by Evelyn Weiss
14Thursday 27 July
The morning comes at last, and so do the cops. As I expected, it’s officers I’d never seen before, who aren’t even aware of the murder investigation. They make some notes, take some photos, tell us we can now start clearing it up if we want to, and then they go. The visit seems like a token thing, like it’s over before it’s even begun. Suddenly there’s just Jazz and me alone again, standing there in a trashed flat.
Worst of all, I’ve got a call to make.
“Mr Krasniqi. It’s Holly Harlow.”
“Holly, I said would call you, today. Why do you call me? Let me guess, you’re going to tell me that you haven’t got my money yet.”
“That’s right. I was – I was getting it together. And I actually had £5000 in cash. Honest I did. But now – my flat’s been burgled. All the cash is gone.”
I listen to the silence, the tiny noises of his breathing. I’m listening for any clue that shows that he knows about the burglary, that he was involved in it. But I’m getting nothing. Except – the slightest of tremors as he begins to speak.
“So, you’ve failed. And I will go to the police. Mr Rainbow, I don’t think there is any secret to that name now. He listens to me. Me and him, we get on very well.”
“OK. I can’t stop you. I’ve got nothing to pay you with, whatever you threaten me with.”
“You have one more week. £5000 as before, you understand? I will phone you on Friday 4th August, and you will pay me, Saturday 5th. Without fail.”
Does he sound disappointed? No, I know what that tremor in his voice means. He’s now got to tell others, whoever they are, about this. That there’s a delay on this money. He knows they won’t like it. They’re more powerful than he is. Mr Krasniqi, I can tell, you’re a little bit scared yourself right now.
The doorbell rings. Hell, does Jazz have a punter coming round, someone we’ve totally forgotten about in the midst of all this? I glance at her. She’s sitting on the sofa, still seems stunned by what’s happened: she makes no move. I press the button to let our caller in from the street. I go to the door.
It’s the last person I expect to see. Mrs Geeta Pawan.
“I heard what happened.”
Wow, police communication across departments. “Thanks for calling round. What do you want to know?”
“Nothing, in particular. I thought I’d help you clear up. Not totally altruistic, because I might learn something from you. But…”
“Thank you.”
“I suggest, we start on the kitchen first, and if we all three of us – she glances a welcome at Jazz – tackle that, then once it’s a bit sorted out, you might both feel a bit better, and then we can have a cup of tea. And then you and I can chat, Holly.”
It’s two hours later. Kitchen is nearly sorted, there are several bin-liners full of broken crockery and spoiled food. The three surviving mugs are full of tea, on the kitchen table. Pawan smiles, and we try to too.
“Miss Cairns. Not had a chance to properly introduce myself yet, but I’m aware of your work at the Sexwork Helpline. Good work that you do there. I hear you’re the driving force behind the place.”
“I guess – I’m trying to put something back. To help girls who are where I was, eight years ago. Because sex workers – it needn’t be a world of pimps, drugs, extortion, STDs. Like it or not, the sex industry will always exist, and it can involve women – or men – who work independently, selling the services that they choose, without fear. Holly and I are proof of that.”
Pawan looks at me. “You don’t get involved in the Helpline, Holly?”
“No – well, I’ve been round there, done the odd practical job for them. I helped them move office, I was on lifting, carrying, and driving the van. But the whole caring, listening thing … I guess I’m not able to advise anyone. I still feel I’m making my own way in life. Looking out for Number One, I suppose. I don’t feel ready…”
She nods understanding. I go on.
“Like I’m still one of the kids, not one of the grown-ups.”
“And me? When you’re talking to a policewoman like me – do you feel like one of the kids then?”
“Generally, yes. But to be honest, you don’t seem…”
“I know that the police don’t normally help with the housework.”
“Can I ask you something? You’ve come here, and it’s really appreciated. But Rainbow – he told me – you’re off the case.”
