by Jan Swick
Danny didn't speak for a time. Matt broke the silence. "You can forget about it anyway. I got confirmation. Karen was one of these night girls. We deal with it. So you can go home. Go help arrange the funeral or something."
Danny was silent still, head hung low as if letting the awful truth sink in. He might not have believed a newspaper article, or even the police, if they had been so callous as to mention that they thought Karen was a lady of the night, but if little brother Matt said it was so, then it was so.
Finally he said: "What confirmation? Off who? And what are you doing here, anyway?"
Matt ignored the first question. There was no confirmation, but he believed it anyway. And knew it would be better for the family if they accepted the truth early.
"I came because I knew you'd come, soon as I told you I wouldn't go asking questions. Told you ten o'clock onward would be best so I wouldn't have to wait around all evening. Now go home." He snatched the pen that protruded from Danny's breast pocket. "Give me money. I need money."
Danny tried to read his face. Couldn't.
"You'll get it back," Matt said. "And it's not for prostitutes."
Danny didn't know what was going on, but he complied. He had eighty pounds in his wallet, six tens and a twenty. Matt took it. He rapidly drew a smiley face on each note. Pocketed pen and money. Danny just watched, puzzled.
Matt flung the door open. Danny stared after him as he exited. Matt shut the door so Danny put the window down. "You're not coming back with me?"
"I'm parked back there. Go. Go home, Danny."
He made a point of standing and watching until Danny left. When the car was gone, Matt walked back to the corner and took up his spot again. Not quite right on the corner, where the safe shadows were, but six feet from it on the Barker Road side. Right on the kerb. Under the streetlight. He took out the other folded piece of paper he'd gotten from the Internet cafe. Another copy of the Facebook photo. He didn't need it now he had Danny's photograph. Checked again that he was standing in the right spot. A spot that gave him maximum exposure under the streetlight.
It took another sixteen minutes. Foot traffic was heavier now. Lots of girls, plying their trade. When they passed him by, he made crude remarks. Did they do group discounts, could he get a loyalty card, could he film the sex for his website? He was told to fuck off. When cars passed by, he stepped into the road and stared at the drivers and wrote blatantly on the blank side of his folded photo of Karen and made sure they saw him do it. The girls started to notice that potential punters were driving away. Because of the guy down at the corner.
Sixteen minutes of this game, then they came. A black Volkswagen Golf. He'd seen it go past him before, he realised. While he was hidden in the doorway. It turned off Albert Road and onto Barker Street and drew up at the kerb by his feet. Down came the passenger window. A rugged white face above a tight plain T-shirt stared at him. Bright blonde hair, stringy, like some rag mop head turned upside down.
Other side of the car, the driver stepped out. Black guy, jeans and another T-shirt, this time blue, also plain, too tight, or just tight enough to show his muscled physique the way he wanted. Driver came around the front of the car. A third man, big, white, oozed slowly out of the same door. Had trouble doing it. Back seat passenger, three door car. Came the other way around the vehicle. This guy had a big belly straining at his tight T-shirt, but thick and well-defined arms, as if trained those alone. A physique designed for power rather than appearance. Clearly would prefer men to quake rather than women to swoon. Both mean-looking bastards took a spot that boxed Matt in using the car. The white guy in the Golf stayed right there, glaring.
Big Belly said, "I run this area. These are my girls. I watch out for them and they pay for the privilege -"
"Just say you're a pimp," Matt cut in. "Or a procurer, if that sounds more business-like."
The black guy sniggered. Not at the joke. It was the sort of snigger you might do if you saw a guy about to walk into a lamp-post because he wasn't watching where he was going. Like he thought Matt was unwittingly running into trouble with his mouth.
Big Belly said, "You're scaring my clients off. That costs me money." He snatched the folded photo off Matt. "And what the fuck is this? You writing number plates down, dickhead? You a cop?" He looked at what Matt had written. Or drawn. Matt hadn't written words, he'd doodled. Just shapes and lines. Without opening it, Big Belly crumpled the sheet up and dropped it. "I think you've cost me two hundred. So you owe me two hundred. Now." His chubby palm came out.
