by Ed James
‘Did Cindy have a personal beef against Mr Hall?’
‘Like I say, I don’t know the fella.’ Hateley scratched at the back of his neck. ‘Look, I know Cindy left there a few weeks back. I can give you her address, if that’s any use?’
Fenchurch handed him a pen and a blank sheet of A4. ‘There you go.’
Hateley scribbled it over four lines and pushed it over the table. ‘She might’ve moved, of course.’
Owen took the sheet and folded it in half, smoothing out the crease with a fingernail. ‘So where are the girls coming from?’
‘All I know is it’s somewhere out east.’
‘East London’s a very big place. Would any of your staff know?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Interview terminated at sixteen thirty-one.’ Owen rapped at the two-way mirror. ‘I’m going to need you to give my colleagues a detailed statement, okay?’
‘Right.’
Fenchurch waved at Owen and left the room. He stopped outside and leaned against the wall. ‘Why did you stop that?’
‘Because he doesn’t know where this bloody knocking shop is.’ Owen sniffed. ‘Sadly, a lot of hotels do that particular sideline. It’s even more lucrative than porn these days.’ He stabbed a finger at the door. ‘These lonely men in hotel rooms should just have a wank, if you ask me.’
The adjacent door opened and Clarke appeared. ‘That do for you, Fenchurch?’
‘It’s a start, I suppose.’
‘You really want one of my lads to take a statement from that clown?’
‘Send him down to Leman Street if that’s too much to ask.’
‘You’re welcome to him.’
‘We’ll take him. Are we cool?’
‘Well, we’re done here for now.’ Clarke doffed his non-existent cap. ‘I’ve got a proper case of my own to deal with up in Moorgate, so I’ll trust you to behave yourselves.’
‘We can be trusted.’
Clarke strode off down the corridor, shaking his head. ‘Make sure me and DCI Thompson don’t have reason to doubt that, okay?’
Fenchurch marched Hateley up to the desk at Leman Street’s back entrance. ‘Steve, can you arrange for someone upstairs to get a statement out of this bloke?’
The hulking Desk Sergeant tapped at his computer. ‘Name?’
He gripped the edge of the counter. ‘Derek Hateley.’
‘Right, sir, I need you to sign this for me.’
‘Cheers, Steve.’ Fenchurch patted Hateley on the arm. ‘Tell them what you told us and you’ll get out of here, okay?’
Hateley just nodded, looking resigned to his fate.
Fenchurch followed Owen towards the stairs.
Steve gripped Fenchurch’s arm. ‘There’s another thing, guv.’
Fenchurch stopped and frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘Got a Cindy Smith upstairs. Room two, your floor.’
‘That was quick. Send my thanks to the Brick Lane lot.’ Fenchurch grinned as he followed Owen into the stairwell. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Sergeant.’
Owen held open the door to their floor. ‘There are quite a few brothels out east. We keep trying to shut them down but they keep popping up again. It’s like playing bloody whack-a-mole.’
‘You think he’s on the level?’
‘Don’t have any reason to doubt it. On the other hand, it could just be escorts. Girls to slip an arm around at a corporate function.’ Owen screwed up his face. ‘Most of them are also on the game, sadly. There’s almost too many options here.’
‘Well, what do we know?’
‘Girls dropped off by taxis.’
‘Flick Knife?’
‘Not his style, guv. He keeps that taxi business cleaner than my teeth, you know. No, I think we should focus on the girls.’
‘I’ll let you get on with it.’ Fenchurch stormed off down the corridor and made for the Incident Room. ‘DS Reed.’
‘Guv.’ She looked up from a pile of reports. ‘Lisa’s just got to Three Bridges now. Doesn’t look there’s anyone in.’
‘That’s all I bloody need. Anyway, I need you in interview room two, now.’
‘—and DS Kay Reed. Also present is . . .’ Fenchurch frowned. ‘Is that your full name?’
