Wages of Sin

by J M Gregson

  Table of Contents

  Previous Titles by J M Gregson from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Previous Titles by J.M. Gregson from Severn House

  Lambert and Hook Mysteries

  AN ACADEMIC DEATH

  DEATH ON THE ELEVENTH HOLE

  GIRL GONE MISSING

  MORTAL TASTE

  AN UNSUITABLE DEATH

  Detective Inspector Peach Mysteries

  TO KILL A WIFE

  THE LANCASHIRE LEOPARD

  A LITTLE LEARNING

  MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD

  MURDER AT THE LODGE

  A TURBULENT PRIEST

  THE WAGES OF SIN

  WHO SAW HIM DIE?

  THE WAGES OF SIN

  J.M. Gregson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2004 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2004 by J.M. Gregson

  This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  The right of J.M. Gregson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Gregson, J.M. (James Michael)

  Wages of sin

  1. Peach, Percy, Detective Inspector (Fictitious character) – Fiction

  2. Police – England – Lancashire – Fiction

  3. Prostitution – England – Lancashire – Fiction

  4. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9'14 [F]

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0057-0 (Epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6055-2

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To all the ladies who helped me

  with the research for this book!

  One

  This would be the end of her first week of doing it for money.

  She still didn’t like to call it ‘on the game’, still didn’t wish to acknowledge to herself the reality of what she was doing. She thought of it as a temporary phase; as a means of raising the money necessary to her independence; as something a future husband would never need to know about.

  She was still very young.

  She’d been petrified by the man she’d met on the first night, the man who’d held her chin in his hand and snarled fierce words into her face from no more than six inches. But she hadn’t seen him since then, though she’d looked fearfully over her shoulder for him each time she’d been out.

  This man didn’t look dangerous. Well, nothing like as dangerous as that man who had clenched her face in his gloved hand and spat his contemptuous words into her terror-stricken face. That man had been a nutter, for sure. The girls said you got a lot of nutters in this game, but most of them were harmless.

  She mustn’t let this man know how new she was to this, mustn’t let him sense her nervousness. You had to remain in charge of the situation; treat the punters as schoolboys, Karen had said. If you dictated the terms, told them what to do, you kept control, so that they couldn’t take advantage of you. Always remember they were desperate for it, or they wouldn’t be here: that way you would keep the advantage. They were probably just as nervous as you were about the transaction.

  This man didn’t look nervous. When you are only seventeen, you aren’t good at ages, but Sarah guessed that he was in his late twenties. He had sharp features, with a growth of black stubble around his chin and the back of his cheeks. His black hair was straight; perhaps it would have benefited from a wash, but it was parted neatly enough. She didn’t know much about men’s clothes, but she fancied his had been expensive when they were new, though they were indisputably shabby now. He might have been good-looking if he hadn’t looked so hunted, with his red-rimmed eyes and his anxious glances over her head towards the door of the pub.

  But to Sarah Dunne late twenties seemed old, and there was a staleness about the man that she couldn’t quite define, but couldn’t make herself ignore, however much she tried. She hadn’t yet the experience of life which would enable her to recognize a user of hard drugs.

  In any case, it didn’t matter whether he was good-looking or not: she was much too nervous to be attracted to anyone.

  She ran her fingers round the top of her glass, willing herself not to lift it and down the gin and tonic in one to give herself the courage she needed to carry on with this. She longed to feel the alcohol burning her throat, warming her chest, giving her back the confidence which seemed to have drained away. Instead, she said, ‘You’re not from around these parts.’

  He looked at her sharply, and she realized she had broken one of the rules. You didn’t ask them about themselves; above all, you mustn’t give them the impresssion that you were prying. They came to you for sex, but sex that was anonymous. They might be inadequate in their own lives, and sometimes it paid you to think of them like that, to give you the confidence to handle things. A little contempt could be useful, but you must always conceal that contempt to the men who were paying to be between your legs.

  Or in other places. They had bizarre demands, some of them. Listening to the older women, she had been filled with horror, which she had fought hard to hide beneath her sniggers. She’d keep this one to straight sex, she told herself firmly. But if he started asking for things like the golden rain she could hardly tell him she’d never done that, could she? He’d laugh in her face, or wherever else he was at the time. More important, he might refuse to pay. And she needed the money: how she needed the money.

  He pulled his attention back from what was going on behind her in the rest of the saloon bar and gave her a crooked grin. ‘No, I’m not from round here. You are, though, aren’t you? I can tell by your accent.’

