Dancers in the Wind: a gripping psychological thriller

by Anne Coates

  “But you do keep working on the streets?”

  “Yeah.” Princess gazed out of the window, then turned her attention back to her interviewer. “It’s even more dangerous now, you know. You get into a car and you don’t know who you’re fucking getting in with because the old Bill are so hot, right, looking out for you all the time. I’ve been nicked loads of times. But really, if the punters weren’t hanging around, there’d be no one there to do it with, would there?”

  Her expression appeared to be an attempt at a wide-eyed innocence. It didn’t quite come off. “I’ve lived in this area all my working life. Why should I move out? It’s them who ask me.”

  “What sort of men are they?

  Princess gulped her drink then leaned forward confidentially. “All sorts. Some of them are real perverts. It makes me sick. They ask if I can get them an eight-year-old then get off by telling me what they would like to do with her. They ought to be fucking locked away. Some of them are quite nice but they’re so thick.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “They ask ‘what do you like doing?’ They don’t realise we don’t want to enjoy it at all. I lay down with them and pretend, but I don’t feel a thing. I’ve never come in my life.”

  There was a moment’s silence as Hannah collected her thoughts. Her own experience of sex was so different. She thought about Paul and the pleasure his body had given her on and off for five years – before her pregnancy. Would he ever have gone with a prostitute? Would her father? Or any of her male friends? She liked to think not, but what did she know. Some of the men who had paid Princess must have had wives or girlfriends or indeed daughters her age. It made her shudder just to think about the possibilities and consequences.

  “What about Aids? VD?”

  “I always, always have regular health checks and I always use condoms.” Princess’s assurance came out like a set piece, parrot fashion, said for the journalist’s benefit. Hannah was not convinced and wondered if Kathy had briefed her on what to say. She was even more sceptical when the girl told her she had a few regulars who took her for “slap-up meals” and to posh hotels. Then she thought, Why not?

  “I won’t kiss the punters and I don’t always do sex with them. I do a ‘play around’.”

  “What’s that?”

  Princess’s expression spoke volumes. Hannah obviously didn’t rate highly in her eyes. “A lot of them like to sit in the car and play with themselves, right, or he plays with himself and you play with yourself. You wear stockings and suspenders and talk some disgusting things about 13, 14, eight-year-olds. If I didn’t do this, they would do it to them. One guy said that to me the other night… Of course if you are willing to do more, you get paid more.”

  “And how much do you get paid?”

  Princess looked coy. “Depends what you do.” She took a gulp of lager, and removed another cigarette but didn’t light it. “Loads of punters want to do it up your arse. But I won’t do that. Most girls won’t.”

  In spite of her language and what she was talking about, Princess had a curious air of naivety about her. It was hard to believe that she worked, as she claimed, from nine o’clock in the evening until the early hours of the morning, night in, night out.

  “I just blank it all out. If I don’t blank it out, I’ll just crack up,” she said dully. “I just want to get out of it and live a normal life. Get married, have babies. You got any children?”

  “Just one. She’s six months old.”

  “I wouldn’t work if I had a baby,” Princess said, almost dreamily.

  “I don’t have a choice.” It was only after she had declared this, somewhat defensively, that Hannah realised what Princess had meant by work. Her own option was a darn sight easier.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Elizabeth. I…” Hannah felt some details of her own life were a fair deal, a trade-off, but she didn’t want to get too personal.

  Princess went dewy-eyed. “D’you know when I see people walking along the street, getting up in the morning to go to work, having families, I feel really jealous. I want to get out of it while I’m still young.” The girl’s voice had lost its gravelly edge.

  She looked so lost… So… Hannah didn’t want to think about it.

  “That’s great, Princess.” Hannah switched off the tape recorder, taking her time to put it in her bag so that she wouldn’t have to look into those eyes. She wanted to say something more but she couldn’t find the right words. Everything seemed so trite in face of the girl’s tragedy.