Cindy Smith was staring down at the table, her thumb fiddling with the many hoops in her right ear. Her collection rivalled Clooney’s. Nowhere near as butch as Hateley led him to expect. Her green eyes were lidded with heavy eyebrows, three rings stuck in the left side. She blushed, the only colour on her milky-white face. ‘Cinderella Jane Smith.’
Fenchurch had to cover his laugh with a cough. ‘We understand you worked at The Note hotel on Folgate Street?’
‘What of it? I’m at the Travelodge on Old Street now.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Nothing to do with you.’ Cindy gave him a death stare. ‘Why am I here? You’ve got me under interview and nobody’s telling me why.’
‘We’re not accusing you of doing anything illegal.’
‘Illegal? What the hell is going on?’
Fenchurch glanced at Reed. Looked like she was ready to jump in two-footed. ‘We need to know whether you amended the invoice lines on the hotel’s procurement system.’
‘So what if I did?’ Cindy folded her bulky arms. ‘Has someone put me in the shit? Was it Hateley?’
‘Did you make the changes or didn’t you?’
Cindy just sniffed.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘They should’ve had tighter controls on the invoicing system, that’s all I’ll say.’ She fiddled at a ring in her ear. ‘I didn’t think it’d let me put it live.’
‘So you did do it?’
Cindy leaned back and focused on the ceiling. ‘I changed “Flowers” and “Cleaning” to “Prostitutes”, or something. Happy now?’
‘Not just yet.’
She clenched her jaw and let out a breath. ‘Do you agree with what they were doing there?’
‘Not personally, no.’
‘Can you blame me for what I did, then?’
‘We’re not questioning you with a view to prosecuting you. We just want to ensure we have the story straight.’
‘We had to get hookers for the lonely wankers who stayed there.’ She huffed out air. ‘I wasn’t going to stand for it any more. I was disgusted by those dirty bastards.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyone who exploits someone else for sex is subhuman.’
‘So you saw your actions as a way of nipping it in the bud?’
‘The bud was already a big flower by the time I did that.’ Cindy wrinkled her brow. ‘This was people. Prostitutes and rent boys. It’s sickening.’
‘They’d be lucky to even have a business after what you did.’
‘It only affected a handful of clients.’ She gave a shrug. ‘If their wives or bosses found out, at least they know what they’re up to.’
‘Was Robert Hall one of those affected?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Just tell us if he was one of them.’
‘I can’t remember. Look, this wasn’t personal. If he was doing that then it’s his own stupid fault.’
‘Do you know where they were getting the girls from?’
‘I only dealt with a few of them. They were very discreet, as you can imagine. I think they came from somewhere in Shadwell.’
‘Shadwell. You’re sure?’
‘There was one I saw a few times. Think her name was Parbatee.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fenchurch remote-locked the pool car. Its indicators pulsed in response. Wind sliced through the railway arches, a pair of DLR trains grinding past each other above.
Owen pointed down a dark lane. ‘Parbatee’s place is just down here.’
Ivy covered a red-brick building looming over some houses. The street lamp illuminated a mishmash of browns and greens — looked like wild buddleia, ash and hawthorn. Lights flickered inside a top-floor window, the rest in darkn
ess.
Fenchurch tugged his jacket tight against the chill. ‘Doesn’t look like much.’
‘Officially, it’s an escort agency. Not particularly high class at that. We’ve got a pretty good idea what else goes on in there, though.’
‘So why haven’t you stopped it?’
‘The girls aren’t coerced. It’s more like a sex cooperative than anything.’ Owen pushed open a mesh gate. The metal rattled and a flurry of raindrops scattered onto the path. ‘If we put a stop to this, they’d be off selling themselves on the streets.’ He set off down the lane, barely wide enough for one man. Tall metal fences crowded them in on both sides. At the end, he pressed a buzzer set into a stout pillar. ‘Police.’
‘You sure you should be doing that?’
‘Honesty’s the best policy.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Fenchurch scowled at him. ‘What did this place used to be?’
‘Primary school until New Labour merged it into a neighbouring one over the other side of the tracks.’
‘So now the pupils work here?’
