Dancers in the Wind: a gripping psychological thriller

by Anne Coates

  “Don’t you get hot in all that?” Hannah asked as they took their drinks over to a free table in the corner.

  Marti shrugged. “It’s practical,” was all she said. She took two gulps from her glass.

  “Have you seen Princess?” Hannah asked, knowing what the answer would be but praying for a miracle.

  Marti shook her head. “Princess isn’t the only one missing you know?”

  Hannah, worried about saying anything that might put off the other woman, remained silent. She had already turned on the concealed recorder.

  “I know of two other girls who haven’t been seen for a few weeks.” Marti lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Someone is recruiting the young ones, offering a lot of dosh to work somewhere. And I don’t think it’s your common or garden brothel either.”

  She tilted her face upwards as she blew out a long stream of cigarette smoke. “I’m not even going to look at that shit by the dartboard –” involuntarily Hannah gazed in that direction. Don Martin was draining his pint. “But he’s the one to watch.”

  Her words echoed those of the barmaid.

  “He’s got his crooked little finger in it somewhere. And I bet he’s not the only one at the nick either.”

  Hannah must have looked incredulous. Marti sighed. “You’ve got a lot to learn, luv. He actually runs a couple of girls – well as good as. The maggot. If he doesn’t know where those girls are, I’ll…”

  “Night off, Marti? Pedro must be going soft in his old age.” Don Martin placed his empty glass on their table and made for the door. His words conveyed a warning that Marti was quick to pick up.

  ‘Bastard,” she muttered as she stood up.

  Hannah looked confused. Marti had got her here to talk and now she was leaving.

  “It was nice meeting you again, Hannah.” She held out her hand and as the other woman clasped it, she felt a piece of paper being pushed between her fingers. “Good luck.”

  Hannah slipped the folded paper into her handbag.

  ◊◊◊

  It was dark outside and much cooler now. She paused for a moment by the entrance to get her bearings. Not many cabs came down this back street. The place looked deserted.

  The street lamps were out and there were no lights coming from the closed shops and offices. Hannah thought about going back into the pub and ringing for a minicab. But that would mean waiting and she was desperate to get away from the place. The station was only a few minutes’ walk away and it would be easy to get a taxi from there. She set off at a brisk pace.

  ◊◊◊

  The steel was cold against her throat. A hand was clamped against her mouth in such a way that it was impossible for her to breathe. She tried to swallow the bile that rose in her throat, but as she did so, the tip of the knife sank into the soft flesh under her chin. Her right arm was yanked further up her back and a muffled moan of pain escaped her.

  “Quiet, bitch!”

  The voice came from behind her right ear. “I’ve got a message for you see –” the hand forced her head backwards and the blade scratched the surface of her skin – “you’ve bin arskin’ too many bloody questions. Upsettin’ people you are. An’ it’s no good fer yer ’ealth. Got it?”

  The knife pressed harder against her flesh. She tried to nod, but couldn’t move. She made a deliberate effort to relax her body. The adrenalin was pumping through her. Now. She stepped back onto her assailant’s foot and, as the man pulled back creating a space between their bodies, she elbowed him in the groin with all the force her left arm could muster.

  “Fucking bitch!”

  The knee came up and sent her flying, face forwards onto the pavement. The kick that followed was ill-aimed and lost most of its impact before it made contact with her recumbent form.

  “Fucking bitch! You’ve been warned.”

  As she turned her face, she saw a dark shape disappearing into the darker shadows. She leaned forward and threw up. Slowly she stood up and brushed herself down. She took a few breaths and wiped her mouth with a tissue. She could smell and taste the blood and vomit. But she was still in one piece. And she still had the piece of paper Marti had given her.

  ◊◊◊

  During the taxi ride home, Hannah had tried to make some sense of what had happened. She had talked to Tony Vitello and now he was dead. Marti had been seen talking to her. Would she be safe? As to her own attack, it all seemed rather amateurish now. Somebody must have been paid to frighten her off. But it could have been so much worse. Maybe they – whoever they might be – thought she would scare easily. But it only served to strengthen her determination to find out what had happened to Caroline and the missing girls.

