Authors: Simon Kernick
'Wasn't it you who told me when I started out that only five per cent of policework gets you anywhere, and it's always spread right across the one hundred per cent you have to do?'
I grinned. 'Did I really say that? Shit, that must have been a long time ago.'
'Two years. That's all.'
'I must have been lying.'
'So, what is the answer then? The secret of policework?'
I was about to tell him that it was not to give a fuck about it and make sure you earned an alternative income, when DC Hunsdon walked in. He looked pleased. There were only about a dozen of us scattered about the canteen and most were uniform. Since CID always like to stick together, he made his way over to us.
He stopped when he got to the table and leaned forward, smiling, hands on the top.
'I can see you're dying to tell us something,' I told him.
'We've got the pimp.' He spoke these words in the manner of someone saying, 'We've solved the case.' Somewhat optimistic, I thought.
'Oh yeah? Where was he?'
Hunsdon sat down and lit a cigarette. 'He came in here. Walked in with his brief about ten minutes ago.'
'Who's going to question him?' Malik asked.
'Knox is going to do it with Capper. They're going to lean on him hard.'
He didn't look at Malik as he spoke. Like a lot of the younger detectives, Hunsdon didn't like Malik. This was partly to do with the fact that he was a graduate, but also because he was Asian. There was a feeling that he got special treatment because of his ethnic background, a situation not helped by the way senior management tended to treat him as some sort of teacher's pet. The resentment was unjustified and
stupid, but it was difficult to squash. It was a testimony to Malik that he never once acknowledged it.
'Do you think he did it?' I asked him.
Hunsdon shrugged. 'What else have we got?'
'Hardly a reason for pinning it on him,' I said.
'Yeah, but it's not just that, is it? The victim wasn't sexually assaulted but she was attacked in a way that was meant to make it look like a sexual assault, so it's probably not going to be a pervert. Plus, he was seen round the victim's flat just after the murder and attacked you when you tried to question him. And, if that isn't enough, he's got a history of violence, and he'd attacked the victim before. Put her in hospital a couple of months back with cracked ribs and concussion.'
'Yeah, but that's not the same as cutting her throat from ear to ear and hacking great holes in her genitals.'
'He fits, Sarge. Whatever way you look at it, he fits.' He said these last words firmly, and in a way that suggested there was no point continuing to argue with him.
Which there wasn't. Right or wrong, at least it meant there was less work for the rest of us.
'How are you getting on with the mobile phone records? Did Miriam have one registered in her name?'
He nodded. 'Yeah, she did. And I tell you something, it took a fuck of a lot of phoning round to
find out. The company's going to send us a list of calls she made and received over the past month.'
'Maybe it'll throw up something.'
'You never know,' he said, but he didn't sound that interested. In his mind, we'd already got our man.
11
As predicted, we ended up spending several hours at the children's home that afternoon trying to track down the various 'clients' we hadn't yet spoken to. We managed to pin down a few but no one who could help us much. To be honest, it did prove to be a bit of a waste of time. Carla wasn't there either, which disappointed me. She had a meeting out in Essex and hadn't returned by five o'clock, which was the time we'd decided that we'd had enough. I phoned through to Welland and told him that he might as well send uniforms down for the rest of the statements because it simply wasn't worth using us for it, and he agreed without much resistance.
That evening it was Malik's turn to take off early. He had to pick his kids up from his mother-in-law's as his missus, who was some high-flying accountant, was off on a seminar in Monte Carlo or some other
such exotic destination. It made me think. The last seminar I'd attended had been in Swindon. 'The Role of the Police Force in 21st-Century Britain' it had been called - about as interesting and informative as watching a car rust. I was definitely in the wrong job.
We left together and I took the tube down to King's Cross. I thought about heading back to the station and seeing what needed doing but decided a drink might be better instead. Welland had told me they were still questioning the pimp, and so far there was nothing of note to report, which didn't surprise me. You only turn up with your lawyer in tow if you don't want to say too much.
I found a pub on the Euston Road near the station which didn't look too shitty and took a seat at the bar. The barman was a young Australian guy with a ponytail and a silver ring through his eyebrow. There were only a few people in the place so we had a bit of a chat about this and that. He was a friendly sort, which is often the way with Aussies. I think it must be something to do with the fact that they're brought up in a nice sunny climate. I asked him what the crime situation was like over there. He told me it was pretty bad.
'It's getting worse too, y'know,' he said. 'A lot of guns around the place, and people more willing to use them.' I told him that that was the case everywhere. 'Don't I know it,' he said. 'Especially here. I
always thought London was supposed to be a safe place.'
'I think you're about fifty years too late,' I told him, and we left it at that.
When I left the pub, shortly after seven o'clock, I decided to walk home and take in some of the sights of the red light district where Miriam Fox and her young friend, Molly Hagger, had plied their trade.
King's Cross isn't a lot like people expect a red light district to be. On the main drag there are the two railway stations on one side of the road, almost next to each other - King's Cross and St Pancras - while a few dodgy-looking fast-food outlets and amusement arcades cluster together on the other. A couple of ageing sex shops with their trademark blackened windows and garish lighting are the only sign that people come to the area with sex in mind, but even they look lonely and a little out of place. King's Cross is no Amsterdam or Hamburg. There's no obvious prostitution activity on the main roads, even after dark. The prostitutes might be there, but you wouldn't particularly notice them. The area tends to be fairly busy as the Euston Road links the west and east of the city, and there are always plenty of people about, which deprives the punters of their one great desire: anonymity.