Matt held out the cash Danny had given him. "I got eighty." He was prepared for something to happen here. It didn't, really. The black guy snatched the money and pushed him towards Big Belly, who stepped aside, booted Matt in the ass as he went past, and said,
"Get lost."
Ten seconds later they were back in the car and gone.
Matt drove and worked out the area. A quarter-circle area some six hundred metres down the straight sides - Barker Street and Albert Road - and a long, curving main road called Edison Avenue. Those streets and everything within: the pimp's zone, he figured. The black Golf made circuit after circuit. A nice, plodding sixteen minutes for each trip. Sometimes the Golf dipped down a side street, but it always came out again and continued that anti-clockwise rotation. Roads Albert, Barker, Edison. The circuit was about two-point-five kilometres because while the straight roads were short, the main road curved out far and wide. Edison Avenue was a bustling thoroughfare, and a jolly social place for prostitutes. Fifteen or more he saw. They lurked in doorways and side streets. Driving through, you'd hardly notice them. Eyes had to look for them and to know what they were.
The zone, however, didn't encompass the wasteground where Karen's body had been found. That was a hundred metres from Edison Avenue, beyond a green area and a row of shops on its far side. Matt didn't know if the wasteground's location was significant or not. He would find out, but not yet. He refused to cast his eyes to the right each time he passed the wasteground. If he saw it, he would picture Karen's body, and he did not want to do that. Yet.
The Golf made regular stops and girls would hand money over. Sometimes passenger side, sometimes driver's side. He couldn't work anything out from this. No one ever got out. Matt kept his distance. He lurked just around corners or pulled in behind larger parked vehicles. There were a few places where he could duck left down a side street, make a turn right onto a second side street, and drive to the end and get ahead of the Golf, just in case the guys in front noticed the Mondeo behind them. Deep down the second side street he would wait, and watch the Golf cruise past, before pulling out to follow again. Easier to see the occupants from the side. Same three guys, same seating arrangement.
Two hours he followed the car. Circuit after circuit. Sixteen or seventeen minutes per revolution. He was beginning to think he should peel away. It was past midnight. His car had surely been clocked by locals a bunch of times, and some of them might know the pimps. They might make a call about the dodgy car lurking around. Worse, maybe the cops had made a mental note of his presence. He had no license, no insurance. Peter Jackson didn't officially exist. Nothing was registered in his real name. If he got stopped and a check was run...
He was used to the area now. Deciding to get ahead of the Golf, he took a left off Albert Road, whizzed down, turned right, an immediate and short left, another right at a junction, then drove ten metres and waited. Ahead, Barker Street running past. Ten seconds until the Golf inched past, he figured.
It didn't. He gave it ten more.
Nothing.
Panicking, he drove too fast to the junction, screeched to a halt, looked right. Twenty metres up was the corner, the spot where Albert Road and Barker Street met. Where they'd come at him. The Golf was supposed to turn left, onto Barker, but it hadn't. Could only have gone straight on down Albert. Towards the brightly lit part with the shops. Matt swung right and raced to the T-junction. He looked left, and there was the Golf, parked at
the kerb right outside the Tesco Express.
He waited. Risky sitting right in the road, at the junction, but he waited, nose sticking out just far enough so he could see the Golf beyond the corner wall. Two vehicles came up behind him. He put his hazards on and stuck an arm out the window and waved them past. Six minutes he waited, worried that the cops were checking his registration, that some local was calling Big Belly, then the black guy, the driver, came out of the Tesco carrying something. Food of some sort. A plastic bag of goodies. He got in and the car pulled off. Matt swung left, followed.
A kilometre later, after two turns, he was deep in a housing estate. And this one looked okay. Semis, no terraced houses. Driveways with cars. Garden ornaments. The odd water feature. No prostitutes. A mildly affluent estate within throwing distance of a run-down shithole.
