sarah Pritchard understood where he was going with this immediately. “I see,” she said. “I’m guessing you’re hoping that we might be able to persuade them to speak to you?”
Steve nodded. “Basically, yes.”
“Why us? There are a lot of local charities that might be better placed to do this sort of thing than we are. After all, we mainly work with the homeless.”
“One of our colleagues recommended you. Besides, isn’t your husband on the Lay Advisory Group for the borough?”
She nodded. “Simon does sit on the LAG. Did Charles Porter recommend us?”
“Actually, it wasn’t Chief Superintendent Porter, it was a civilian analyst called Brian Johnson, who used to work in the Borough Intelligence Unit but recently joined us at AMIP.”
