by M A Comley
Her voice strained, like any newcomer’s would be, she peered over the shoulder of a short dumpy girl and asked, “Is she all right? Should we call the police?”
The group of heavily made-up prostitutes eyed her with a mixture of caution and incredulity. A blonde Amazon-sized woman leaned back and laughed loudly. “Are you crazy? Who the fuck are you?”
The woman cringed. She hadn’t meant to bring attention to herself. She’d intended only to observe the women, to learn a few tricks of the trade, and that was all. But her caring nature had come to the fore. She regretted her decision to step out of the shadows. She tried to turn and retreat to where she had come from, but two of the girls blocked her path.
The amazon tottered on her stilettos and stood in front, towering over her. “I said, who the fuck are you?”
She gulped noisily, and the girls must have heard it, because they all sniggered. Even the girl who had been beaten up by the thugs giggled a little.
“I’m new around here.”
“No fucking shit, Sherlock. Why don’t you run along and mind your own fucking business. This patch is spoken for. If the Krull Gang find you here, your life won’t be worth living, anyway.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. The Krull Gang? Is that who beat your friend up?”
The amazon prodded the woman painfully in the sternum. “You ask too many questions, lady. Now fuck off outta here.”
The woman didn’t need to be told again that she wasn’t wanted. She shrugged, turned away from the group, and disappeared into the shadows again, where she waited for another opportunity to arise.
The girls didn’t give her a second glance as they turned their attention back to helping the girl who had been attacked back on to her feet. The amazon took a tissue from her handbag, licked the edge of it, and dabbed at the mascara trail the girl’s tears had formed. Then, as if nothing untoward had happened, the girls returned to work. The flow of traffic in this otherwise-quiet street was non-stop, and within twenty minutes, all but one of the girls—the girl who’d been attacked—had gone off with a punter.
Seizing the opportunity to talk to one of the girls, the woman left the cover of the shadows for a second time that evening and walked over to have a conversation with the girl. She needed answers, and she couldn’t get those without talking to someone in the know.
The girl snarled at her when she saw the woman approaching. “You! What the fuck do you want?”
The girl was leaning against the wall, one of her feet tucked up behind her, pressing in to the wall’s surface. The woman smiled, not letting the girl’s offhand comments deter her in the least. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“About what? Being on the game?”
“Yes. I’m new. The last thing I want to do is step on anybody’s toes. I take it you girls have certain patches where you work. Is it the same patch all the time?”
“If you want my advice, I wouldn’t get into this game in the first place. If you’re determined to get on the game and decide not to listen to me, you’d be wise to pick another area. The Krull Gang have got this area pretty sown up.”
“Thanks. How far does their area stretch?”
“Miles.”
The woman pressed the girl further. “Mind if I ask why those clowns beat you up?”
She shrugged one of her bare shoulders and said, “I had a doctor’s appointment and missed the pick-up time.”
“Pick-up time?”
The girl tutted. “The time we hand over our money.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you give your money to them?”
The girl let out a loud laugh. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were new to all this. They’re our pimps! They take ninety percent of what we earn.”
“Shit! Really? How are you supposed to live? Where do you live?”
“We live in a squat. The gang set us up there. Sometimes, we hold parties there for the punters, but most of the time, we’re expected to stick around here, on the streets and in the cold.”
The woman shook her head. “And why do you stick around here?”
The girl sniffed loudly and then spat on the pavement beside her. “They’ve got me by the short and curlies. I’ve got a drug habit that needs feeding.”
“But they treated you no better than a dog. You can’t put up with that, surely?”
“You’ve got a lot to learn, lady. Which is why I told you to get out of it before you get into it. Go find a nice office job somewhere.”
The woman shook her head. “I can’t. I need big money and fast.” She put her hand in her handbag and left it there. The girl didn’t appear to notice the movement. “When are the other girls due back?”
The girl studied her up and down as if she were crazy. “Girl, there ain’t no time limit on punters screwing you. It’s over when they say it’s over. Why?”
The woman leaned in to whisper in the girl’s ear, “Because I’d hate to have a witness.” With that, she withdrew a knife and thrust it in the girl’s stomach. The girl looked at her in horror as her hands automatically covered the wound that was already bleeding heavily.
“Why?” she asked, blood trickling from the side of her mouth as she slid down the brick wall.
The woman watched the girl slip into unconsciousness, then die before she replied, “Because I want to see the shit hit the fan!”
Chapter 8
Hero groaned and rolled over. The bed was empty beside him. He swiftly looked at the bedside clock and regretted it. The previous night had been a heavy session after work, too heavy. One of the other members of the team had dropped him home at just past midnight. He remembered crawling into bed and trying to snuggle up with Fay, but she was having none of it. She had shifted her warm body to the edge of the bed, and taking the hint, he’d turned his back on her and dozed off within minutes. Gingerly, he sat up and took a sip from the glass of water Fay always took to bed with her. He winced when she shouted from downstairs for Louie to get up. Damn, I’m going to be late for work.
