The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  From memory, she dialled Alan Randall's mobile phone number. She had called it enough times in the past. It rang six times before he answered and she sighed with relief at hearing his voice.

  “Oh, Alan!” she sobbed through her tears. “I'm in trouble. I desperately need your help. I don't know what else to do.”

  “Calm down and tell me what's happened,” he ordered her. So she related the entire ordeal and he just listened, letting her talk through it all. When she had finished he spoke to her gently.

  “Okay, and where are you now?”

  “I don't know, I think the town is called New Romney but I don't know exactly where I am in the town.”

  “There should be a rectangular plaque in front of you which tells you where the phone box is.” She looked and found it, then relayed the location to him.

  “Can you hide somewhere but keep the phone box in sight, do you think?” Randall asked her.

  “There's the garden of a house right behind the kiosk,” she replied, calming down a little having heard Alan's reassuring voice. “I can hide behind the wall, I think.”

  “Okay. Now, get behind the wall and keep yourself out of sight until I get there. I'll be as quick as I can, but don't come out until you're sure it's me.” She assured him that she would do as he said.

  It took Randall just an hour and fifteen minutes to arrive in New Romney, coming to a stop beside the phone box on Station Road. On seeing him pull up, she came out from behind the wall looking totally dishevelled, her clothes badly creased. Samantha dropped gratefully into the passenger seat of his car. She looked across at him, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. He plucked some stray, green leaves from her tousled black hair with a comforting smile and tenderly brushed her locks back over her shoulder.

  “You're alright now,” he told her and put an arm around her shoulder. “Do you think you can find the house again?” he asked as the tears flowed down her cheeks, mixing with her mascara.

  “Yes, I think so.” She directed him back the way she had come and eventually they stopped outside the house. Samantha knew it was the right place because of the car that was parked outside. Randall got out, giving her a wink, walked up the short drive and rang the door-bell. He rang it several times before a light went on in an upstairs room. A window opened and Geoffrey stuck his head out.

  “Yes? Who is it?” he asked, irritated at being woken at gone half past one in the morning. Randall waved his wallet in the air in the semi-darkness.

  “Police!” he shouted. “Can you come to the door, please, sir?”

  “What for? What do you want with me?”

  “It would be best if you come down to the door, sir,” Randall responded. “We don't want to be shouting up and down to each other and waking the neighbours up, do we?” The window slammed noisily shut and the curtain pulled. A few moments later the door was unlocked and opened. Geoffrey Gambrelli stood there in his dressing gown, a puzzled look on his face.

  “What's this all about, officer?” he demanded, pompously.

  “There's been a complaint from a young lady named Samantha,” he replied. Geoffrey stammered for just a moment.

  “Show me your warrant card before we go any further.” he said. Alan Randall smiled.

  “It's right here, sir.”

  Randall's hard right fist caught the man under the chin, sending him sprawling back along the polished wood floor. After a couple of seconds, he raised his head to look back at his attacker.

  “I think that settles the complaint, sir,” Randall told him, turned and returned to his car. Samantha had seen all this from the car. She smiled at him as he got in, started the engine and pulled away.

  Driving slower than when he had rushed down, he took her back to his flat in Edmonton and she spent the night there with him.

  * * * *

  ON THE MISSING LIST.

  One Thursday evening working at the club, Samantha noticed a man who she recognised as being one of Michelle's clients, having accompanied him to a restaurant on one occasion where they had dined with a number of other couples. He was sitting with Charmaine, one of the other girls at the club. He was smartly dressed and in his thirties, she guessed.

  His name she recalled as Maurice and he had been the total gentleman all throughout the assignment until he came to drop her off outside her home. In the front seat of his expensive Mercedes car, he put his arm around her and tried to kiss her but she told him in no uncertain terms that it was not allowed under the agreement. Maurice began to lose his temper with her and said that for the money he was paying her, he expected a lot more in return.

  Grabbing her coat roughly by the collar, he tried to pull it away from her and his hand went to her breast as he leaned in to try to kiss her again. That was the last straw for Samantha. She lashed out with her left fist clenched and caught him hard on his nose, causing blood to spurt forth in a gusher from one of his nostrils. He immediately released his grip on her coat and yelled in pain. She threw the car door open, swinging her legs out and getting to her feet on the pavement. She leaned forward and shouted venomously through the open door.

  “I'm not a fucking prostitute that you can shag just because you've paid money for my company, you little shit,” she yelled. “Now, fuck off! And don't even bother phoning us for an escort again.” With that, she fiercely slammed the door of the man's car and stomped away up the steps to her front door. As she turned and looked back down, Maurice sneered angrily at her, engaged gear and sped away with a screech, leaving behind the smell of burning rubber from his tyres.

  The next morning, Samantha telephoned Michelle Allman and reported the incident to her. She said that she would remove him from her list and ensure he never used Belgravia Escorts again in the future. That evening when she was at Silk's, she mentioned it in passing to Randall. He simply shrugged and told her that it was something she probably would have to get used to as an escort.

  Carla told her that she would have done the same but would have punched him a lot harder.