  Sarah Dunne was absurdly discomforted by his words. For an instant, she was back in school, with the teacher making her repeat what she had said without ‘talking Lancashire’. She thought she had been speaking to her pick-up in a neutral accent, and here he was spotting her as local from the few phrases she had uttered. ‘Yes. I was brought up not far from here,’ she said.

  He looked down appreciatively at the swell of her thighs where the
short, cheap skirt ended. ‘And very well brought up, too, I’m sure.’ He reached forward and put his hand on the hem of her skirt, letting his fingers caress the soft flesh with gentle appreciation.

  She managed to avoid tensing the thigh and snatching it back from him, as she had thought she would do when she had imagined this gesture in the privacy of her room before setting out. She even managed to rock her leg a little beneath the fingers, in an answering erotic movement.

  The response was easier because he did not look into her face, but kept his eyes upon his hand, as if he could control both its actions and her minimal movements of response by the intensity of his attention. Sarah sipped her drink, gave him a little smile of encouragement when eventually he looked up at her, as she had known he must.

  He didn’t seem a bad bloke, really.

  He smiled quickly at her, then transferred his attention back to the scene beyond her, to the noisy conversations she could hear but not see as she sat facing him across the small round table. Apparently what he saw reassured him, for she caught a tiny nod of satisfaction before the grey, red-rimmed eyes came back to her face and he said abruptly, ‘How much?’

  It was like a slap in the face. But he wasn’t to know how few were the times she had done it for money. And he’d done her a favour, really: she knew you had to tackle the subject of money early in any transaction; you couldn’t negotiate, once the punters had got themselves aroused. She glanced automatically down at his crotch, but there was no sign yet that Percy was calling the tune.

  ‘It’s fifty,’ she said firmly. ‘And that’s for straight sex. I only do straight sex.’

  Sarah was going to throw in her spiel about the rate for blow-jobs, but she saw that he was nodding. ‘So do I!’ he said, with a laugh which never properly developed. ‘So that’s a relief for both of us!’

  It was, really. She smiled and allowed herself another sip of her drink.

  But he lifted his whisky and downed it in one. ‘That’s settled, then. Let’s get going.’

  He hadn’t even asked her name. But that was all right, she decided. There wasn’t supposed to be affection in this, so why pretend that you were going through the motions? It was better this way, for her as well as him. She downed her own drink in a parody of his gesture, then said, ‘You’ll have to leave straight afterwards. I don’t have clients staying overnight.’

  ‘Suits me.’ He was on his feet, pushing his arms into his well-worn leather jacket, leaving her to pull her coat around her as well she might. There was no squiring here: just a straightforward financial transaction.

  Now that the moment was here, her anxiety came back with a rush. Surely he must realize at some stage how seldom she’d sold herself like this before? And what would he do then? Make fun of her? Refuse to pay her the price they seemed now to have agreed?

  Her knees seemed to have deserted her in her hour of need. They trembled so much that she had to hang on to the back of the chair he had just left as he turned his back on her and made for the door. She shut her eyes and pushed herself forward in his wake, wondering if her legs would support her, or plunge her face downwards on to the grubby carpet.

  It was all right. After the first faltering steps, she moved normally, catching her man up at the door, taking his hand as he moved out into the street and the sudden cold of the night hit them.

  He held her hand until they had moved no more than five yards from the door of the pub, whose orange lights seemed suddenly warm and attractive in the darkness behind her. Then he dropped it abruptly, looking not at her but up and down the street, as if he feared there would be someone waiting for him here.

  Sarah Dunne surveyed the street in her turn, her gaze automatically following her companion’s. It looked to her deserted. The flagstones glistened, wet with the thin drizzle which had been falling when she went into the hotel. It was fine now, but the wetness threw back the glare of the lights from high above them. They could see for a hundred yards and more down the street before the row of terraced houses curved gently to the right, and there was not a soul visible.

  November the fifth had been and gone a week ago, but half a mile away, somewhere on the edge of the town, a belated rocket soared and burst into a dozen brief comets, startling them both with the sharp crack of its explosion. She found that she was gripping his arm quite hard, and had to force herself to release the tightness in her fingers.

  It was that relatively quiet hour before the pubs finally shut and deposited winter revellers upon the chilly streets. Sarah found herself wondering whether there might be hidden presences in the shop doorways which lined this side of the street. Her companion’s nervousness was communicating itself to her, when she had quite enough of her own.