  ◊◊◊

  The taxi’s running engine sounded grotesquely loud in the somnolent street as Hannah paid the driver and asked him to wait.

  “Hannah! What’s happened to you?” Nicky looked appalled.

  “Nothing, it’s okay. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. There’s a taxi waiting out there to take you home. It’s paid for.”

  Nicky looked about to protest but seeing Hannah’s mutinous expression decided against it. “Okay I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Hannah hugged her. “Thanks for looking after Elizabeth at such short notice, I… I… I’ll explain everything as soon as I can.”

  Nicky nodded and was gone. Hannah locked and bolted the door then dragged herself upstairs to the bathroom. In the harsh light, she could see a little blood had congealed on her neck and the beginnings of a bruise on her jaw. Otherwise she just looked dirty. Nothing a shower and some antiseptic wouldn’t cure. How to cope with the terror that now invaded her was another matter.

  As soon as Nicky had gone and she’d locked the door, she’d taken out the piece of paper Marti had given her. In neat italic script was written Gillespie Clinic, Harley Street followed by the names of four very prominent men. Hannah read and reread the names. No wonder Caroline had been scared that no one would believe her.

  ◊◊◊

  Caroline was running towards her. Hannah could see her mouth moving but couldn’t hear what she was saying. There was so much noise. Voices of people she couldn’t see properly. Try as she might, she could not make out the words Caroline seemed more and more desperate to convey. Hannah was rooted to the spot. She couldn’t reach her. Her own voice was lost in the mists. Suddenly there was sobbing, sobbing…

  Hannah sat up. Her body was drenched in sweat. For a moment she couldn’t think where she was or what was happening. Then the wakening world assumed control. Elizabeth was hollering. Hannah glanced at the luminous figures on the clock/radio and groaned. Three in the morning.

  Reluctantly she swung her legs out of bed. Her feet met the carpet and in two steps she was beside the cot and comforting the infant. The room was airless. With Elizabeth in one arm, she opened the small top window – something she normally avoided because of the car fumes in the morning. As she did so, she noticed the white transit van. It had been there earlier in the evening. Not a usual parked vehicle in this road. For a brief moment it occurred to Hannah that she was being watched. It was difficult to dismiss the idea as pure paranoia after what had taken place only a few hours previously.

  “Oh Elizabeth, what have I got into?” Hannah took the baby back to bed with her, still haunted by the dream of Caroline and the attack.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “What gets me about all this. Sir…” Alan Doveton began as he entered the inspector’s office bearing coffee and a bacon sandwich.

  “Thanks, Alan.” The smell of bacon made his mouth water. Hunger had left him in a ratty mood. “So what gets you?” he asked wearily.

  “Well sir, when the first body was discovered, the boys from the Met were swarming all over the place.” Doveton moved his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Ye-es,” Jordan encouraged between mouthfuls.

  “Then suddenly there was a news blackout and you were left more or less in charge.”

  “And yo
u don’t think I’m up to the job?” Tom quipped, but Doveton was aware of the underlying edge in his tone.

  “No sir…” He caught sight of Jordan’s raised eyebrow. “I mean, yes sir. What I mean is …” Alan paused for effect “… you must admit it’s a bit unusual.”

  “The Yard’s still involved. They’re just keeping a low profile.”

  “But why, sir? I don’t like it. It’s like someone’s going to end up with egg on their face and they’re anxious it’s not them.”

  “Interesting.” Tom eyed him speculatively. Doveton looked about to say more but changed his mind. “By the way, sir, Don Martin hasn’t reported in and he’s not answering his phone at home.”

  “No, he wouldn’t be.” Tom Jordan looked grim. “He was arrested by Special Branch last night.”

  Doveton’s face was a picture of incredulity. “What the hell for?”