  Now that Maurice was in Silk's, mere yards from her, she felt it prudent to make Randall aware of his presence. When she informed him of Maurice being downstairs, the doorman nodded.

  “It's a good job Carla isn't in tonight or she would have caused a scene by giving the guy a clump,” she added. Randall laughed at that and agreed with her. Carla was definitely the feistier of the two.

  “I'll come downstairs in a short while,” Randall told her, “and you can point him out to me so that I'll recognise him if he comes in again. I can then make sure that one of the other girls gets allocated to him if he does.”

  When Samantha returned to the lower level, Maurice was sitting facing the stairs and he saw her come down. Recognition showed on his face and he leaned sideways and said something to Charmaine who looked towards her and smiled. A few minutes later, Randall appeared at the foot of the staircase then ambled casually across to where Samantha sat at the bar.

  “That's him, over there in the corner booth ogling Charmaine,” she informed him in a cautious whisper. Randall started to turn but immediately saw Maurice looking in his direction and so let his gaze sweep past him and across the floor to one of the other girls seated at the far end of the bar. He walked along to her and nonchalantly leaned on the bar with a smile.

  “Roseanne,” he said and winked. “Casually glance over my shoulder in a minute.” She did as he asked. “The guy that's sitting with Charmaine, let me know when he looks the other way, alright?” She nodded and allowed her eyes to flit over to the other side of the room. The man was now transfixed on Charmaine's cleavage which resembled the Grand Canyon. Roseanne quickly nodded at Randall. He turned and took a long look at the man. Satisfied that he would know Maurice if he ever visited again, he pushed himself up from the bar.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he told her with his most disarming smile. She blushed slightly and thought what a lucky cow Samantha was. No-one had ever said anything about their relationship, but
practically everyone knew about it. Randall glanced back across at Samantha and winked before going back up the stairs. Samantha went along to Roseanne and told her what was going on. She wanted to go across and give him a slap but Samantha told her to leave it.

  Just after two in the morning, Maurice paid his bill to Rocky and got up to leave. Before he did so, he walked across to Samantha who was seated alone at the end of the bar and bent to her ear to speak. Samantha tried to pull away but was hemmed in by the edge of the bar.

  “I recognise you,” he said, his speech a little slurred. “You owe me, girl, and one day you're going to pay me what I'm owed, one way or another. After all, now I know where you work as well as where you live.” He turned and walked away heading for the stairs. She felt a little afraid and knew she had to tell Randall. As soon as he had turned the corner of the staircase, she followed at a safe distance. Maurice had gone through the door and left the building when she came into the foyer. Randall looked at her and could tell by her expression that something was very wrong indeed. He moved across the floor and took her by her elbow.

  “What's the problem?” he asked with a frown. Samantha told him what had been said downstairs. Randall immediately stuck his head out of the doorway but there was no sign of Maurice.

  For the next two weeks, Randall made sure that he drove Samantha, and sometimes Carla, home and waited until they were inside their door before moving off. Carla often went back to Camden Town later on her own having gone for a drink or two in one of the all-night drinking dens. Then came a Wednesday evening six weeks later when Samantha didn't show up at Silk's. Unusually for her, there had been no telephone call to say she wouldn't be at work that night. She had always informed the club if she had an escorting assignment to cover. Carla informed him that she didn't get back home until gone almost daybreak on the Tuesday night and as she wasn't there, she assumed that Samantha had gone home with Randall.

  When she hadn't appeared at Silk's by ten o'clock the following evening, Randall became slightly concerned and made a telephone call to Michelle Allman to ask if Samantha was doing any work for her. She informed him that Samantha had done no work for her for almost four weeks. He went through to the bar.

  “Rocky, there was a guy named Maurice in here six or seven weeks ago,” he said. “He was sitting with Charmaine and must have spent a few quid as he was here until gone two o'clock. Don't suppose you remember him?”

  “Not off-hand, mate,” he replied, “but I can have a look through the paperwork to see if I can match him to any payments we received. Might get his credit card details if we still have them.”

  “Yeah, do that, will you, Rock? I'd appreciate that.” Leaving the barman to rifle through his pieces of paper under the till, Randall went down to Lenny's office. He walked straight in without knocking. Harris jumped as he looked up from one of his girlie magazines that he was flicking through.

  “Fuckin' good job I weren't 'avin' a wank, Al” he said with a grin. “Try knockin' on the bastard door next time.” Randall laughed and sat himself down in the chair in front of the desk. He told Harris of his concern for Samantha and all about Maurice. His governor sat back in his leather captain's chair with his chubby hands clasped behind his head, deep in thought for a moment.

  “Tell you what, I'll ring Joey the Malt,” he said, nodding to himself. “He'll be able to get us into 'er gaff, see if there's any clues there.” He picked up his phone and punched in a number. After a two minute conversation, he hung up and turned to Randall. “Joey's on 'is way round 'ere wiv 'is pickin' gear.”

