“Why not?”
“Because I like lather.”
“What is there to like about lather?”
“It’s a lovely sounding word, don’t you think? It’s quite sexy—lather. It’s decadent.”
She’s giggling now, but trying to look annoyed.
“People lather their bodies with soap; they lather their bodies with shower gel. I think we should lather our scones with jam and cream. And we could lather on suntan lotion in the summer . . . if we ever have one.”
“You are silly, Daddy,” says Charlie, looking up from her cereal.
“Thank you my turtledove.”
“A comic genius,” says Julianne as she picks toilet paper from my face.
Sitting down at the table, I put a spoonful of sugar in my coffee and begin to stir. Julianne is watching me. The spoon stalls in my cup. I concentrate and tell my left hand to start moving, but no amount of willpower is going to budge it. Smoothly I switch the spoon to my right hand.
“When are you seeing Jock?” she asks.
“On Friday.” Please don’t ask me anything else.
“Is he going to have the test results?”
“He’ll tell me what we already know.”
“But I thought—”
“He didn’t say!” I hate the sharpness in my voice.
Julianne doesn’t even blink. “I’ve made you mad. I like you better silly.”
“I am silly. Everyone knows that.”
I see right through her. She thinks I’m doing the macho thing of hiding my feelings or trying to be relentlessly positive, while I’m really falling apart. My mother is the same—she’s become a bloody armchair psychologist. Why don’t they leave it to the experts to get it wrong?
Julianne has turned her back. She’s breaking up stale bread to leave outside for the birds. Compassion is her hobby.
Dressed in a gray jogging suit, trainers and a baseball cap over her short-cropped dark hair, she looks twenty-seven, not thirty-seven. Instead of growing old gracefully together, she’s discovered the secret of eternal youth and I take two tries to get off the sofa.
Monday is yoga, Tuesday is Pilates, Thursday and Saturday are circuit training. In between she runs the house, raises a child, teaches Spanish lessons and still finds time to try to save the world. She even made childbirth look easy, although I would never tell her that unless I developed a death wish.
We have been married for sixteen years and when people ask me why I became a psychologist, I say, “Because of Julianne. I wanted to know what she was really thinking.”
It didn’t work. I still have no idea.
I walk to work every weekday morning across Regent’s Park. At this time of year, when the temperature drops, I wear nonslip shoes, a woolen scarf and a permanent frown. Forget about global warming. As I get older the world gets colder. That’s a fact.
Today I’m not going to the office. Instead I walk past the boating lake and cross York Bridge, turning right along Euston Road toward Baker Street. The sun is like a pale yellow ball trying to pierce the grayness. A soft rain drifts down and clings to the leaves, as joggers slip past me, with their heads down and trainers leaving patterns on the wet asphalt. It’s early December and the gardeners are supposed to be planting bulbs for the spring. Their wheelbarrows are filling with water, while they smoke cigarettes and play cards in the toolshed.
Langton Hall is a squat redbrick building with white-trimmed windows and black downspouts. Apart from a light over the front steps, the building looks deserted. Pushing through the double doors, I cross a narrow foyer and enter the main hall. Plastic chairs are arranged in rough lines. A table to one side has a hot-water urn, beside rows of cups and saucers.
About forty women have turned up. They range in age from teens to late thirties. Most are wearing overcoats, beneath which some are doubtless dressed for work, in high heels, short skirts, hot pants and stockings. The air is a technicolor stink of perfume and tobacco.
Onstage Elisa Velasco is already speaking. A wisp of a thing with green eyes and fair hair, she has the sort of accent that makes northern women sound feisty and no-nonsense. Dressed in a knee-length pencil skirt and a tight cashmere sweater, she looks like a World War II pinup girl.
Behind her, projected onto a white screen, is an image of Mary Magdalene painted by the Italian artist Artemisia Gentileschi. The initials PAPT are printed in the bottom corner and in smaller letters: PROSTITUTES ARE PEOPLE TOO.
Elisa spies me and looks relieved. I try to slip along the side of the hall without interrupting her, but she taps the microphone and people turn.
“Now let me introduce the man you have really come to hear. Fresh from the front pages I’d like you to welcome Professor Joseph O’Loughlin.”
There are one or two ironic handclaps. It’s a tough audience. Soup gurgles in my stomach as I climb the steps at the side of the stage and walk into the circle of brightness. My left arm is trembling and I grasp the back of a chair to keep my hands steady.
I clear my throat and look at a point above their heads.
“Prostitutes account for the largest number of unsolved killings in this country. Forty-eight have been murdered in the past seven years. At least five are raped every day in London. A dozen more are assaulted, robbed or abducted. They aren’t attacked because they’re attractive, or asking for it, but because they’re accessible and vulnerable. They are easier to acquire and more anonymous than almost anyone else in society . . .”
Now I lower my eyes and connect with their faces, relieved to have their attention. A woman at the front has a purple satin collar on her coat and bright lemon-colored gloves. Her legs are crossed and the coat has fallen open to reveal a creamy thigh. The thin black straps of her shoes crisscross up her calves.
