by Simon Parke
‘I suppose it’s nice to be looked after,’ said Peter, who never had been.
‘A lot of them do want to be mothered, quite literally sometimes. One man came in recently – he was an older gentleman – wearing a nappy under his trousers. He wanted to have his nappy changed by Katrina. That’s all he wanted. And now he comes once a week.’
‘To have his nappy changed?’
‘Yep. And to be washed and pampered a little as well.’ Peter breathed a bemused sigh.
‘And Katrina obliges?’
‘Of course. We always try to say yes when we can. Another client, a good-looking young man – he stripped off to reveal his mother’s knickers and stockings.’
‘Why would he be wearing those?’
‘I tell you, nothing surprises me about men any more, Abbot. Really – though no doubt I’ll be surprised again tomorrow. The main thing is to have enough towels. A brothel can’t have too many towels; activities take place on towels. And baby wipes are vital obviously . . . for spillages.’ Peter had seen baby wipes in the supermarket but had mistakenly assumed they were for babies. ‘Excellent for all sorts of cleaning,’ she said, firmly closing the cupboard.
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘And the rest you know!’ said Tara cheerfully.
‘Yes, I don’t need to know any more,’ he replied with some relief, moving towards the door.
‘You perhaps start with a back massage after the bath, then a front massage moving into sex and happy endings.’
‘And we all like those . . . in a story, I mean,’ he added quickly.
‘So you see, an hour’s booking might involve only a few seconds or minutes of sex. Is that all so bad? Is that worth killing someone for?’
Abbot Peter smiled sadly as Tara left the room, her point made.
‘Murder is never committed by the happy,’ he said, joining her on the small landing. ‘What’s that door?’
He hadn’t noticed the other door at the top of the stairs.
‘It’s the Glory Hole. Let’s go downstairs, shall we?’
‘What’s the Glory Hole?’
‘You don’t want to know . . . or rather, don’t need to know.’
‘And now I’m fatally intrigued.’
‘The clue’s in the name. It’s a very particular service . . . involving a hole in the wall. You were saying murder is never committed by the happy.’
‘I was, yes.’
‘Tell me more about that.’ She spoke over her shoulder as they returned downstairs.
‘Well, the unhappy can justify anything to themselves,’ said Peter, letting go of the Glory Hole for now. ‘The deeper the unhappiness, the greater the power for self-justification, however twisted the logic. But murder is always about unhappiness.’
‘And so who are the happy, Abbot?’ asked Tara, because she didn’t meet many of them.
‘Those content in their own skin. When we find someone like that, we can rule them out of the enquiry. So can we rule you out?’
‘Definitely,’ said Tara. ‘Not because I’m content. I just didn’t do it.’
‘Well, thank you for the tour.’
‘My pleasure, Abbot. There are unwritten rules in a brothel.’ Tara was back at her desk in the reception area. ‘No drugs, no under-age girls, no coercion and everyone pays their tax.’
‘And those are rules you hold to?’
‘Of course, which is why we’re left alone. We’re breaking the law, but I never feel that. I don’t feel like a law-breaker – well, it’s a joke. I’m just helping my girls to keep safe and find an income.’
‘Very commendable.’
‘Sex workers don’t have a voice, you see.’ Tara hadn’t finished. ‘The government thinks it’s all very moral to make brothels illegal. It plays to their constituency. People like my father and his golf club friends. But I’m the good guy here – not them! They endanger women by making brothels illegal.’
Peter wanted to be out before a client appeared. His presence here, in his monk’s habit, could be misunderstood. Though really why did he care?
‘You did make your views on the law quite clear this morning,’ he said.
‘And you scored nought out of four, Abbot, because you’re sane and the law is an ass.’
‘I think your next step is to stand for parliament, Tara.’
And with that, Peter said his goodbyes and closed the door of No. 9 behind him. It was a place of danger for him, he knew this in his heart. And all he could think of now was the Glory Hole – though as he walked down towards the sea he pondered the fact that in the hands of Tara, his first guided tour of a brothel, far from being an apology, had ended up as a moral crusade. She seemed to believe in it, just as Rosemary had. It wasn’t just the oldest business in the world; it was also the noblest, apparently.
But then that was true of all dark crime. Whether it was the wife-beater, the bullion robber or the abuser of children – they all felt a victim, all had a cause, all saw themselves as crusaders in a hostile world . . .
Tamsin found Terence by the apples.
‘This is not a job you want,’ he said as she arrived by his side in the many-aisled Morrisons.
‘It’s the one you chose, Major-General,’ she said.
He put his finger to his lips to invite some hush. ‘My past is not known here. I prefer it that way.’
‘You don’t want to discuss your Victoria Cross in your tea breaks?’
‘And I meant the apples, by the way. The apples are not a job you want, because they all need rotating.’ He indicated a deep drawer of Royal Galas.
‘I’m sorry?’
Tamsin had never worked in a supermarket – never sunk so low, thank God – so incomprehension was natural enough.
‘The ones at the back have to come out before the new delivery goes in.’
‘That’s a bit fiddly and time-consuming. I’m not sure I’d bother.’