‘They’re all over age. Probably.’ Owen looked around. ‘This place is a classic inner-city slum, though, so you never know.’
‘Take it they don’t have an inner city where you’re from.’
‘Swansea has its fair share of hellholes, I tell you. More than, some would say.’ Owen hammered the buzzer again. ‘This is still the police and we’re getting impatient.’
The speaker crackled and a woman’s voice thundered out. ‘You boys know you need a warrant.’ Jamaican accent. Well, somewhere in the Caribbean at least.
‘We just want a word.’
A blast of laughter burst from the speaker. ‘It always starts with speaking and ends up with one of my employees in a police station.’
‘We’re investigating three murder cases.’
‘A likely tale, Chris.’
Owen waved at a camera above them then pointed at Fenchurch. ‘This is my colleague from the East London Major Investigation Team. That’s the Murder Squad.’
‘So why have they sent you, Chris?’
‘Because we’re looking at the death of a prostitute. You’re not missing any girls, are you?’
‘I keep telling you. My girls aren’t prostitutes.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Are you missing any, though?’
‘Come on in, boys.’ The buzzer clicked as the door swung open.
‘Fancy set-up.’ Fenchurch stopped Owen from passing. ‘What’s the play here?’
‘We go in and we ask her questions. I want you to see if you can play nice. If we were here on Vice business, we’d need guns.’
‘Guns?’
‘Relax. They’ve got a lawyer on site, this is all above street level.’ Owen nudged past Fenchurch into a tall room.
Mustard-yellow walls, red carpet tiles. Spotlights bounced off a huge chandelier slowly rotating in the middle of a spiral staircase. A few black girls sat around on couches. Glasses, blouses, skirts. Looked like they were models posing in an advert.
One of them walked over and pecked Owen on the cheek. Small and dark-skinned, looking more Indian than African. ‘Hey, Chris, my boy.’
‘Parbatee.’ Owen kissed her back. ‘Is there somewhere we could go?’
She grabbed a hold of Owen’s cheek. ‘I thought you were taking me dancing, boy?’ She gave him a wink. ‘Let’s go to my office.’ She patted him on the shoulder and sashayed over to a door. Sat on her desk and crossed her legs, some of the skinniest Fenchurch had ever seen. ‘So, boy, what do you want to know?’
‘Like I said outside, we need to ask you a few questions about some hotel visits made by your girls.’
Parbatee set her face straight. ‘I run an office temp agency. You know that.’
Fenchurch cracked his knuckles. ‘All three of us know that’s not true.’
‘I’m not going to bust your ovaries, Parbatee.’ Owen rested the case photos on the desk next to her. Hall and the two Jane Does. ‘Do you recognise this man or these women?’
She barely glanced at the sheets. ‘No.’
‘So why don’t I believe you?’
‘I’ve nothing to hide here.’
‘So you’ll be happy to do this down the station?’
‘I’m saying nothing, boy.’
Owen hammered the table. ‘Looks like you’re coming with us, then.’
Parbatee got up and smoothed down her dress. She pushed up her cleavage. ‘You won’t mind if I bring my lawyer?’
‘Listen to me, boy.’ Parbatee puckered her lips. ‘I’ve never sent any girls to that hotel.’
Fenchurch leaned against the interview room wall and shut his eyes. ‘You’re adamant about that?’
‘You should listen to my client.’ Nigel Edmonds clutched his fountain pen in one hand. His greasy hair was slicked back behind his cauliflower ears. ‘She runs an office temping agency.’
Fenchurch grinned. ‘Seems to do a roaring trade at night, oddly enough.’
‘Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?’ Owen opened a paper file in front of him. Black-and-white photographs of women in various states of undress, most of them co-starring middle-aged men. ‘These are surveillance shots of her operations. Your client runs an escort agency with extras.’
‘My client refuses to answer any questions relating to her involvement in these allegations.’
‘We’re investigating two murders. Maybe three.’ Owen propped himself against the wall, a few feet from Fenchurch. ‘Your client has ties to certain activities at The Note hotel on Folgate Street.’