He showered as fast as his aching head would allow him to and dressed in the clothes Fay had laid out for him, like she did every morning. Where would I be without her? He picked up his mobile and car keys off the dressing table and put them in his jacket pocket. He left the bedroom and started down the stairs. Louie sped past him, almost knocking him off balance. “Hey, slow down, you rascal.”
“Mum’s mad this morning. Can’t you tell?”
“Yeah, and she’ll be even madder at you if you fall down the stairs in your haste.”
His words went unheeded as the boy finished running down the stairs two at a time and disappeared into the kitchen. Hero stopped at the bottom of the stairs to look in the hall mirror. The instant he saw his reflection, one word popped into his mind—rough. You look rougher than a tramp living the highlife of whiskey, tucked up in Cardboard City, mate.
He made his way into the kitchen and walked up to his wife, who was putting slices of bread in the toaster. Kissing her on the cheek, he whispered, “Morning, love.”
Fay pulled away, turned her back on him, and sat down at the table with her son. Hurt, Hero made himself a coffee laden with cold milk so that he could drink it quickly. Then he left the house without attempting to speak to either Fay or her son again. Outside, rain was falling.
He looked up and down the street, searching for his car, before it dawned on him that he’d left it at the pub. He rang for a taxi, which arrived within five minutes.
“Nice start to the day. Can’t wait to see what the rest of it brings,” he grumbled as he got in the back of the cab.
He paid the driver, then walked quietly into the station. Pushing open the door to the incident room, he was surprised by the noise that hit him. Julie approached him with the news before he had a chance to walk towards his office.
“We’ve got a new murder case to deal with, sir.”
“Don’t stop there, Shaw,” Hero said, impatiently.
&
nbsp; “A prostitute was killed last night.”
Regrettably, this was nothing new to Hero. In the heart of Manchester or any other major city throughout Britain, the number of attacks on prostitutes rose each year. Punters saw the women of the night as easy targets, as someone to fulfill their sexual fantasies. More often than not, those deviant fantasies led to some of the girls losing their lives. Hero shook his head. “Another one to add to the list. Any witnesses?”
“No, sir. There’s something else you should know.”
“What’s that, Shaw?”
“The girl wasn’t killed in the normal way.”
“Meaning?”
“She was killed in situ. I mean, where she usually picks up a punter.”
“I’m not with you, Shaw. Do you mind coming to the point?”
“Well, I did some research, and the results came back that most prostitutes are either killed or attacked once a punter has picked them up. Any registered murders have been at a different location. We’ve never had a prostitute death been reported where the girl was found in the place where she plies her trade from, if you like.”
“Forgive me being a little slow this morning, Shaw, but what exactly are you getting at?”
Julie perched her backside on the edge of the desk behind her and stared at him. “I just think it’s strange, sir. A case we should be investigating. I know we don’t usually throw much effort behind the deaths of street girls, but this time, I think we should. Do you want me to start making enquiries?”
“If you have a feeling about this, then yes, I think you should. I’ll give you until lunchtime to come up with something. If nothing shows up, we move on. Do you hear me?”
Shaw leapt off the table and went back to her desk, looking pleased that he had agreed with her. “Oh, one more thing, sir.”
“Yes, Shaw?”
“Would you mind if I had a little help.”
“Who did you have in mind, Shaw?” Hero glanced around the room at the other team members.
“The obvious choice is Foxy, you know, because of her contacts.”
Hero frowned, not thinking straight due to his hangover. “Why?”
Shaw blew out an exasperated breath. “Sally is married to Frank in the Vice Squad.”
“Ah yes, so she is. Very well. Only till lunchtime, mind,” he repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
Hero left the incident room and paused at his office door. On his desk was a pile of post that he didn’t have the strength or will to open. He turned on his heel and walked back through the incident room and out to the gent’s toilets. At the sink, he buried his face in cold water for a few seconds—an old trick he had learned in the TA, which helped the soldiers on forty-eight hour shifts to stay alert. When he looked in the mirror again, his cheeks were tinged pink, and his eyes appeared to be less bloodshot than before.
Jason Coltman pushed through the toilet and turned to walk out again.
“I don’t bite, Coltman, and I promise I won’t peek at your dick.” The embarrassed man came back in the room and walked up to the urinal. Hero caught him glancing sideways to see if he was true to his word. He laughed. “You were knocking them back last night, matching me pint for pint. Why the hell don’t you look as shitty as me?”
Coltman smirked at his boss. “Maybe because I left a couple of hours before you, sir. I need my beauty sleep, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Hero pulled open the door and mumbled, “Smart arse.” He strolled back through the incident room and reluctantly started on the post in his office. He hadn’t been tackling the chore for long when two brain cells clicked together and sparked a thought. He left his desk and went in search of Julie Shaw. “Where?”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Where was the prostitute killed, as a matter of interest? You didn’t tell me, did you?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. It was close to the Brickfields Estate.”
His eyebrows lifted into his hairline. “Really? Okay, change of plan. We’ll both go down to the site this morning and ask questions. Foxy, you do what you’re best at. Go through the CCTV footage around that area, see if anything crops up.”