“Sadly, you can’t always pick and choose your customers. They come in all shapes and sizes, some drunk, some nasty—”
“Some fat,” yells a bottle blond.
“And smelly,” echoes a teenager wearing dark glasses.
I let the laughter subside. Most of these women don’t trust me. I don’t blame them. There are risks in all their relationships, whether with pimps, customers or a psychologist. They have learned not to trust men.
I wish I could make the danger more real for them. Maybe I should have brought photographs. One recent victim was found with her womb lying on the bed beside her. On the other hand these women don’t need to be told. The danger is ever present.
“I haven’t come here to lecture you. I hope to make you a little safer. When you’re working the streets at night how many friends or family know where you are? If you disappeared how long would it take for someone to report you missing?”
I let the question drift across them like a floating cobweb from the rafters. My voice has grown hoarse and sounds too harsh. I let go of the chair and begin walking to the front of the stage. My left leg refuses to swing and I half stumble, before correcting. They glance at each other—wondering what to make of me.
“Stay off the streets and if you can’t then take precautions. Operate a buddy system. Make sure someone is taking down the plate number when you get into a car. Only work in well-lit areas and organize safe houses where you can take clients rather than using their cars . . .”
Four men have entered the hall and taken up positions near the doors. They’re clearly policemen in plain clothes. As the women realize I hear mutters of disbelief and resignation. Several of them glare angrily at me as though it’s my doing.
“Everybody stay calm. I’ll sort this out.” I carefully swing down from the stage. I want to intercept Elisa before she reaches them.
The man in charge is easy to spot. He has a ruddy pockmarked face, a punch-worn nose and crooked teeth. His crumpled gray overcoat is like a culinary road map of stains and spills. He’s wearing a rugby tie, with a silver-plate tiepin of the Tower of Pisa.
I like him. He isn’t into clothes. Men who take too much care with their presentation can
look ambitious but also vain. When he talks he looks into the distance as if trying to see what’s coming. I’ve seen the same look on farmers who never seem comfortable focusing on anything too close, particularly faces. His smile is apologetic.
“Sorry to gate-crash your convention,” he says wryly, addressing Elisa.
“Well fuck off then!” She says it with a sweet voice and a poisonous smile.
“It’s lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss, or should I say Madam?”
I step between them. “How can we help you?”
“Who are you?” He looks me up and down.
“Professor Joseph O’Loughlin.”
“No shit! Hey, fellas, it’s that guy from the ledge. The one who talked down that kid.” His voice rumbles hoarsely. “I never seen anyone more terrified.” His laugh is like a marble dropped down a drain. Another thought occurs to him. “You’re that expert on hookers, aren’t you? You wrote a book or something.”
“A research paper.”
He shrugs ambivalently and motions to his men, who separate and move down the aisles.
Clearing his throat, he addresses the room.
“My name is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz of the Metropolitan Police. Three days ago the body of a young woman was found in Kensal Green, West London. We estimate she died about two weeks ago. At this stage we have been unable to identify her but we have reason to believe that she may have been a prostitute. You are all going to be shown an artist’s impression of the young woman. If any of you recognize her I would appreciate if you could make yourself known to us. We’re after a name, an address, an associate, a friend—anyone who might have known her.”
Blinking rapidly, I hear myself ask, “Where was she found?”
“In a shallow grave beside the Grand Union Canal.”
The hall seems cavernous and echoing. Drawings are passed from hand to hand. The noise level rises. A languid wrist is thrust toward me. The sketch looks like one of those charcoal drawings you see tourists posing for in Covent Garden. She’s young with short hair and large eyes. That describes a dozen women in the hall.
Five minutes later the detectives return, shaking their heads at Ruiz. The detective inspector grunts and wipes his misshapen nose on a handkerchief.
“You know this is an illegal gathering,” he says, glancing at the tea urn. “It’s an offense to allow prostitutes to assemble and consume refreshments.”
“The tea is for me,” I say.
He laughs dismissively. “You must drink a lot of tea. Either that or you take me for an idiot.” He’s challenging me.
“I know what you are,” I bristle.
“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“You’re a country boy who found himself in the big city. You grew up on a farm, milking cows and collecting eggs. You played rugby until some sort of injury ended your career, but you still wonder if you could have gone all the way. Since then it’s been a struggle to keep the weight off. You’re divorced or widowed, which explains why your shirt needs a decent iron and your suit needs dry-cleaning. You like a beer after work and a curry after that. You’re trying to give up smoking, which is why you keep fumbling in your pockets for chewing gum. You think gyms are for wankers, unless they have a boxing ring and punch bags. And the last time you took a holiday you went to Italy because someone told you it was wonderful, but you ended up hating the food, the people and the wine.”
I’m surprised by how cold and indifferent I sound. It’s as though I’ve been infected by the prejudices swirling around me.
“Very impressive. Is that your party trick?”
“No,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed. I want to apologize but don’t know where to start.
Ruiz fumbles in his pockets and then stops himself. “Tell me something, Professor. If you can work out all that just by looking at me, how much can a dead body tell you?”