  “My name is Caroline.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My real name is Caroline. But don’t use it in the article, will you?”

  “No, of course not.” Hannah paused. Honesty made her add, “People will recognise you, you know. What about your parents?”

  “I shouldn’t think they’ll read it. I don’t suppose they even know what I look like now.”

  ◊◊◊

  Hannah and Kathy trailed behind Mike and Princess. It was embarrassing to witness. Princess was really playing her part. She had put on far too much make-up and arranged her hair differently. She looked every inch a hooker and posed outrageously to Mike’s enthusiastic directions. Hannah wondered about the appropriateness of some of the shots and it crossed her mind he might be intending to use some of the photos for other outlets. Ripped off again, Princess, she thought.

  “Do you do a lot of these interviews?” Kathy asked

  Hannah hesitated. “I do a lot of human interest articles. But I’ve never interviewed a prostitute before. I found it harrowing to say the least.”

  “Yes.” Kathy’s gaze trailed Princess’s performance. “I hadn’t a clue about this area before researching for the programme. Three months here is enough, believe me.”

  And Princess? Hannah wanted to ask but was interrupted by Mike’s shout of “Great, just lean back a fraction”. Then he was packing away his cameras.

  It was over. Hannah got Princess to sign a receipt and handed over the money in the envelope.

  “Come and have a drink?” Princess invited Kathy and the two women linked arms and walked away. Hannah was curious about their relationship. Was Kathy genuinely fond of her or was the apparent friendship just a means to an end? How would the younger girl feel when the researcher moved on to her next assignment, as she was about to do? Betrayed again? Princess was being used by everyone – including her and Mike. She was a walking victim.

  “Bit of a lost cause, isn’t she?” Mike commented as they snatched a quick sandwich lunch before their next interview, again at the Great Northern. “I gave her an extra tenner.”

  “Did you? That was kind.” Hannah’s suspicions confirmed, she felt uncomfortable in the knowledge that she could probably prove nothing. And who would care anyway?

  SIX

  The inspector confounded Hannah’s idea of a police officer. Though to be fair most of her impressions were drawn from TV cops… She hadn’t known what to expect but he was altogether too… too… Hannah couldn’t put her finger on what was unsettling her.

  Tom Jordan was tall with an athletic build, good-looking in an offbeat sort of way, and eyes a penetrating a blue with a darker circle around the iris. He looked about 38 and was, as they say, at ease in his own body. Mike and Hannah glanced at each other and smiled.

  Hannah felt this interview was going to be more relaxed and so Mike was going to sit in on it. He poured Tom a coffee as the policeman explained he’d begun working for the police eight years ago after becoming disillusioned with teaching and he hadn’t regretted his career change.

  It seemed an amazing redirection to Hannah. “You must have had to harden yourself up,” she commented.

  “Oh, the Force did that for me. It makes you much more cynical and resilient but not uncaring.” He sipped his coffee and Hannah noticed the rather unusual signet ring on his right hand. The tape recorder was switched on and she was doodling on her pad, unconsciously reproducing the ring’s curious insignia. It lo
oked like two letters intertwined, but she couldn’t make out which they were.

  “I think a lot of police officers are very caring people,” DI Jordan said as if in reply to an unspoken question from Hannah.

  He sounds like a publicity handout, she thought.

  “Initially I was a bit naive and I suppose my political views changed quite a bit. I used to be left wing and now I’m more conservative – with a small c,” he added.

  Of course! Hannah groaned inwardly; this was not the type of police officer she’d either expected or – if she were honest – wanted. His views wouldn’t make particularly inspiring copy. Some right-wing attitudes would have been more typical, she felt, but had to concede that he’d look good in the photographs.

  “So how do you come to be at King’s Cross?”

  “I was –” there was the briefest of pauses – “promoted seven months ago. As soon as I got here, I was aware there was an enormous problem. King’s Cross seems to attract the lowlife of London: vagrants, winos, beggars, prostitutes, drug dealers and users. They all flock to the forecourt. I was horrified. It was shocking, not the kind of place you’d want your wife or girlfriend come and wait for you.”