‘You’d simply put the new ones on top?’
‘Well, who’s to know? And if no one knows, what’s the point?’
‘Get behind me, Satan.’
‘And I don’t imagine the other staff are quite so thorough.’
Terence smiled. ‘The evening shift does lack discipline,’ he said, like a commander speaking of some raw recruits. ‘But then they’re students.’ It wasn’t a compliment. ‘Lost souls imagining themselves found, their minds glued to their phones.’
‘A cheerful observation.’
‘I don’t think you came here for cheer, Detective Inspector.’ That was true. There was nothing to cheer her in this retail Hades. It was shabby, piled high – and full of special offers, which for Tamsin cheapened the place in so many ways. ‘They’re not here, most of them.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Here in their uniforms, here on the shop floor – but not here, if you see what I mean. And as drugged as the apples.’
‘The apples are drugged?’
‘How else have they survived?’
‘You mean the sign lies?’ said Tamsin with mock surprise. She indicated a bright poster above their heads declaring: ‘There’s nothing like fresh fruit!’
‘And this is nothing like fresh fruit,’ said Terence, picking up a Pink Lady from the chiller cabinet. ‘Some of these apples were picked over a year ago. I spoke to one of the suppliers when they visited the store. He was ex-army as well, as it turned out. He told me that most of these little beauties have been sitting for months in chiller cabinets around the world, waiting their turn.’
Tamsin decided on a change of gear. ‘And away from the fresh fruit scandal, there’s a meeting of the Stormhaven Etiquette Society tonight. So I hope you weren’t planning anything – you will need to be there.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ll be there as well. It’s part of the police enquiry.’
‘You mean a gathering of the suspects?’
‘No, a gathering of the Etiquette Society – unless you know something I
don’t.’
Terence returned the Pink Lady to its place on the shelf.
‘I’ll be there,’ he said, as though they hadn’t talked at all. And turning his back on her, he began the rotation, putting the older apples from the back into a basket for temporary holding.
Tamsin took that as a dismissal. She was glad to get out of there.
‘Sex work is a positive choice,’
said Cherise with confidence.
‘Some might see it as desperate,’ said Peter. ‘I mean, I don’t . . . but some might.’
‘It’s not at all desperate.’
‘No.’
‘Only the stupid and the ignorant think it’s desperate.’
‘Quite.’
‘It’s a positive choice. Totally. And I mean some just want a cuddle. There’s a lot of lonely guys out there.’
Peter sat on a chair in her room, a floor below Katrina’s. Cherise was sitting on the bed, in the absence of a second chair. Why would you want two chairs in here? It wasn’t a library, as Cherise pointed out.
‘Not a library, no,’ agreed the abbot.
‘Financial stability is worth way more than bein’ with some bloke . . . or woman, if you’re that way. I mean, most men are pretty flaky; sorry to say that, but it’s true. And right now, I enjoy the money more. I mean, you’re probably goin’ to judge me, being religious . . .’
‘I’m not judging you.’
She wasn’t naturally attractive, or not to Peter. She looked like an over-painted wall, all original features lost. She had jet black hair, heavily made-up skin and various tattoos, which Peter, though tempted, did not gaze on too closely. There was a snake on her left arm, he saw that.
‘You like the snake? All my men like the snake,’ she said. ‘Had ’im done in Southend.’
Somewhere inside him Peter did like the snake. ‘It takes me to the Garden of Eden,’ he said.
‘Is that one of those eco parks?’
‘Well, in a way . . . it doesn’t really matter. We’re here to talk about you, and about this place.’
‘It’s a service industry, like any other – it’s not seedy or nothin’.’
‘No.’ Cherise must be allowed her self-justification. It really wasn’t necessary; he didn’t come to judge, but she wouldn’t believe that. She’d been justifying herself for years, this was Peter’s take, and here she was, cash-rich but still chased by a sense of exclusion, of having been placed outside the circle of love with the consequent need to please. Peter saw a child full of shame who, to make things better, felt compelled to please.
‘Only ten per cent of prostitution is on the street now. Did you know that?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Those days are gone – penny drabs on street corners. The internet has changed everythin’. These days, men just click on, get in touch, say what they want. Simple. I’ll do a full strip for a customer on the web cam, that’s quite popular at lunch when they’ve got a break. And a fair bit of escort work.’
‘Escort work?’
‘You know, meet up somewhere for the evening. Sometimes they just want to take you out for a meal; that’s it, that’s all they want. And that’s a pretty easy three hundred quid! And then sometimes they want more.’
‘Did you like Rosemary?’
‘Some girls see ten in a day. I don’t do that, no way; that’s cheap.’
‘Ten? It does sound a lot. More than a therapist would take on.’
‘I won’t do more than five. Five’s the limit. I’ve done twelve in a day, but that was mad.’
‘Five seems a better number.’
Where had that line come from?
‘Maybe six – I mean, you can’t turn them away. But I want to be my best, you see. I used to work in an office. It’s not like I ’aven’t tried – but I ’ated it. Four thousand quid a month and I’m my own boss.’
‘That’s a lot.’