There was a house with an overgrown lawn and a four year-old hatchback sitting in the grass. One of the three guys got dropped off there. White front passenger, mop hair. He had the food that the other guy had bought. He went in the house, no wave, no look back. Big Belly struggled his bulk out of the car with all the finesse of a whale being born and got in the vacated front seat.
Matt followed the car a mile. A commercial street. The shops were all shut but there were people around. Guys and gals in classy clothing, all walking, passing through, as if heading home from a club or theatre. Nobody lurking. No prostitutes. The Golf stopped outside an Indian takeaway, but the place was closed. Big Belly got out and scuttled down a thin alley beside the shop. Matt looked up at two windows on the first floor. Both were dark. He waited. The Golf drove away. He didn't follow. Waited. Had to be sure. Two minutes later, one of the lights upstairs went on. Anaemic light washed the pavement. He saw Big Belly approach the glass and draw thick, old curtains.
He had his answer.
Carl had once woken up in a police cell, five officers hovering over him, shouting, waving their sticks. That was scary. He'd woken a few months back right here in his bedroom, looking at the barrel of a gun held by some cocaine freak he'd sold shit stuff to. That was scary. But this one topped both. His eyes fluttered open and saw a guy kneeling on his bed, between his spread legs. The quilt had been cast aside, so Carl was naked, utterly exposed. The guy, just a silhouette in the dim light, waved hello with one hand. The other held a pair of scissors between Carl's legs. Big scissors, Carl's own pair from the kitchen. He recognised the purple rubber handle covers, even in the gloom. Open blades, cupping his balls. There was enough cold pressure there to make him realise he really shouldn't move. He shouldn't try anything smart.
There was enough light for him to recognise his assailant. The guy from earlier, on the street corner. Just a normal looking guy back then. But he seemed like the devil now, despite the smile.
"So you're the boss," the man said. "You run the streets."
Carl's voice was broken. "What you talking about?"
"You remember me, I'm sure. I'm looking for the pimp, the kingpin who runs girls out of that zone. Prostitutes. And that's you."
Carl shook his head. "No, man, that's Jake, the big guy, the one booted you. He even said he was the boss. You heard that."
"I did. All an act. To keep the real boss safe. I reckon the boss would take a couple of heavies with him at night so he could stay safe in the car while they got out to threaten people who don't know him."
"It's Jake, man! Seriously. Ain't me!"
"I don't think so. You live in this nice house, nice new car in the garden. Your bulldog Jake lives in a bedsit above a shop. And Jake's supposedly the top dog, yet he spent all evening in the back seat, cramped, climbing over seats when he had to get out. He got real bored of that back seat when they dropped you off."
Carl thought quickly. "Okay, man, it was the other guy, the black guy. You got me. Black guy, he's the boss. I ain't supposed to snitch on him, but you got me. That black guy. It ain't me."
The man squeezed a bit more with the scissors. Pain. "The guy who drove you guys about all night? The guy who dropped everybody off, like a generous old friend? The boss does that, does he? Plays chauffeur and takes the risk that his car would be spotted in an area like that, eh?"
"I swear! It's him!"
"Druglords and pimps make a habit of running into shops to buy food for their lackeys, do they? Proper little errand boys, these crime barons. The food from Tesco. It's down in your kitchen."
Carl said nothing. Only a weak table lamp lit the room, but he could see clearly the glint off the scissors. And his own sweaty chest and legs. And the slow rise and fall of the chest of the man threatening to cut his balls off. Slow and steady, like he did this threatening people shit all the time.
The man held up money. A twenty pound note. His finger tapped a place. In the gloom Carl saw a smiley face drawn in pen, about the size of a ten pence piece. "This is mine. I marked it. Your so-called boss took it from me, yet I found it in your trousers."
Carl deflated. Come what may, he thought. "Okay, you win. It's me. I control that area. Tell me what you want." He relaxed a sliver. He thought this guy wanted something other than blood.
The guy put the note away, came back with a photo. "Did you run this girl?"
