Death Of a Temptress

by P. F. Ford

  “I am the police.”

  “You don’t look like a policeman to me. Where’s your uniform? I know what you’re up to. You’re trying to get in so you can steal my stuff. Well, you can piss off! Go on! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  Patiently, Slater rummaged in his pocket and produced his warrant card. At least this time he wasn’t being accused of being a stalker.

  “We don’t all wear uniforms, luv,” he explained. “I’m in plain clothes.”

  She looked up at him doubtfully. A scrawny hand reached around the door and grabbed the warrant card.

  “I’ll have to find me glasses to look at this,” she said, pushing the door closed.

  She was gone for so long Slater was beginning to think she’d fallen asleep or something. Then he had the horrible thought that maybe she had phoned the local police station. That would have been a disaster, and he began to regret giving her the card.

  Eventually the door did open again, but now her attitude was quite different as she ushered him inside.

  “So how come a police officer from Hampshire is knocking on my door?” she asked, handing back his warrant card. “Shouldn’t it be a London boy?”

  “Ah, yes. I know it seems a little odd,” he explained, “But, you see, the inquiry I’m working on is a Hampshire case.”

  “It’s alright,” she assured him. “I’m not against police officers. It’s just that some of the wankers we get around here couldn’t find the nipples on a pair of tits!”

  Slater hadn’t been expecting a comment like that and his face showed his shock.

  “Oh don’t be shocked, luv,” she said. “It’s true. There’s all sorts goin’ on right under their noses and they do nuffink about it. They’re either useless or on the take. I’m not sure which it is. I kept telling them about the prostitute who was workin’ over in them fancy places across the road, but they never done anythin’ about it.”

  “Which house was the prostitute using?” he asked her.

  “That one over there, right in the middle.”

  She parted her curtains and pointed to the house opposite. Even through the fancy gates, Slater could see which house she meant. It was Ruby Rider’s.

  “I haven’t seen her for a while, mind,” she continued. “When I saw you looking at it, I thought maybe she was starting up again and you were a new client.”

  “You’re sure she’s a prostitute?”

  “There’s only one reason that many different men come calling at regular times,” she assured him.

  He reached in his pocket and produced the two photos. He showed her the dowdy one first.

  “Is this her?”

  “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “She was far more attractive than that.”

  He showed her the second photo.

  “That’s her,” she said straight away. “But she didn’t often have brown hair like that. She used to change it quite often. Black, blonde, red, you name it. Why does a lovely looking girl like that want to sell herself? I think it’s such a shame.”

  “Is that why you have the camera? To spy on her?”

  “It sounds terrible when you say it like that. I didn’t want to get her into trouble. Just to make her stop and see sense. I thought if I could get some photos then the police would have to stop her. The joke was on me anyhow.” She laughed ruefully. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since I got me camera.”

  “You still take photos?”

  “Bloody camera’s useless,” she said, pointing to a digital camera lying on the sideboard. “It ain’t got no film in it. I bought a roll, but I can’t work out how to load the blinkin’ thing.”

  Slater resisted the temptation to laugh out loud.

  “Can I have a look?” he asked.

  “You can take the bloody thing if you want.”

  He took a quick look, hoping she might have some shots on the memory card, but although there were plenty of pictures of the inside of her curtains and the carpets, and one or two blurry images that could have been the buildings across the road, there was nothing that could have been recognised as a face. Oh well, he thought, that really would have been too much to hope for.

  He thanked her for taking the time to talk to him and made his excuses to leave. As she showed him out of the door, she spoke.

  “I’m sorry I mistook you for a punter,” she said. “It was a silly mistake to make. I mean, she was real classy, and look at you.” She looked him up and down. “There’s no way you could have afforded her.”

  She closed the door behind him without further comment. As he started to re-trace his steps back to the tube station and on home, he thought about what she had just said. Was that an insult or a back-handed compliment? He really couldn’t be sure.

  He was early enough to beat the rush hour and catch the 4.15 train back to Tinton. Apart from one man immersed in a book at the far end, Slater had the entire carriage to himself. He also had plenty of time to consider what he had discovered so far.

  He already knew Ruth was leading a double life as meek, mild, and humble Ruth Thornhill back in Tinton, and sexy, sassy Ruby Rider up in London. The evidence now seemed to suggest Ruby Rider (Ruth’s alias and not the writer from The Magazine) was making her living as a high-class prostitute.

  This only served to make Ruth/Ruby, and the entire situation, much more intriguing in Slater’s eyes, and he could only begin to imagine what her sister was going to say when he told her. He thought that was going to be one very interesting conversation.

  What he found even more intriguing and interesting was her flat. How could it be possible that he, a so-called “yoke”’ incapable of doing real police work, as suggested by DS Donovan, working entirely on his own, had managed to find the flat without too much trouble, yet the supposedly superior police force based in London hadn’t? He knew he was a reasonably good detective, but he also knew he was one of many and didn’t see himself as particularly special.

