This was too much. I got to my feet, and pointed to the door.
“Get out. Get out of my flat.”
He got the message, stood albeit unsteadily and walked towards the door. I watched, as he closed it behind him, but before I could sigh with relief, the door opened again and his stupid, grinning face thrust back in the room.
“Did anyone ever tell you, you’re beautiful when you’re angry?”
This was more than I could take. I picked up the nearest thing to hand, which was his half -emptied coffee cup, and threw it at him. He ducked. I missed.
“Temper… temper,” he tutted. I reached for something else to throw, but this time the door slammed shut.
I was standing, shaking with fury, when my mobile phone rang. I picked it up ready to give Pitcher another piece of my mind. But it wasn’t Pitcher. It was a man with a foreign accent.
“You looking for Ukranian girl, Roxy.”
I said nothing.
“I help, for money.”
I’d never paid for a story and had no intention of beginning now.
“Also, I has picture. You pay me money, I give to you. I call again.”
“Who are you, where did you get my number?” but the phone clicked dead.
Chapter 25
7.30am Monday, October 29,
Southwark
I woke with a blazing headache. It was one of those stifling winter days, when the sun streams blindingly through the window, even though the temperature outside is freezing. I couldn’t face rushing in first thing, but spent the morning going over the previous night’s interview with Pitcher. This whole investigation was in danger of disintegrating into farce.
The call troubled me, though. If Sister Robert had put the word around, it might have been a hoax, or someone after easy money. But it could have been genuine, which at least meant the child was alive. I’d have to wait until they called again.
Foolishly, I didn’t bother to check my emails before leaving for the office, so more surprises were waiting for me there. Ragland’s office said he wanted to see me at lunchtime. It was too late. I had missed that appointment. Damn, my leisurely morning, and damn Pitcher.
But there was some good news; an email from Kelly’s Brewery inviting me to interview Jack Kelly on Wednesday. Excellent. I dialled his secretary and fixed a time for after lunch.
I called Ragland’s office. No, it would not be possible to reschedule this afternoon. No, his private secretary did not know what the right honourable member had wished to discuss with me. He had been called to his constituency on urgent business. No, we do not know his next availability.
Ludgate called. He was delighted to hear I would be seeing Kelly before the week was out, but wanted to know where I was getting with the body they had fished out of the Clyde.
“Not very far.”
“Have you tried Sherlock?”
“Can’t seem to get through.”
“If they’ve stopped answering the phones, get on to the Regulator.”
“Will do.”
“And Strathclyde?”
“They’re not saying any more than you’ll see on the wires.” One thing Pitcher and I had in common was a deep-rooted distrust of that force.
“Keep trying. In fact, go up to Glasgow tonight and door-step the family.”
I hung up determined to ignore that last instruction. There would be plenty of time to see the family, in the unlikely event they wanted to see me. I didn’t have to rush up tonight.
But I did spend a couple of hours dialling every number I could find for Sherlock. The best I got was an automatic recording asking me to leave a message. Most of the numbers simply rang out.
So I called the Financial Regulator and told them I couldn’t get through.
“There have been developments,” my press contact informed me.“At this precise moment we can’t comment. We’ll be making a statement in due course.”
Interesting. I was booking my flights for Thursday, when Marsha poked her head round the door.
“You look all in,” she said.
“No, no, I’m OK. It’s just…”
“Getting nowhere fast,” she nodded understandingly. “Why don’t we get out of here? It’s a lovely evening. Let’s go for a drink by the river?”
We caught the bus to St Katherine’s Dock, and sat outside the Dickens Inn. It was a beautiful evening. The air was chill, but the sun was strong, as it had been that morning. Winter strong, not strong like in summer, but strong enough to sit outside.
Yachts bobbed about in front of us on their moorings, their riggings tinkling, as if calling to adventure. This place never failed to bewitch me, and with good reason. My ancestors were born and bred in St Katherine’s Dock in the 19th century, when it was home to poor dockers’ families. This was my heritage.
Marsha and I sat in comfortable silence, watching the boats, and sipping our drinks. We were neither of us in a hurry. A group of students arrived. Some of them wore the sweat shirts and T-shirts of University College London. We watched, as they clowned around on the Quay, not a care in the world. One of them, a young buck, decided he wanted a swim, and began peeling off his clothes.
“Jesus, it’ll be cold,” Marsha whispered. “Should we say something?”
“Leave them, they’ll be fine. A cold dip won’t hurt him.”
A loud splash was followed by another, and another, as his pals followed him into the water. They climbed out up the wooden ladder fixed into the harbour wall, and no sooner were they on dry land than they ran again leaping straight back into the marina.