  “Well. If running a couple of prostitutes isn’t enough for you, how does arranging for a woman journalist to be beaten up grab you?” Tom took another bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully as he watched Doveton’s expression, which would have been comical, if he hadn’t been so concerned about Hannah.

  “I trust,” he said with quiet authority, “there are no other officers in my squad whose extra-curricular activities warrant such attention?”

  Doveton was spared an answer by Avril’s appearance at the door.

  “There’s a call from someone who calls himself Snapper on line three sir.

  Tom smiled. “Thanks, Avril, I’ll take it in here.”

  Two minutes later, he was agreeing to meet one of his best informants – Snapper. It seemed he had a car registration number for sale.

  ◊◊◊

  Inspector Jordan made his way to the lost property office in the station. It was where Sam Smith, also known as Snapper, worked and it wouldn’t have been unusual to see a policeman in the vicinity.

  The office seemed deserted, but Tom saw the electric kettle had just boiled, steam still filtering up the spout. Two huge mugs of strong tea stood on the tray. Tom picked one up, then winced as the hot liquid burned his tongue.

  “How’s business, Sam?”

  Sam had shuffled into the room. He was tall and lean and was younger than the shock of grey hair first led you to assume. He grinned, perching himself on the edge of a stool. Childhood polio had left him with a distinct limp in his right leg. Now in his late 30s, he was the eyes and ears of the terminus. He knew every wino, dope dealer and whore. Especially the whores. One or two did him for free, or so Tom had heard. Sam had taken the deaths almost personally.

  “You know squire, umbrellas an’ walking sticks a speciality. Mind you –” he sipped his tea – “we ’ad a right to do in ’ere yesterday. Some MP left his briefcase on the train. Full of top secret papers or something. Anyway it turned up again intact.”

  While he had been talking, he passed Tom a scrap of paper with a car registration number written on it. Tom folded the paper and slipped it into his trouser pocket. The tea was still hot but he drank it down.

  “That’s the car that… that car picked up the girls.” Sam pointed to Tom’s pocket. He blinked rapidly and blew his nose loudly. “I liked that little tart…”

  Tom gripped his shoulder. “Thanks, Sam.” He replaced his mug on the tray together with a folded £20 note and left quickly.

  FORTY

  Hannah was sitting on the settee with her legs curled up under her. She looked haggard and so did James who had just driven over after a 72-hour shift at the Hammersmith. Hannah made a large pot of coffee that was standing, ignored, on the table between them.

  “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  “She’s with Nicky today. She’s stepped into the breech while I find a new nanny.”

  James leaned forward and filled two mugs. No milk, no sugar.

  “So.”

  Hannah ran her fingers through her hair. “I haven’t done anything illegal you know.”

  “No? Why were the police looking for Caroline, Princess or whatever else she calls herself?”

  “She calls herself Princess. Her working name. I insisted she use her real name for protection.”

  “From what?”

  Hannah shrugged. “She told me she’d been beaten up by two pimps because she wouldn’t work for them. Obviously there’s more to it than that.” Hannah hadn’t decided how much she should confide in James. His whole demeanour shrieked disapproval and she wasn’t that much of a masochist.

  “So why didn’t she go to the police?”

  “She… she seemed to think that they were involved in some sort of cover-up. Even when Tom Jordan contacted me …”

  “Who’s he?” James interrupted. “And how on earth do you know this girl in the first place?”

  Hannah topped up their coffees and then told him about the initial interviews she’d done with Princess and Tom. By the time she’d finished, she felt as though she’d been through a wringer. James didn’t look much better.

  “So you think the answer may lie in this package?”

  “I’m sure it does.” If Hannah hadn’t felt so tired and irritable herself, she might have been amused at the way James held onto the envelope in such a possessive way.

  “Supposing I just had it over to the police?”

  Hannah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was he serious? After everything she had just told him? If Tom was involved in some way – well there was bound to be a cover-up and she could endanger Caroline’s life.