But step away from the bright lights and into the dark, dimly lit backstreets and a new world awaits.
Drifting in and out of view like ghosts are the whores and the crack dealers. Sometimes you don't even see them. Their disembodied voices reach out from the doorways and alleys and the questions they ask are always the same: 'Need any gear?' 'Looking for a good time?' Sometimes you can feel their eyes boring into you, trying to work you out, looking for your weaknesses, maybe deciding whether or not you're worth robbing. Cars ease idly by, sizing up the scene. If you look at them, you'll see that most of the time the occupant is a single, middle-aged man and they never return the look. They always turn away. These are the businessmen searching for their illicit thrill. Some of them are just frustrated, and need a quick fuck to bring them fleeting satisfaction. Others are perverts, people who want to do things to a woman their wives and girlfriends would never countenance. People who want things done to them that you and I couldn't countenance. And somewhere among them are the psychopaths, rapists and killers sweeping the area in their constant hunt for prey. This other world exists fifty yards from King's Cross station, but unless you look for it you'll never see it, and unless you see it you'll never understand the sickness that keeps it going.
It was a mild night with a strong wind. In my raincoat pocket I clutched a small cosh I occasionally carry about with me, purely for emergencies.
It's less than a foot long and easily concealable on a winter's day. I've never used it in anger before and I'd never think about wielding it while on duty - it's more than my job's worth - but I was glad I had it now.
Two ageing prostitutes, their faces cracked and wrinkled like old leather, stepped out of the darkness and into my path. They wore ridiculously short skirts and pantomime make-up. 'How about some, love?' said one, forcing a leering smile. 'With a real woman.'
'I'm a police officer,' I said, pushing past her as politely as possible.
'So? Even coppers need a bit of fun,' she shouted after me. But her enthusiasm had faltered.
I didn't say anything. What was there to say to that?
I felt sorry for her. I felt sorry for them both. According to some of the other guys on the case these older girls were bitter about the competition provided by their more youthful counterparts like Miriam Fox and her friends, which was no great surprise. It's difficult enough to compete with newer, better, different models, and even worse when they undercut you. This rivalry had resulted in a number of incidents where older prostitutes had attacked the young ones, and several where they'd actually called the police to tell them about underage activity in an effort to get the girls off the
street. Now the two competing groups tended to keep apart, but it was youth that had the most success.
It was quiet tonight, a result no doubt of the investigation, but business would soon return to normal. In the end, nothing gets in the way of capitalism. That's what's always annoyed me about the British attitude to paying for sex. It's all well and good having a big moral stance against prostitution, but that doesn't stop it happening. It doesn't even curtail it. Far better just to regulate the trade so that the girls are clean, pimp-free and safe, and the red light districts become tourist attractions, not drug-infested no-go areas like the one I was walking through now. Girls like Miriam Fox would almost certainly still be alive if they'd worked in Amsterdam or Barcelona, or wherever they were sensible enough not to attempt to change the laws of nature.
The scream came from somewhere behind me.
I didn't even register it the first time. You expect a scream on a street like this. Then it came again, louder and more desperate. It sounded like a young girl - a teenager - but whoever it was was pleading for help, the voice growing increasingly hysterical, and I knew straight away that something was badly wrong.
I swung round fast. A car was in the middle of the road about thirty yards away with its lights on
and engine running. The driver, who I couldn't see very well, was leaning out of the passenger side and holding on to a girl who was struggling violently with him. There didn't seem to be anyone else around.
A part of me didn't want to get involved. Ahead of me were the bright lights and security of the Gray's Inn Road. I might have been a copper but I was off duty, in my own time, and I could be taking a big risk coming between those two. If it was a domestic she wouldn't thank me, they never do. I could end up with a knife in my gut or a gun in my ribs, all for being charitable.
But that part of me's still in a minority, thank God. I pulled the cosh from my pocket, ran into the road, and sprinted towards the car. The girl was now half in and the screaming was getting louder and louder as she realized how close she was to being abducted. Her thin, bare legs flapped wildly as inch by inch they disappeared inside the vehicle, which was now slowly moving forward.
I don't know if he heard me coming or not. I didn't make any noise - there's never any point advertising your presence if you don't have to - but my footfalls on the concrete were loud enough. As I got there, the car shot forward, but not before I'd grabbed the girl round the legs and pulled. For a moment the driver held on and I had this terrible fear that he was going to drag me along the tarmac.
I stumbled and half fell but held on for dear life, somehow managing to keep my feet. That was it for him. The game was over, he wasn't going to get his prey, so he let go and she flew out the door, landing in a heap on the road. The momentum knocked me over too and all I could do was watch while he made his rapid getaway with a screech of tyres, turning a corner before I could focus on his numberplate.
I got to my feet, putting the cosh away, then helped her up. 'Are you all right?'
She looked at me for the first time and I recognized her instantly as Anne Taylor, the girl who'd been outside Coleman House when we'd arrived there the previous day. She looked a lot less full of herself now, though. Her eyes were tear-stained and her make-up was running. The shock on her face was clear.
She nodded slowly, checking her skirt and top for any damage. 'I think so ... Yeah, yeah, I'm all right.'
I took her by the arm and moved her on to the pavement. 'Did you know him?' I asked.
'Probably just some pervert,' she answered, without looking up. 'I've never seen him before.'
'What did he look like?'
This time she did look up. 'Look, I'm not interested in pressing charges or nothing like that.' She shook herself free of my arm.
'You know, a thanks might not go amiss. I mean, I have just helped you out of a difficult situation. Anything could have happened to you then.'
'I know how to look after myself.'