Over and over again, they jumped off the wharf edge. Screams of excitement, bravado and blind terror filled the air. Each time, they took a longer run at the water, so they could jump even higher, until they had fallen back to our table to launch their take-offs.
“You must be mad,” Marsha said to one of the females, whose soaking clothes clung to her. She trembled with cold. “You’ll catch pneumonia.”
She laughed at us.
“It’s fabulous. The water’s lovely and warm. You should give it a go,” and she was off, running at top speed, before vaulting high into the air, shrieking, all the while, with joy and fear. She hit the water with an almighty explosion.
I don’t know what crazy demon took possession of me, but I stood, took off my jacket, pulled Marsha’s off and grabbed her by the hand.
“Come on,” I said, “Come on.”
Not stopping to think, we ran, a dark unsteady “Yeeeeeeeeoooooooooo” sounding from somewhere deep inside. And together, hand in hand, we jumped off the quay. The student was right. The eternity between leaving the harbour and hitting the water was like heaven. But she was wrong about the water. It was ice. I went down, down, down, before my natural buoyancy brought me back up to the surface.
I couldn’t see Marsha, and called her frantically. Seconds later, she too emerged, emitting a string of profanities.
“Get me out of here before I die,” she screamed.
We swam towards the steps and climbed out. The crowd of youngsters cheered and clapped us, as we emerged. One came towards us with towels, which allowed us to dry a bit.
“We’d better get home sharpish, before we catch our death,” Marsha said, heading back to the table to pick up our bags and jackets. I checked Strachan’s diary was safe. It was.
We flagged three taxis, before one would agree to take us to Marsha’s flat in Bethnal Green. We soon warmed up on the journey back. Marsha went into the bathroom first, after handing me towels and a dressing gown, and setting the tumble drier going for my underwear.
Ten minutes later, she vacated the bathroom for me, with the words, “I’ll sort out something for you to wear, doll.”
I tried not to worry what that would be, as I closed the door behind her. I couldn’t see myself in one of her little leather numbers.
The bath was heavenly, and as I laid there soaking up its warmth, I felt happier and freer than for ages. Jumping off that quay had been a mome
nt of sheer madness, but madness can be so liberating.
Marsha was soon knocking at the bathroom door.
“Blue jeans or black cords.”
“I’ll take the cords.” The door squeezed opened a crack, and a hand appeared, placing cords, polo and my dry undies on a stool.
“There you go,” she said, her hand disappearing again.
As I reached for the towel, I heard her phone ring.
“Right….. right….. right,” I heard Marsha’s voice. “Thanks. You’re a diamond.”
I emerged from the bathroom, as she dialled another number. The phone must have answered at the other end.
“It’s Marsha Rosenblum. I’ve had a tip off. Children being held in St John’s flats….. that’s right….fourth floor.. number 48.”
She paused.
“Right now. Sure.”
She replaced the receiver.
“One of my contacts at the Met. They’re going straight in. Want me to be there. For the kids. I’ve got to go.”
“Can I come with you?”
She looked at me without saying anything, and left the flat. I grabbed one of her coats, locked the door, and jumped down her steps two at a time. We were running together again. But this time, I didn’t have a clue where we were going, or why. Nothing could have prepared me for what was in store.
Chapter 26
10.30pm Monday, October 29,
Bethnal Green.
Marsha led the way past boarded up shops, and down a twisted alley. I was struggling to keep up with her, my pulse racing. Music throbbed – in the distance at first –then louder. The alley opened out into a street party in a dingy square. It was like stepping out downtown on a sub-Saharan Saturday night.
Rap music boomed from three houses. Two open-topped cars, packed with black and white youths, revved their engines then braked, then revved again, as they attempted to navigate a race between the crowds of people just hanging around. Music blared from their cars, too, and each time they revved, they screamed out gang chants like war cries. One of the cars had a gun, and fired shots intermittently into the sky. It didn’t take much imagination to see that the girls were hookers and the men pimps and clients.
“Just look down,” Marsha said, as she took my hand firmly and led the way across the square to another alley opposite. She knew this place, and knew exactly where we were going. We crossed unchallenged, apart from a few catcalls in our direction. But relief at escaping the square was short-lived. We had reached Blow Job Alley. I had heard of it, but as an urban myth. An allegory of our time.
“Look the other way”, Marsha whispered as we passed through the shadows. But I couldn’t. And it wasn’t a myth. This was for real.
The bottom of the alley opened onto lock-ups in front of a run-down 1970s council block. The police had beaten us there. Half-a-dozen police cars and two vans were parked outside. A team of police had begun to lay a cordon. Marsha flashed a pass, and we made it through in time, before the area was sealed.
Police sieges were nothing new to me. As a young reporter I had covered the police beat for one of my employers and spent many a cold night outside hostage situations, a few of which had ended in bloodshed.