  Hannah wondered idly about his wife or girlfriend. Or both, she thought. He was an attractive man. Rather like Paul.

  “So,” Tom Jordan continued, “we decided to make a concerted effort to clear the forecourt and the surrounding area, our little patch of London.”

  Hannah coughed. “This was to be your initiative?”

  Tom interlaced his fingers and studied his palms, lips pursed. “Mostly mine,” he agreed. “We took officers from uniform and put them into plainclothes and put them on permanent lates, just to go out on the front of the station to see what was happening and if they saw people involved with drugs and prostitution to arrest and charge them. By making it harder for them, we’re clearing the area. I think it’s working,” said Tom, smiling at Hannah.

  “But won’t the prostitutes just go elsewhere?”

  “Of course.” Tom spread his hands. The nails looked as though he’d recently had a manicure. It was an odd thought to cross her mind. “It’s a social problem, not a police problem. There used to be as many as 80 prostitutes working the forecourt; that number has been reduced to about 20 or 30. I think I know most of them.”

  Hannah looked up from her pad. “Do you know a girl who calls herself Princess?”

  There was an almost imperceptible pause. Tom hadn’t known which prostitute had been chosen for the interview. Thank God it hadn’t been… A flicker of an eyelid betrayed a slight unease. “Yes. Sad case that.” He held Hannah’s gaze. “We do try to get them to see social welfare workers, but we can’t make them. A lot of them actually want to be on the game. They don’t want any do-gooders trying to reform them.”

  “I suppose not.” Hannah tried a different tack. “How well do you get to know these women?”

  “Quite well really,” said Tom, deliberately ignoring the implication of Hannah’s question. “There’s a fairly friendly relationship between us.” Hannah had her doubts about that. “They regard being picked up three or four times a week as an occupational hazard. I regard it as their way of paying their taxes.” Tom laughed.

  God how pompous! Hannah thought but smiled.

  Tom Jordan eyed her over the rim of his coffee cup. Disapproval was written all over her face. It was rather refreshing really.

  “It’s a unique relationship actually. They’re a little bit peeved when they’re arrested, as you’d expect. The reason they get annoyed is that it takes them off the streets for an hour or two and they don’t earn the money.

  “At Clerkenwell, the court they go to, they get fined £20 to £25, less than one punter. Some of them are earning phenomenal amounts of money. You can pull them with £300 or £400 on them, which they would have earned that night.”

  “As much as that?” Mike looked as though he was having second thoughts about giving Princess some extra money.

  “Well that’s the real pros. There’s a definite pecking order among the women. Some of them get furious when the younger ones undercut them.”

  “Why would they do that? Surely it’s in their interest to make as much money as possible.” Hannah met his gaze.

  “You’d think so wouldn’t you? The more professional ones are much better at negotiating and they have a definite business plan, saving for a mortgage, kids’ schools…” He noticed Hannah’s raised eyebrow. “Some of them send their kids to very good boarding schools, you know. However, some of the younger ones just want enough money for their next fix.”

  Hannah wondered where Princess fitted in this social pecking order. “So they are arrested…?”

  “Yes and it is the time off the street they resent. Although from the time a prostitute’s arrested to the time she’s bailed can be less than an hour, a couple of hours at most.” Tom Jordan held her gaze and grinned. “She can be back at King’s Cross station before we are.”

  “Isn’t that all rather futile?”

  Tom smiled his easy smile. He was a very effective PR man. “Well, that depends on your point of view, doesn’t it? I think there’s a mutual respect between us. When we pull them in, we often get information on other rackets. And if there’s ever an incident involving a child, you can guarantee the prostitutes will pull out all the stops for us. And, just as importantly, they feel able to report crimes against them. We’ve had a few incidents when a prostitute has been raped and they reported it; they’re not scared to.”