Both of the women nodded their agreement. Hero smiled to himself, feeling half-human again after his quick dip in the sink.
“Just one point, sir.”
“What’s that, Julie?”
“The time of day might not be appropriate. These girls tend to do most of their work at night, don’t they?”
“You’re right. We’ll take a trip down there anyway and call back this evening around five. Maybe some girls will be around then.”
Julie Shaw didn’t look too impressed by his idea, which was tough because that’s the way it was going to be.
Rupert Hartley was hiding out in the master bedroom when James informed him he had a visitor. When he caught his reflection in Saskia’s dressing room mirror, he saw that another sleepless night had left its mark around his eyes. He had spent most of the morning touching the contents of her makeup drawer and running his hands over the silver brush set on the dressing table. His eyes were puffy from lack of sleep and the amount of crying he’d done since the funerals. Suicide and joining them had crossed his mind several times during the loneliness of the night. He wasn’t sure when he’d last eaten or even showered. Everything that he’d once found easy to cope with had turned into a time-consuming chore.
He wandered down the stairs in a daze to meet his visitor, Dave Wheeler.
“All right, mate. Just dropped in to see how you’re doing?”
“I’ve had better days, weeks, months, and years,” Rupert replied gloomily. He shook Dave’s hand and led him into the lounge. The room had once felt warm and loved, but it had become cold and uninviting, so much so that Rupert almost changed his mind and retreated to his safe haven, the library. However, he forced himself to tolerate the room for the length of time his good friend was there to visit.
To begin with, the conversation between the friends was stilted. Thankfully, James appeared a few minutes later with a pot of tea and filled a china cup for each of the men.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any news about this gang? The police haven’t been to see me in days.”
Wheeler took a sip of his drink before he responded. “Not directly, no. The police will take their time over this. I already told you that. All the gang members have disorder offenses against them, but—”
“Then why aren’t the fuckers locked up?”
Wheeler shrugged. “Word has it, the police are scared of them. I need to chase up a story while I’m out, which could be connected to the gang.”
Rupert frowned. “What story?”
“Well, there are two actually. One to do with a suicide of a gang member, another gang. The other is to do with a prostitute who was found murdered near the Krull Gang’s turf.”
“Oh, I see. Did anything come of that article you wrote about the gang?” Rupert asked, picking up his cup and taking a sip.
Wheeler snorted. “Yeah, I had aggro all right. But not from the gang. The copper in charge of the case, Nelson, is it?” Rupert nodded that he was correct. “He warned me off and told me I was being an idiot to come out against the gang like that.”
“That figures. So, none of the gang members have been in touch or threatened you at all, like you thought they would after running the story?”
“Nope. They probably can’t read.” Wheeler laughed.
Rupert wasn’t in the mood for laughing with him. His stomach twisted into knots at every mention of the gang. He didn’t really want to know about them, but the temptation to know what they were up to proved too irresistible to ignore.
The conversation dwindled as Rupert became withdrawn again. Wheeler tried several times to renew the conversation, but Rupert had drifted off to a place where Saskia and Laurence still shared his life and still smiled and laughed with him.
Another half an hour slipped by before Wheeler finally got the message and l
eft. The minute his friend walked out the front door, Rupert ascended the stairs and made his way along the landing to the master bedroom. He paused in the doorway, as he always did, to smell Saskia’s lingering scent before he went into the wardrobe and trailed his hand along her clothes. When he reached the end of the rail, he sank to his knees and stared at the wall of shoes. Every colour imaginable stared back at him. Images of Saskia eagerly modelling a new pair she’d brought home filtered through his mind. He missed her so much—her tenderness, her smile, and most of all, her love. When will this hurt ever end? When will someone pay for their actions? The questions repeated constantly, until he became weary and fell asleep inside what had become his sanctuary.
Chapter 9
By the time Hero and Julie reached the scene of the murder, he was feeling more human again. The uniformed officer held up the crime-scene tape so that they could duck under. There wasn’t much to see. The officer told them that the SOCO team had left approximately half an hour before and that he would be leaving the scene once the council had sent someone to clean up the blood.
“You want to get them to clean the graffiti off the walls, too, while they’re here,” Hero said, surveying the large spray-painted slogans decorating the wall in front of them.
“Ha! Can’t see that happening any time soon, sir.”
Hero stood beside the blood stain and glanced around the area. He looked up at the streetlight above and said to Julie, “See if this one is working.” He looked up at the back of the building opposite. “What’s that building?” he asked the uniformed copper.
“Insurance company, sir.”
“Hmm… The building would’ve probably been empty when the murder occurred.”
“I’ll make a note to check in case, sir.” Julie jotted it down in her notebook. “You never know, someone might have been actioning some claims late at night. Unlikely, I know, but I’ll check, all the same.”
Hero pointed down the street. “We’ll go this way first. From here, this spot is visible from that corner over there.” He pointed in the other direction. “Can’t see anything untoward down that way, though.”