  “James, I …”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. To be perfectly honest, I really don’t want to get involved. Obviously, if I have to, I’ll confirm the injuries she had sustained when she arrived here but …”

  James handed her the envelope. “Do you want me to stay while you go through this?” If he read the mute appeal in her eyes, she read the exhaustion in his.

  Hannah looked down at the envelope then at James. “Could you sleep here?” She looked embarrassed. “I know it’s an imposition but I’d feel happier with someone in the house with me and I won’t disturb you. I…”

  James grinned. “Just direct me to the bed. By the way,” he said as they went upstairs, “how did you come about that bruise?”

  “Caught it on a cupboard,” Hannah replied, slightly appalled at how easily lies came to her these days. She was glad James had his back to her.

  Hannah leafed through the photocopied sheets until she recognised the date of her dinner party when Caroline had acted so strangely. She read the entry:

  I nearly shit myself! It’s him, the fucker! And there he is with his wife all sweetness and fucking light. I didn’t know what to do. Panic! I forgot about my hair and glasses. I was sure he’d clock me. But when Hannah introduced us, he just shook hands and then turned away as though I wasn’t worth his interest…

  I sat where I was. I don’t think I could have moved if I’d wanted to. Earlier Hannah had said just keep quiet and look bored if I felt awkward.

  Awkward! I was going hot and cold. My throat was so tight I couldn’t even drink my wine. That man makes my flesh crawl. Harley Street doctor! Harley Street pimp more like. He’s always on the lookout for girls for his fucking sex therapy clinic. Some clinic. More like a torture chamber. He had a special room for S & M. Only the thing was it was the girls who got beaten. Usually whores get paid a fair sum to whip the shit out of some fancy bloke. There, well…

  Lots of girls were tempted. It was good money. It had to be. Though the chances are you wouldn’t be in a fit state to spend it. There was a rumour that one girl disappeared from that place. She was certainly never seen again. Not on the beat. Someone got carried away. Someone murdered her. And then Lisa. After what happened to me I know she was murdered….

  Strange that they didn’t take the money back when they dumped me…

  I don’t like being hurt, being hit. And I recognised him. Do you know me, young lady? He asked in that posh, plummy voice they all have. I shook my
head. I’m not that stupid. I played dumb but even I know Robert Bowldon’s face.

  Hannah stopped reading. Robert Bowldon had held several jobs in Government. Currently he was the Home Secretary’s right hand man. No wonder Caroline didn’t want to go to the police. They were answerable to him.

  Somehow she wasn’t shocked that Gerry Lacon was involved. Maybe it was just a relief that so far Tom Jordan’s name hadn’t been mentioned. She read on.

  He couldn’t get it up. Then he hit me. He kept hitting me and not just with his fists, objects. Then I saw he’s got a hard on. He rammed it in me. He kept pushing until I was screaming out and then I felt his fingers round me neck. I tried to pull them off. It just got him more excited and then I must have blacked out…

  Tears were pouring down Hannah’s cheeks. Poor, poor Princess. She blew her nose noisily, not sure that she could take in very much more. What she had read so far had sickened her. She found it hard to believe that apparently sophisticated men could be so depraved. But Caroline’s description, together with Marti’s note, made sense of all the imponderables.

  Christ, this was a time bomb waiting to explode in the face of the establishment. She wondered how many other prominent men were involved. Not that they were all necessarily killers but…

  ◊◊◊

  By the time James woke up, Hannah was sitting at her desk fingers flying over the keyboard. She almost wished she had a typewriter so that she would have had the satisfaction of pounding the keys to get rid of some of the aggression, the rage she felt inside.

  James stood in the doorway, watching her. She became aware of his presence and turned to him.

  “Hi. Feeling better?”

  “Yep, but not for long. I’ve just been bleeped.”

  “What do they want to do? Kill you?”

  James shrugged, resigned. One day he’d be a consultant and would be able to choose his hours.