  So, in his opinion, anyone could have found that flat, which left him with a rather uncomfortable question he’d really prefer not to be asking. Were the original investigating officers really so incompetent they couldn’t find it? Or had they just not bothered? Or was there another option? Had they found it and then chosen to ignore it? Or, even worse, had they found it and then been directed to ignore it? He really didn’t know what to think, but he knew a man who might be able to shed a little light on the subject if he was approached in the right way.

  One of Dave Slater’s pet hates was mobile phones in restaurants and on trains, especially when the user was one of those morons who thought it was okay to share their side of the conversation with everyone within shouting distance. But this was an empty carriage, bar one guy at the far end, and he had no intention of shouting.

  “Yeah, Donovan,” said a tired, bored-sounding voice in his earpiece.

  “Hi. It’s DS Dave Slater here.”

  “Who?”

  “Dave Slater from Tinton CID, investigating the disappearance of Ruth Thornhill.”

  There was a short pause, during which Slater could have sworn he could hear Donovan’s brain working, and then finally the expected response, designed to offend, but carefully ignored.

  “Oh yeah. I remember. The copper from, where was it? Toytown?”

  “Tinton,” corrected Slater, patiently.

  “That’s it, yeah. Still think you yokels can do a better job?”

  “If you mean am I still doing the job I’ve been given, investigating the disappearance of Ruth Thornhill, then yes, I am.”

  “Hey. Loosen up, Davey boy. Don’t go all stiff and official on me.”

  “Try being just a tad less offensive and maybe I’ll be a little more amenable,” said Slater. “Try to recall our last conversation when I explained to you that I didn’t choose this job, I was lumbered with it. And that I don’t like it any more than you do, but I still have to do it.”

  There was another pause. Slater hoped it meant DS Don
ovan was considering what he had just said. To his great surprise, it seemed he was.

  “Look, I’m sorry mate, alright? We’ve having a shit time up here right now and you’re an easy target to have a go at. But you’re right. It’s not your fault.”

  “That’s ok,” said Slater, far more graciously than he felt. “Apology accepted.”

  “So what can I do for you, Davey? Are you planning on coming up anytime soon? I’ll buy you a pint as a peace offering.”

  Slater hadn’t bargained on an opportunity like this. He hated being called “Davey”, and the last thing he wanted to do was share a drink with Donovan, but it might be the best way to get the guy to talk. And you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, now do you?

  “As it happens,” he replied, “I was planning on coming up tomorrow, just to talk to the people at The Magazine and make it look like I’m doing my job, you know? I’m planning on being finished early afternoon. Maybe we could meet up then. I’d like to compare notes. Make sure we’re singing from the same hymn sheet, if you see what I mean.”

  Donovan took the bait straight away.

  “Good boy, Davey. Make sure your story matches mine. You know it makes sense,” he said, sounding earnest.

  “Can we meet up, then?”

  “I tell you what, there’s a pub called The Three Crowns,” Donovan said. “It’s on Marshall Street, just a few minute’s walk from The Magazine. I’ll meet you there at about 2.30ish.”

  “I’ll be there,” agreed Slater. “Now I’m sure you must be busy so I’ll let you go. See you tomorrow.”

  He ended the call before Donovan had a chance to say any more. There was something about the man and his attitude that annoyed Slater. He really wasn’t looking forward to meeting him, but he figured he would learn a lot more over a couple of pints than he ever would over the phone, so he was sure it would be worth it in the end.

  He couldn’t be sure over the phone, but it seemed Donovan was unaware that he’d already been to The Magazine, or that he had found the flat. This was good news if it was true and meant he would be able to catch Donovan unawares with some of his questions. It could be a very interesting meeting.

  Chapter Ten

  “This is Mr Ling,” said Janice, the next morning, indicating the smartly suited young man standing in the office. “He will take you round to the lock-ups. Mr Chan is waiting there.”

  Slater held out his hand, but the young man bowed politely before shaking it. This made Slater feel awkward, as he didn’t know if he should also bow – and he got the impression that was what Mr Ling had intended

  “Will you come this way, Sergeant?” he said, opening the door.

  Slater followed him down a passageway which led round to the back of the buildings. There were half a dozen small lock-up garages.

  “This is our storage area,” Mr Ling explained.

  “So what’s your position here?” asked Slater.

  “Mr Chan does not speak English so I interpret for him.”

  Slater smiled to himself. Okay, I can play games too.

  One of the lock-ups was open and Ling led Slater through the open door.

  An older Chinese man dressed in a smart suit waited to greet them.

  The two Chinese men exchanged a few words in what Slater assumed was some sort of Chinese dialect. The only word he understood was his own name. The older man bowed to him and this time Slater bowed back.

  “Mr Chan has asked me to tell you he will answer any questions you have, but you need to address them to me so I can interpret.”

  “Very well.” Slater nodded. “Perhaps you could ask him when he forgot how to speak English?”

  Ling tried to look suitably confused, but failed. Mr Chan was obviously made of sterner stuff, but even so his eyes flickered, just enough to signify he had understood the question.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” blustered Ling. “I already told you, Mr Chan does not speak English.”

  “But he managed to understand, and speak, English with Janice yesterday afternoon.” Slater smiled. “So presumably he’s lost the ability to speak English since then?”