“Off it, and still on it. Yes, Mr Rainbow is leading on the murder of Jonathan Wycherley. But – I may as well tell you. We believe there’s a bigger picture.”
“Does that mean I’m not your main suspect, any more?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. What I can tell you is – if you did do it, Miss Harlow, you weren’t acting alone. I can’t tell you more, but if there is anything you’d like to tell me? ...”
“This woman is innocent. You’ve got to see that.” Jazz makes her speech to Pawan, then she stands up, goes into the lounge, closing the kitchen door behind her to give us some privacy.
“Mrs Pawan, do you know anything about a place in Kingston called the Soames Hotel? Or a clinic a few miles outside Tring, called Home Croft?”
She looks at me, and her gaze gives absolutely nothing away. Her eyes simply invite me to carry on talking.
I’m about to speak when her phone rings; she answers it. I can tell, it’s Rainbow. “I’m here with her now” she says. I can hear the buzz of him talking, telling her something important. Urgent.
“I’m sorry, Miss Harlow. I’ll have to go. We need to continue this conversation, though.”
“Of course. I’ll call you tonight?”
“Good. Thank you. I’ll see myself out.”
I’ve not drunk my tea: it’s cold. Jazz is staring blankly out of the window, twisting her fingers together. I make her a coffee, and try to take her mind off the burglary by telling her a bit more about Pawan and Rainbow. We’re both aware there’s still tons to do to clear up the flat. A good thing neither of us has got any punters today.
“You OK, Jazz?”
“Something like this – it sets you back. You realise you’re at the bottom of the heap. God there are some lucky fuckers out there. Money. It insulates you... from crap like this.”
“The flat’s insured, Jazz. And money... look at the bigger picture. You’re so careful, your investments are doing well...”
“Well you have to, don’t you. One day I’ll no longer have my looks, and there’ll be no punters, except the cheapskates who expect an older woman for a bargain basement price. Life’s a time-bomb, Hol.” She makes an effort and the bleak look vanishes from her face. “But anyway – right now, we’ve got to solve this. This mess that seems to have entangled you. We’ll work on it together, right? I’ll do anything to help you, Hol, anything. Someone’s got it in for you, and the cops are worse than useless.”
“You’ve done a lot already. Krasniqi’s house burning down, you found out about that. You’ve covered bookings for me so that I could spend time at the Soames. And I know you’ll ask Jean at the Helpline about Lucy, when you get a chance.”
“But also, we can work through the problem together. Tackle it logically, do the thinking that the police aren’t doing. First of all, who do you suspect most?”
Jazz’s usual energy and fire is back.
“I really haven’t a clue at the moment. There’s one thing I know: Wycherley was looking for this girl Lucy, who worked at the Soames. And there’s two things I think are probably true. First, I suspect that Wycherley visited the Soames, perhaps not long before he met me. But by the time he visited the place – if he did – Lucy was gone from there. Second, if Wycherley used Krasniqi to arrange room 412, then Krasniqi’s connection was with Wycherley only. He has no connection with the Soames.”
“So, why is that important?”
“Well, if Wycherley’s murder was something to do with Lucy – which is my gut feeling – then I can
’t see how Krasniqi can possibly be in on the murder. He’s nothing more than an opportunist, preying on me.” But as I speak, I remember Cheriton’s face. The way he reacted to seeing the Contacts on my phone. Is it possible, then, that Krasniqi is known to Cheriton? My mind’s a jumble.
“Jazz, when I was first trying to find out about Wycherley, it seemed like looking for a needle in a haystack. Now, I feel like I’m inside the haystack.”
“One step at a time, logically. Let’s do process of elimination.”
“Like real detectives. Sherlock Jazz again.” I grin at her.
“Whoever killed Wycherley, they knew where he was that night. Who could have known that, Hol?”