‘It’s sometimes more. The young guys treat you like you’re a whore . . . not always, but you know. Older guys are more respectful, treat you like a lady, some of them, anyway. Their wives have died, that sort of thing, but they still want sex. And why not? One of my clients is eighty-four, struggles up the stairs, but there’s still life in ’im. Have you ever considered it, Abbot?’
Cherise smiled cheekily.
‘Me? Well, it’s a relatively new option given my past. I’ve been away a while.’
‘You been in prison?’
‘No, I was in a monastery in Egypt.’
‘You should try it.’
‘You’re obviously happy with how this place is run?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Rosemary and Tara do a good job, I imagine . . . did a good job. And you can’t think of anyone who’d want to kill Rosemary?’
‘No, I can’t. Only a nut job. I mean, there was a bloke last week who didn’t want to be seen by her.’
‘Oh?’
‘Made me do a recce before he left; but that’s not exactly unusual. I mean, it’s not a place where people want to meet their friends.’
‘And you think he might have been a friend of Rosemary’s?’
‘I dunno. And don’t much care. Perhaps he was her vicar! She was a churchwarden, you know.’ Cherise shook her head in amused amazement.
‘Yes, so I’ve discovered. Unusual.’ What else was he to say? ‘Perhaps if I brought some photos in, you could tell me if you recognize any of them?’
‘If you want – but client confidentiality and all that.’
‘You’re neither a priest nor a doctor, Cherise.’ She looked sulky. ‘And to be honest, I think we’re a little beyond that anyway. Murder tends to blow life’s little secrets out of the water. And you might be someone’s little secret.’
‘Whatever. I mean, it’s only for a particular sort of person, I know that.’
‘What is?’
‘Being a working girl. It’s not for everybody.’
‘No, maybe not.’
‘I mean, I have an accountant – I pay tax and everything, and it’s not for ever. But I need the money right now . . .’
Katrina sat on the edge of the bed.
The abbot was again given the chair in a room not concerned with seating arrangements. He was back at the top of the house, next door to the Glory Hole, and Katrina had come in especially to see him. He noticed the cross round her neck and wondered if she wore it at work.
‘You used to work in a club, you say?’
‘In Prague, yes. Prague is famous for that sort of thing; and for its architecture, obviously. There are very fine buildings there.’
‘But you left. You tired of the architecture?’
‘I didn’t like the men; not the men who came to the clubs. Too drunk half the time. They can’t do anything . . . but it doesn’t stop them trying.’
‘Quite.’
‘Sober men are quicker, and they get less angry with their performance.’
Various images passed through Peter’s mind, which his stepmother would no doubt have deemed ‘unhelpful’.
‘You don’t meet men at their finest,’ he said.
‘You mean they have a finest?’
‘Well, health’s a continuum and humans move up and down it, in my experience. Even women.’
‘I meet men as they truly are, and some are all right, some are kind, respectful. But they come to take, all of them come to take. So I am not applauding too much.’
‘You don’t sound happy in your work.’
‘It’s like any office, Abbot.’ Katrina was strangely flat in her delivery. ‘There are some people you like, and some you don’t like so much.’
‘Though in most offices, you don’t have to have sex with them.’
‘That’s something you just get used to,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I smile and get on with it. If you can’t do sex with people, best not to be a sex worker!’
‘No.’
‘I mean, if you’re going to complain all the time, don’t do
it!’ The abbot felt told off and guilty as charged. ‘You must just never show you don’t like them, that’s all. They must leave feeling good, as though they have made you happy. This is the thing. They need to feel they have made you happy.’
‘The ego always needs comforting.’
‘It is so with most of them, even though they pay.’ Peter nodded. He felt like that with the staff in the supermarket; he always hoped they’d enjoyed serving him. ‘But my son is getting older, Abbot.’
‘Your son?’
‘Is that so strange?’
‘Not at all.’ Why had he been surprised?
‘He is now fourteen. So I’ll have to stop or I might meet some of his friends . . .’
‘Yes. Or even worse . . .’
‘That too is also possible.’
There was a brief silence.
‘No, that wouldn’t be good,’ said the abbot. ‘That’d keep a therapist in employment for years.’
‘He thinks I work in a bar. Best it stays like that.’
‘Perhaps so.’
‘No, it’s time to stop,’ said Katrina. ‘This is what my priest would say.’ She fingered the cross around her neck absentmindedly. ‘My priest would say it’s time to stop.’
‘You’ve spoken about it with your priest?’
It was not conventional spiritual direction, but then things were different these days.
‘No, I have not spoken with him of these things. He is a good man; but I do not want to give him fantasies.’
‘It’s probably too late to save him from those,’ said Peter.
‘It must be difficult for him already with no wife. Well, you will know . . .’
‘Indeed.’
The room suddenly felt small and the abbot decided to grasp the nettle.
‘And you knew Rosemary Weller?’
‘Of course I knew her. She is – was – my boss. I am seeing more of Tara, she is the hands-on business person, but Rosemary would often be at our meetings, asking after our welfare. She was much concerned for our well-being . . . and our futures.’