  ‘It isn’t far,’ she said, and he looked sharply back at her, as if for a moment he had almost forgotten her presence and what they were about. He smiled down at her, forcing himself to relax, and, as his features softened in the weird white light from the lamp, he reminded Sarah Dunne of her father. She wasn’t ready for that thought, and her stomach churned anew with it.

  Her head swam, but he put his arm round her shoulders, then slid it down to her waist and marched her in step with him along the street. He looked into each doorway as they passed, checking that they were empty. Her heightened awareness seemed to stretch distance as well as time. The road they must turn down to reach her bed-sit loomed like a cavern of darkness, still a hundred yards away as they reached the bend in the road. ‘How far now?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Not far. Along that street over there and then the second on the left.’

  ‘Further than you said. I haven’t much time, you see.’ Still he didn’t ask her name. He slowed, then stopped, snatching a look behind them towards the distant amber windows of the pub, far enough away now for them to catch no sound from it. ‘I haven’t much time, you see,’ he repeated. He was almost apologetic, and she felt a sudden shaft of sympathy for him.

  It was going to be off, she knew it was. Whatever the reason, he was going to renege on their deal. She should have known it couldn’t be as easy as this. Yet the only emotion she felt was relief.

  Then he said, ‘How about a quicky in the car? I’ll give you twenty-five and you can be back at work in no time.’

  Sarah knew should refuse him, she knew that. Insist on the fifty they had agreed or nothing. Give him a mouthful of obscenities for the insult he was offering her. Stalk away on these ridiculously high heels, if he wouldn’t play fair with her. But his compromise offer came almost as a release. She said simply, ‘All right. If you’re in a hurry, it’s all we can do, I suppose.’

  He lengthened his stride, as if he had known she would agree. She wondered for the first time just who he was, what background he came from. She had been too preoccupied with her own anxiety to think about her client so far. But that was all right. When you were on the game, you didn’t ask questions about your customers, if you knew what was good for you. One of the rules of the game, one of the things they paid for, was anonymity.

  She was on the game now, she thought, with a little spurt of excitement. She had the money from her first jobs, and the first week would soon be over. Tonight would be the end of the initiation rites.

  His car was in the shadows, beside a group of unlit lock-up garages. The clouds must be lifting, for here, without the street lights above them, she could see a few stars, small and white against the navy sky above the rooftops of the mean houses. He looked swiftly around him, checking again that there was no one here to see them, then turned the key and threw open a rear door of the big old saloon.

  The back seat was musty with disuse. She noticed that he had both of the front seats forward, to allow the maximum room in the back of the car. Perhaps this is what he had planned all along. She caught him looking around again before he almost threw himself into the car beside her and slammed the door shut.

  His arms enveloped her in the clammy darkness. ‘Money first!’ she said firmly. ‘We alw
ays insist on that. And you’ve got to use a condom.’ She was surprised at her boldness.

  But he didn’t argue. He grunted, fumbled into some inner pocket of his jacket, and produced notes. ‘A twenty and a five,’ he said, and held them against the damp rear windscreen of the car, so that she could check them in the dim light. She couldn’t see enough to be sure, but she said, ‘That’s all right, then!’ and tucked the notes hastily into the pocket of her jacket. He turned away from her, cursing under his breath as he struggled with the condom.

  Then he was on her, urgent, breathy, his strength immensely greater than hers with the compulsion of his need. She was glad she had worn the stockings; they said you had to do it because the men found them such a come-on, but in the cramped space here tights would have been another encumbrance. He said nothing, not showing even the semblance of affection she had expected. It was better really, she told herself; there was no need for her to pretend to be enjoying the exchange.

  Sarah felt as if she was sitting on some viewpoint above and watching the loveless struggle on this fusty couch. It did not last long. The man came with a short, gasping climax, and she held him hard with her arms, grateful that there seemed no need for her to simulate orgasm. Then, as their breathing slowed, she eased herself slowly apart from him.

  It was over.

  She had got the punter’s money. She hadn’t thought it would be like this, in the back of a cold car with their breaths condensing on the windows. But it hadn’t been long or complicated, and she had twenty-five pounds to show for it; her hand crept to the pocket of her jacket and found the notes still there.

  Perhaps the man took the movement as a sign of her anxiety to be away, for he eased himself upright beside her and said. ‘It’s all right, love. You can go whenever you like. I need to get away myself.’

  Sarah Dunne grinned at him in the darkness, grateful that he was not going to ask her how it had been for her. Perhaps this was how it usually was when men paid for it; perhaps they neither expected you to fake an orgasm nor to praise them afterwards. And you got money as well! Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed her benefactor on his forehead.