“People who knew he was in Room 412: that’s easy peasy to answer. It was known to Wycherley himself, me, Krasniqi.” I slap my hand on my knee with the stupid simplicity of it. I say it again like a nursery rhyme. “People who knew he was in that room, Krasniqi, Wycherley and me.” Think, Holly, think. Jazz looks at me, her eyes bright.
“Hol – there might be a fourth person. If Wycherley been to the Soames before his booking with you – could someone at the Soames have known where he was going?”
“Or…” Another thought has just occurred to me. I remember under Waterloo Bridge. The thought’s occurring to Jazz, too.
“Or… someone at the Soames didn’t know he meeting you at the Excel Hotel that evening – but, they followed him, Hol?”
“I felt I was being followed. The other day, on the Embankment…”
“Did you see them?”
“No. Like it was – a ghost, somehow. I was with Rainbow. I knew that a third person was there – I knew it as a fact, every bit as much as I know you’re here now. But I didn’t see anyone.”
“And Rainbow didn’t see anything either?”
“Not at all. He wasn’t aware of another person at all. When I told him, he suggested I see a doctor about stress.”
“Hol, these cops – I mean, our lady detective inspector is pretty fab when it comes to domestic cleaning, but maybe less good when it comes to catching crooks. I’d give her 10 out of 10 for niceness and 0 out of 10 for doing her job. And that Rainbow guy sounds...”
“Prejudiced?”
“Worse than that.”
I’m about to ask her what she means, but my phone rings, I answer it. “Chris Rainbow. I’ve heard about your flat.”
“It’s a complete mess. DI Pawan has just been here with us. And this puts a whole new light on things, doesn’t it? You see, I know all about your witness, your Mr Krasniqi. His house was burned down, wasn’t it? Whoever did over his place, did mine.”
“He thinks you burned his house.”
“But he’s got strong motives for saying that. He knows who burnt his house, he’s scared of them, he doesn’t want to name them to the police. And, he wants me to go down for the Wycherley murder, and the arson.”
“Why? Why would he be so keen for you to be convicted, if it’s not true? That’s what I don’t understand, Miss Harlow.”
“There’s two reasons. It distracts from him being involved. Can’t you see, he knew which hotel room Wycherley was in, he arranged that whole thing?”
“This is the line you’ve been feeding to DI Pawan. She told me about it.”
“Well have you considered, it might be true?”
“You said two reasons.”
“OK. Krasniqi – suppose he wanted money. To get money off me. He could threaten me, with what he might put in his witness statement.”
“That’s nonsense, Miss Harlow. The man’s been made homeless, he’s a witness in a murder case, and you’re telling me he spends his time trying to extort money from you?”
This conversation is going nowhere. Which is maybe for the best. I don’t want the cops knowing about the blackmail, watching my every move, fucking up the handover of the cash to Krasniqi. He’d sniff that they were involved and not turn up – then, they’d then be more convinced than ever that I’m lying. I find myself saying
“OK, don’t believe me. But can you do one thing? Check him out. I guess he has a criminal record, maybe not in this country, but there will be something, somewhere. I’d bet my life on it.”
“We’re investigating in the way we think best, Miss Harlow. But yes – we’ll do background checks on him. We would in any case. But that’s not why I’ve called.”
“Sorry. I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job.”
He ignores my attempt at an apology. “I’m calling because I’ve just spoken to DI Pawan. You said you’d phone her, later. Don’t. As I explained to you, I’m leading this case. I thought you understood that. Anything you need to tell us, you can tell me.”
I’m quiet. I’ve not told Rainbow about the Soames, Home Croft, anything. He doesn’t like me and doesn’t trust me. I realise how mad and desperate it’s all going to sound if I start telling him about everything. I can’t think of what to say. He’s still talking.
“The main thing is, Miss Harlow – don’t call DI Pawan. She’s busy with other aspects of the case. Call me, if you need to talk.”
OK, OK, I get the point. But I keep polite. “Of course. You’re in charge, and if I have anything to say, I’ll tell you.”
“And do you? Have anything more to tell me?”
“No.”