“What do you mean?”
“My murder victim. How much could you tell me about her if I showed you her body?”
I’m not sure if he’s being serious. In theory it might be possible, but I deal in people’s minds; I read their mannerisms and body language; I look at the clothes they wear and the way they interact; I listen for changes in their voices and their eye movements. A dead body can’t tell me any of this. A dead body turns my stomach.
“Don’t worry she won’t bite. I’ll see you at Westminster Mortuary at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” He roughly tucks the address in the inside pocket of my jacket. “We can have breakfast afterward,” he adds, chuckling to himself.
Before I can respond, he turns to leave, flanked by detectives. Then at the last possible moment, just before he reaches the door, he stops and spins back toward me.
“You were wrong about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Italy. I fell in love with it.”
3
Outside on the pavement, when the last of the police cars have disappeared, Elisa kisses me on the cheek.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know. I just like kissing you.”
She laughs and tousles my hair. Then she makes a fuss about getting a brush from her bag and fixing it up again. She stands in front of me and pushes my head down slightly as she tries to straighten my curls. From here I can see down her sweater to the swoop of her lace-covered breasts and the dark valley in between.
“People are going to start talking,” she teases.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” The statement is too abrupt. Her eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly.
She lights a cigarette and then guillotines the flame with the lid of her lighter. For a fleeting moment I see the light reflect off the golden specks in her green eyes. No matter how Elisa styles her hair it always appears sleep-tousled and wild. She cocks her head to one side and looks at me intently.
“I saw you on the news. You were very brave.”
“I was terrified.”
“Is he going to be OK—the boy on the roof?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to be OK?”
The question surprises me, but I don’t know how to respond. I follow her back into the hall and help her stack the chairs. She unplugs the overhead projector and hands me a box of pamphlets. The same painting of Mary Magdalene is printed on the front fold.
Elisa puts her chin on my shoulder. “Mary Magdalene is the patron saint of prostitutes.”
“I thought she was a redeemed sinner.”
Annoyed, she corrects me. “The Gnostic Gospels call her a visionary. She’s also been called the Apostle of Apostles because she brought them the news of the Resurrection.”
“And you believe all that?”
“Jesus disappears for three days and the first person to see him alive is a whore. I’d say that was pretty typical!” She doesn’t laugh. It isn’t meant to be funny.
I follow her back onto the front steps, where she turns and locks the door.
“I have my car. I can give you a lift to your office,” she says, fumbling for her keys. We turn the corner and I see her red Volkswagen Beetle on a parking meter.
“There is another reason I chose that painting,” she explains.
“Because it was painted by a woman.”
“Yes, but that’s not all. It’s because of what happened to the artist. Artemisia Gentileschi was raped when she was nineteen by her instructor, Tassi, although he denied touching her. During his trial he said Artemisia was a lousy painter, who invented the rape story because she was jealous. He accused her of being ‘an insatiable whore’ and called all his friends to give evidence against her. They even had her examined by midwives to find out if she was still a virgin.”
Elisa sighs dolefully. “Not much has changed in four centuries. The only difference now is that we don’t torture our rape victims with thumbscrews to find out if they’re telling the truth.”
Turning on the car radio, she s
ignals that she doesn’t want to talk. I lean back in the passenger seat and listen to Phil Collins singing “Another Day in Paradise.”
I first set eyes on Elisa in a grotty interview room at a children’s home in Brentford in the mid-eighties. I had just been accepted as a trainee clinical psychologist with the West London Health Authority.
She walked in, sat down and lit a cigarette without acknowledging I was there. She was only fifteen years old, yet had a fluid grace and certainty of movement that caught the eye and held it for too long.
With one elbow propped on the table and the cigarette held a few inches from her mouth, she stared past me to a window high on the wall. Smoke curled into her unruly fringe of hair. Her nose had been broken at some point and a front tooth was chipped. Periodically she ran her tongue across the jagged edge.
Elisa had been rescued from a “trick pad”—a temporary brothel set up in the basement of a derelict house. The doors had been rigged so they couldn’t be opened from the inside. She and another adolescent prostitute were imprisoned for three days and raped by dozens of men who were offered sex with underage girls.
A judge had placed her into care, but Elisa spent most of her time trying to escape from the children’s home. She was too old to be placed with a foster family and too young to live on her own.
In that first meeting she looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. She was accustomed to dealing with men. Men could be manipulated.
She shrugged and crossed her legs, smoothing her hands along her thighs.
“How old are you now, Elisa?”
“You know that already,” she said, motioning to the file in my hands. “I can wait while you read it, if you like.” She was teasing me.
“Where are your parents?”
“Dead, hopefully.”
According to the file notes Elisa had been living with her mother and stepfather in Leeds when she ran away from home just after her fourteenth birthday.
Most of her answers were the bare minimum—why use two words when one will do? She sounded cocky and indifferent, but I knew she was hurting. Eventually I managed to get under her skin. “How the hell can you know so little?” she yelled, her eyes glistening with emotion.
Suspect Page 2