‘What would these activities pertain to?’
‘Delivery of her agency staff to the hotel for something more than secretarial duties.’
‘Don’t play games with me, officer.’ Edmonds reset a front of hair, slicking it like a twenties gangster. ‘I’d like to see this evidence of yours.’
‘Your client sent girls to provide sexual favours in exchange for money.’ Owen sniffed. ‘This was all put through their accounts.’
‘So you’ve got evidence?’
‘We’ve got a statement from an employee.’
Edmonds sucked on his teeth. ‘This isn’t a Vice investigation?’
‘It’s not, but I could get my forensic accountant to have a look at Parbatee’s books.’ Owen grinned like a little kid on Christmas Eve. ‘Actually, that’s a cracking idea.’
‘That needn’t be the case.’ Edmonds brushed his hair back, plastering it to his skull. ‘Suppose my client were to confirm these activities, what would she receive in return?’
‘A clear conscience.’
‘Very droll.’
‘We’d be grateful for any information whatsoever.’
Edmonds made a note on a sheet of yellow paper. ‘Can you please outline the evidence trail linking my client to these alleged activities?’
‘A murder suspect procured prostitutes through The Note hotel between November of last year and March of this. Ms Holder here was linked to the prostitutes. Tell us what you know and we’ll let you get back to your temping agency.’
Edmonds raised his hands. ‘Very well.’
Parbatee picked up the sheet and stared at the photos of Robert Hall and their Jane Does. ‘I don’t know any of them, boy.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’ve definitely never seen those two.’ She tapped a painted nail off each of the women.
‘Mr Hall received visits from some of your girls.’
She smirked. ‘I think he might’ve had help processing his corporate expenses.’
‘Whatever.’ Owen snatched the sheet off her and held it just in front of her face. ‘Do you know him?’
‘My girls might’ve visited him.’ She lifted her left shoulder. ‘Back in the day.’
‘Twenty years ago?’
‘Last Christmas, before I gave you my heart.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Owen. ‘I sometimes chaperone them on the first visit to make sure they
’re not getting into anything dangerous. Mr Hall stopped receiving my services around March, I think.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘I don’t like to ask.’
‘He moved into a flat.’ Owen scribbled in his notebook. ‘Did you send any girls to another address for him?’
‘His employers would’ve had corporate deals in place for temp staff, I’d imagine.’
Owen dropped his pen onto the table. ‘So that’s a no?’
‘Correct. We had no dealings with him after March.’
‘That’s all we needed to know.’ Owen spoke into the microphone: ‘Interview terminated at seventeen fifty-five.’ He got up and left the room.
Fenchurch nodded at the Custody and Security Officer. ‘Can you escort Ms Holder and Mr Edmonds outside, please?’
Parbatee winked at him. ‘Give me a call if you’re ever lonely, sugar.’
Fenchurch grunted. He stormed into the corridor and thumbed back at the door. ‘What’s her story, out of interest?’
Owen arched his eyebrows. ‘How much interest?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘She’s from Trinidad.’ Owen sniffed. ‘Not common knowledge, but they didn’t get all of the slaves from Africa. Her family came from India. Similar story with Portuguese slaves going to the subcontinent. Horrible business.’ He sniffed again and attacked his nose with his wrist. ‘Did you get what you needed there?’
‘Not really.’
Owen started off down the corridor, twirling his BlackBerry between his fingers. ‘Mr Hall had regular visits from Parbatee’s girls until he moved into his flat. Then they stopped. Why?’
‘You’re supposed to tell me, Sergeant.’
‘The girls there are all black. Caribbean girls like our friend Parbatee. Mostly second or third generation.’ Owen frowned at a passing uniformed officer. ‘Hall was getting black girls at that hotel up till March. Then he falls off the radar until now when he’s picking up white girls off the street. What happened in the meantime?’
‘Maybe his tastes just changed.’
Owen stopped outside the Incident Room. ‘I’ll chase up my DCs for some better intel on him.’