  The younger Chinese man looked at Mr Chan, who was still keeping his straight face.

  “Look guys,” sighed Slater patiently, looking straight at Mr Chan. “I don’t know what dodgy dealings you’re trying to hide, and frankly I don’t care. All I’m interested in is a missing girl. At the moment, I want to keep things nice and friendly, and respectful.

  “Now I know you guys are all about respect, right? And I don’t have a problem with that. Unless, of course, you want to continue to show me disrespect by playing games designed to make a fool of me. If you want to play that sort of game, I can think of a good one that involves me contacting my boss, the taxman, VAT inspectors, health and safety, and just about anyone else you can think of who can make your life difficult. So we can either stop messing around and start being respectful, or I can start a shit storm. It’s your call.”

  He really didn’t know if he could cause these guys any trouble, but he wanted to make a point.

  Mr Ling was looking daggers at Slater, but the older Mr Chan kept his straight face for about 15 seconds, then he broke into a broad grin.

  “Ah, Sergeant,” he said, bowing again. “I must apologise for misjudging you. Please accept my apology. No offence intended.”

  Then he turned to his younger colleague and barked an instruction in Chinese. The younger man had obviously been humiliated and his gaze seemed to turn even more evil, but even so, he bowed politely to Slater, and then to Mr Chan before turning on his heel and walking from the lock-up.

  “I hope you will forgive me,” said Chan. “You are right, that was disrespectful, but one cannot be too careful these days.”

  Slater looked sceptical, and wondered exactly what Chan meant by that, but he inclined his head sufficiently to acknowledge the apology.

  “I have no desire to interfere with your business Mr Chan. As I said before, I am simply trying to find a missing person who once lived in one of your flats. I believe you have some of her belongings and I would like to take a look at what you have. Maybe there will be something that will give me a clue about what happened to her.”

  “Of course,” replied Chan. “Everything she left is here in this storage unit. Please help yourself.”

  Slater looked around. There were four wardrobes and three chests of drawers. He felt sure there must be something in here that would help him.”

  “Is this everything?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Does anyone else know it’s here?”

  “I only kept them because I have no address to send them on to. I thought the girl might come back to collect them, or send for them, but she never did.”

  “No other police officers have been here?”

  “No one else has been here to enquire, Sergeant. You are the first.”

  “Thank you, Mr Chan,” said Slater looking around, trying to decide where to start. “I’m sure this won’t take too long.”

  “Do you need me here?” asked Mr Chan. “I will be on-site until you finish but I have work to do.”

  “No, no. Please carry on. I’ll find you when I’ve finished if I have any more questions.”

  Chan gave another little bow and then left Slater to it.

  Wardrobe number one contained a few plain and simple skirts and jackets, and a few pairs of rather dull and boring shoes. This was definitely the property of Ruth Thornhill. The next two wardrobes were packed with very expensive clothes and shoes. Designer labels seemed to adorn just about every item. This certainly wasn’t the wardrobe of a hard up part-time receptionist.

  Wardrobe number four was the most interesting from Slater’s point of view, revealing some additional, very interesting, outfits that certainly wouldn’t be found in the average young woman’s wardrobe. Unless, of course, she had a particular sort of client to amuse. This was most definitely the Ruby Rider working w
ardrobe.

  The chests of drawers followed the same pattern, ranging from the sensible underwear he thought should be associated with Ruth, through to the much sexier and much more expensive items that he would have expected to find in the Ruby Rider area.

  Two whole drawers were filled with expensive make-up (why would she leave that behind?) but once again, the most interesting items were to be found amongst the Ruby Rider range, with a selection of weird objects and devices in one drawer which could only be described as sex toys.

  He stepped back and looked around the room again. Sure, the clothes proved the point that there were two identities. They also proved she was a high-class hooker, but after that it didn’t make sense. There wasn’t a single shred of evidence to even suggest these things really belonged to Ruth/Ruby. Where were all her personal effects? There wasn’t a single scrap of paper to prove she even existed. There was no diary, nothing.

  If Mr Chan was right and no one else had been in here, someone had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble going through Ruth/Ruby’s flat before her disappearance had even been noticed. Someone appeared to have removed every single item that might have actually told him something.

  Up until now, Slater had kept an open mind about what had happened to Ruth, but now he was beginning to get a bad feeling about this whole thing. Now he felt she hadn’t chosen to run away, but someone else had chosen to make her disappear. And that was a different ball game altogether.

  He spent another 20 minutes with Mr Chan, but it didn’t matter how he phrased his questions, Chan remained adamant he knew nothing about the missing personal stuff. He also claimed not to know who had been paying the rent. Slater was tempted to believe him about the first part, but he was equally certain he was being lied to about the rent. He would leave it for now. He could always get a search warrant if necessary.

  Promising Chan he would be back, Slater finally made his way through the gates of Mistral Court and back onto the street outside. There was a large Bentley parked opposite. He could see the young Chinese man, Ling, glowering at him from the back seat, and he gave him a cheery wave as he set off. He felt the younger man’s eyes burning into his back as he walked off down the road.