The fear was back. Carl recognised the picture. She'd been one of his girls. Found dead the other day.
"The cops talked to me about that, about her. Cleared me. I was away, man, far away. I had nothing to do with that. The cops talked to me, man."
"I know you didn't kill her. That's why your balls aren't where your eyes are. She was found outside your zone. I want to know what you neglected to tell the police."
"The cops cleared me. I told them everything. Go ask 'em."
"I'm sure you were a helpful member of the community to them. Down in your nice living room or wherever, with your solicitor sitting right there and holding your hand. But cops don't use the old scissors-on-balls trick."
The blades closed a notch and the pain level went up. Carl panicked. He lived alone and his neighbours kept their distance, so he was aware that he could be left to bleed to death right in his own bed and not be found for days. And the cops wouldn't hit the blues and twos in their rush to save him.
"That's right, man, my zone, that's what you said. She was outside my zone. I don't let the girls go outside my zone. That's not safe. I don't know how she got there or what happened. I can't see everything. I just cruise the same few streets, man. I swear."
The man looked like he was thinking. Like some new revelation had hit him. Then he seemed to snap back to the moment, all threats and intimidation again. "Your tongue isn't dangling from your arse. That means I believe you. Now listen very carefully. I'm going to leave here in five minutes and go follow any leads I get. I'm going to find out what happened, because I don't think the cops will. The cops can't use scissors to get their answers. I'm going to investigate and what you need to do is hope that when I get to my next destination, there's enough there to move me forward. Always forward, you understand. Because you know where a guy goes when he can't go forward?"
He raised his eyebrows as if to say, you answer. Carl answered. "Back."
"Right. He comes back. Right back here, with the scissors. So you need to push me forward, keep me going. Understand?"
Carl understood. He understood fully. He nodded vigorously, so vigorously that the mattress shivered and the scissors brought another wave of pain. "What do you want to know?"
The guy nodded, as if he'd been waiting for this answer. As if it pleased him.
"What happened that night? When did you last see her? What did she say to you? Who did she go with? Tell me everything. Just talk, now, fast."
Carl talked, now, fast. He explained that on the night before she turned up dead, she had approached his car on Barker Street around seven that evening and claimed she was sick, could she go home? He had said yeah, sure, go rest, take care. Actually, he had threatened her with a kicking and told her that he'd be getting a lot more than his fifty percent of her t
akings tomorrow, for his inconvenience. But he wasn't about to tell this guy that part. Then they'd driven off and she'd walked away, and that was that. Earlier in the evening she had been missing on two of their cruises round the zone, so obviously she had gone away with punters, but he hadn't seen who. None of the girls knew who, either. He never saw her again. Heard about her death the next morning, in the papers. Honest. That's it, that's all I know.
The guy stared at him for a long moment and Carl knew he was assessing what he'd been told. Working out if it was bullshit or not. Carl tensed, figuring he'd know the outcome of that assessment if things got a lot more painful.
They didn't. The guy nodded again. Not pleased this time, just content that his victim was playing ball. Carl relaxed a little.
"My sister," the guy said. "Do you know her name?"
Carl thought hard. Realised he might not. Girls who came to him, or who he approached, gave him a name, of course, but he knew most were probably bogus. He didn't care because the guys referred to the bitches by nicknames. Hers had been Red, simply because of her hair colour. He wondered if he'd anger this guy more by giving a wrong name, as opposed to no name at all. He played it both ways.
"I don't know. She told me a name. But maybe she didn't want to give her real one."
"It's Karen. Remember that. Karen. Now listen. She was found outside your zone, as you say. Is there a place outside the area that girls go to?"
Carl shook his head. "No, man, they stay in the zone so I can keep an eye on them. I mean, to watch, you know, make sure everything's fine."
"Knight in shining armour. So where did she work? They must have places they take the punters. Did Karen have a favourite spot?" The words seemed to taste bad on his tongue, Carl saw. Something the guy didn't want to think about: his sister having a comfortable, much-used dirty doorway or alcove where she did her sex stuff.