  Hannah’s mind went to Princess’s injured arm; she hadn’t mentioned reporting it to the police.

  “One or two of the local prostitutes have had ribs broken, faces slashed by punters and we tried the best we can to get who’s done it.” Tom paused, pensive. “It’s a dangerous game. If they get into a car with someone, the next 20 minutes or so is out of their hands, whereas when they go to a place around the station they are more in control of the situation because they know the area and the punter might not.”

  “You evidently know the area too. How did you feel the first time you caught someone in the act?”

  “A bit awkward but now I can laugh about it. The girls don’t get embarrassed even though they might pretend to be. The most embarrassed is definitely the punter who can’t wait to get away. And I waste no sympathy on them. I don’t have any respect for the blokes who go with prostitutes, no respect at all,” he declared.

  Does he protest too much? Hannah wondered briefly. “What about the women?” she asked. “How do you relate to them?”

  “A lot of the prostitutes I talk to I quite like. They’re honest and have a very earthy sense of humour. Sometimes they are hilarious. And some of them you think how could anyone go with that, but they get punters even though they are so horrendous.”

  “Do they ever proposition you?” Hannah asked.

  Tom laughed again. “One or two have tried. But it’s not on, is it? I know prostitutes claim that police demand sexual favours in exchange for not being arrested, but I don’t think it really happens – not very often anyway.” He held Hannah’s gaze. His blue eyes were having a mesmeric effect on her. To distract herself, she poured some coffee.

  “Of course,” DI Jordan continued, “they do get to recognise us but it doesn’t put them off being friendly, greeting you when you see them. We get one that causes an absolute scene, shouting and screaming when you arrest her, but if you see her out of that situation, she’s as nice as pie.

  “There’s a girl called Lisa and if you bump into her, she says…” Tom’s voice petered out. Hannah was convinced he had paled a little under his light tan.

  Mike coughed into the silence; he was clearly bored.

  “She says…” Hannah prompted.

  Tom collected his thoughts. “She says, don’t nick me now, nick me in an hour. Let me do a bit of business first. And if you go back in an hour, she’ll get into the van without saying a word.”

  Hannah
must have looked disbelieving.

  “It’s not a crusade you know. We’re not here to persecute them. Whether you arrest 10 or 20, the problem is still there, so you might as well do it with a smile and a bit of compassion. If you leave them for ten minutes, is the world going to be a worse place?”

  He sounds too good to be true, thought Hannah. I wonder if he really believes all this. She switched off the tape. “Thanks Tom. Have you got a number I can contact you at if I need to clarify anything?”

  Tom handed her an embossed card with both his office and home numbers. His fingers brushed her palm and a tingle of anticipation seemed to pass between them. In spite of the heat, a cold tremor ran the length of her body.

  “Right well, let’s go and get some shots shall we?” Mike suggested.

  They all stood up. “You don’t need me for this, so I’ll leave you to it.” Hannah smiled at both men and shook hands. A shaft of sunlight caught Tom’s ring. It gave her an uneasy feeling, although for the life of her, she couldn’t have explained why.

  Within minutes of leaving the men, her mind was far away. The seediness of King’s Cross faded as she sat back in a taxi, sighed and slipped off her sandals. Her mind was filled with her child and she ached to kiss her plump cheeks and hear Elizabeth’s delighted gurgles when she returned home. But unbidden came the image of Princess…

  SEVEN

  The police tape had gone – all but a small piece that clung to an upturned crate. Nothing was left to show of the drama that had been played out earlier that morning. Even the mud had dried. The rubbish that littered the area, however, remained.

  Detective Inspector Jordan almost enjoyed walking around the station’s environs and pointing out the prostitutes’ favourite haunts to Mike Laurel. A disused car, a bricked-in doorway, an alleyway, the space between two parked cars – anywhere out of direct light and view would do for the hooker and, presumably, client alike.