  Joey had been into more homes than a randy milkman with his lock-picking skills. On one occasion many years previously, whilst serving twelve months of a two year sentence at Wormwood Scrubs prison, he had managed to unlock his cell door in the middle of the night just for the hell of it, to wind up the prison staff. He didn't go outside the door, just left it unlocked until the screw came round in the morning to unlock everyone. When they found that his cell was left open, a huge enquiry ensued and two of the late evening duty officers were admonished for not taking enough care. When Joey heard what happened, he laughed for almost a week and became the toast of the wing.

  He had been happy to oblige as it meant getting into Lenny's good books which would stand him in good stead for the future. Harris had promised to let him off some of the payments that were due for other reasons. Joey arrived some twenty minutes after Lenny's phone call when Randall was back on the door. By this time, Rocky had whittled his search down to just nine possibilities and said he would continue to study everything while he took over the door in Randall's absence.

  Within fifteen minutes Randall, Harris and little Joey had arrived in Camden Town, Lenny's bright red Jaguar parked at the kerb outside. It took Joey a little under ten seconds to get the huge front door open and, on silently climbing the stairs and reaching Samantha's door at the top of the house, less than another five seconds to open the door to her room. He pushed it gently open wide and stood back, leaning against the opposite door on the landing. Randall entered first with some trepidation and quickly looked around the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place and there was no sign of anything untoward. Everything appeared to be neat and tidy but Randall noticed that Samantha's handbag was not there. Harris gave out a heavy sigh and lit a cigar allowing the pungent aroma and blue-grey smoke to fill the room.

  “Mind you,” Harris offered with a sneer, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Women are a funny lot though, ain't they? Yer just can't fathom 'em out, can yer? They can be a bit strange at times, you know, Alan.” Randall shot an enquiring look at him as if to ask what he meant. Lenny continued. “Fer instance, take my missus, just cos I came 'ome late one night the other week wiv lipstick on me shirt front, I got an earful from 'er. She went right the other way.”

  “Did she go mad at you then, Len?” Randall asked with a smile.

  “Mad?” Harris replied, shaking his head, his mouth down-turned. “Fuckin' mad? She went full-on fuckin' Broadmoor, son. I fort she was gonna cut me bleedin' bollocks orf.” Randall couldn't help but laugh even though the circumstances they were in were somewhat dire.

  “So how did you get out of it, Lenny?” he enquired. Harris shrugged as he replied.

  “Just told 'er that one of the girls got pissed an' I was 'elpin' 'er up the stairs when she fell against me.”

  “I think you were lucky that time, mate.”

  “Yeah. I'll just 'ave to be more careful, won't I?” he said with a snort. “You sure she ain't just gorn orf wiv a geezer or summink?” Harris asked, showing a great deal of impatience as well as insensitivity. Randall stared at him, unable to believe what he had heard. He shook his head.

  “Not a chance Len,” he said with conviction. “I dropped her off in the early hours of Wednesday morning and she would have told me if she had plans for anything else that night. It's now Thursday evening and I've heard nothing from her. Carla said she didn't come in after I dropped her off either.”

  He informed Harris of Rocky's search for anything that may identify Maurice just in case he was involved in Samantha's disappearance. It was as Randall was driving them back to Silk's that the penny dropped. Michelle Allman at Belgravia Escorts would have the man's details. She always verified the identities and addresses of all her clients before allowing her girls to go on assignments.

  At ten thirty the next morning, Randall was ringing her doorbell at the big house in Wellington Road, Enfield. Michelle answered the door in her dressing gown, an oversized pair of fluffy slippers on her feet.

  Randall explained that Samantha had been missing since the early hours of Wednesday morning and that he suspected that the man known as Maurice may just possibly have some connection with her disappearance. She turned and left the door open for him to follow her, walking quickly back to the conservatory at the rear of the house. This served as her office and three filing cabinets stood to one side. After sifting through a number of cardboard files
, she took one out and studied it.

  “This is him” she cried triumphantly, holding aloft a pale blue folder. “He used to be one of my regulars but the last time he used us was when Samantha accompanied him to a dinner party.”

  When Randall asked for his details, she rapidly scribbled everything she knew about him on to a pink notepad and tore off the top sheet. She re-read what she had written, and satisfied, handed it across.

  “That's great, thanks, Michelle,” he said. He slipped the piece of paper into the inside pocket of his old, black leather jacket.

  “Let me know how you get on, Alan,” she called as he went down the path. Randall called back over his shoulder and said that he would, wandered back down the path to his car and examined the information on the sheet. It gave a name and the address of a farm in Lone Barn Road, near Lenham in Kent.

  Taking the M25 around and crossing the Thames via the QE2 bridge into Kent at Dartford, he arrived at his destination soon after noon and pulled off the lane and into the courtyard of a large, mock Georgian house with beams and sporting a double garage. Parking just inside the gates, he crunched across the gravel and rang the doorbell. Randall heard the sound of footsteps on wooden floorboards approaching the large oak door. It opened to reveal a tall, slim woman in her early fifties. She looked down her nose at Randall as if he was dirt and she was Ajax.

  “Yes?” she snapped. “Can I help you?” She had a sort of 'smack me in the mouth' look on her face. Randall resisted the temptation.

  “I'm looking for Maurice,” he told her, forcing his most pleasant smile to cross his face.