The stairs stank of urine. We raced up them, to the fourth floor, and ran along a balcony in time to see police batter down the front door.
We were not allowed to follow, but had to wait and guess at what was going on inside, amid the noise of screams, bangs and general pandemonium that had broken out. Discoloured paint was peeling off the front window. It was hung with a twisted, filthy net.
“Out,” one of the coppers shouted.
Three hooded figures were led away, hands cuffed behind their backs. They struggled and kicked against their escort. But they knew the game was up. We waited patiently outside. A WPC joined us. Then another woman. Marsha seemed to know them both. Social Services, I guessed.
After a bit, one of the officers came out and told the three women they could enter, but to be prepared. His face was grim.
The passage was dirty, lined with cracked and grime-engrained lino. Another officer barred the door to the first room we came to, but through the opening, I could see about a dozen sheepish looking men, being questioned by other uniforms. They would have some explaining to do to their wives, girl-friends and bosses, when the story made the local rag.
Nothing could have prepared me for the rooms, which followed. Children. I’m not good with ages any more, but they were maybe eight to 14. All girls. Painfully thin. In the dingy light, their skin looked pale as death and their eyes were frightened.
I watched Marsha, the WPC, and the other woman work the room. Each sat beside one child on stained mattresses. Not too close. They talked in a low voice. I walked back to the passage and on to another room, filled with more children, and another filled with more still.
I wanted to reach out to the poor mites. But I wasn’t trained. I went back to Marsha to seek instructions. She was inspecting weal marks on one child’s back.
“Ambulances on the way,” a PC stuck his head round the door, flinching at what he saw. The NHS would patch up their violated bodies. Who would repair their minds?
I went back into the other room and sat beside one of the children. I tried speaking to her, but she didn’t understand. She had Slavic features, but I couldn’t say where she came from. Another looked African. Each had hair pulled back tight into a ponytail. Their lips were plastered a grotesque red. They wore halter-neck tops and skirts the size of handkerchiefs. I noticed blood oozing down the inside of one of their legs.
Marsha joined me now, and as I smiled at her in mutual sadness, I heard a new voice in the background. A voice I knew.
The next minute Pitcher appeared in the door way.
“What the hell...” he looked shocked to see me and turned back to the officers in the passage.
“What cretin let the press in,” his voice filled with the anger.
A young PC rushed forward, making excuses, clearly cowed by the superior officer.
“She came with….” he pointed at Marsha.
“Get her out, and get her out now,” he yelled.
Two officers grabbed me by the arms and frog-marched me out of the flat.
Chapter 27
1.30am Tuesday, October 30,
Southwark
A police car took me home. When I closed the door, I realise I was shaking. I got into a bath and scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to rub away those young faces. But they haunted me throughout the night.
“The girls stop coming once they hit a certain age,” Sister Robert’s words came back to me.
Was this the fate of the missing child, Roxy, always supposing she was still alive? Was this what Sister Robert was hinting at?
At 4.30am, I switched on the bedside light and took Strachan’s diary out of my bag. The entry of September 28, the last time I had seen him, had always bothered me.
‘Couldn’t tell her the half, of course. In good time. Then we’ll crack both birds with one stone.’
What half, what birds, what did it mean? I switched off the light and slipped into a shallow, fitful sleep. I dreamed of that flat again; of Mrs Strachan at the funeral; the look of disbelief on Alexander Ross’s face as he surveyed the scene at Patterson’s.
The next morning I reported back to Ludgate from the office but it wasn’t a story to interest the readers of the Square Mile. Anyway, charges had already been laid, which outlawed further coverage as sub judice.
I slept better the following night and was more refreshed when I headed off to the airport next morning. My nerves, though, were on edge at the thought of the coming meeting. This was my big chance and I couldn’t afford to screw it up. I had spent the previous day planning the interview. What did I want from him? Confirmation of the withdrawals, and some idea where the money went, would be a good start. Who was I kidding? Kelly was a class act. Only rookie hacks were arrogant enough to think you could catch such people out with killer quest
ions. What did I expect him to say? Yes, I stole the money. Yes, I killed Ken Strachan and his family.
I tried to read my notes during the flight, and rehearse the questions again, but I was distracted by a little girl sitting beside me. She must have been about nine or ten and seemed to need to chat incessantly. I welcomed the diversion. She had been staying with her Daddy, who lived in London and was flying back up to her Mummy. She clutched a simple rag doll, called Amy. By the time the flight landed, I knew everything there was to know about her brother and sister, aunts, uncles, both sets of grandparents and pretty much every girl in her class.
I offered to take her to find her mummy, but airline security was tight, and the stewardess said no. So I said goodbye aboard the plane and headed for a taxi, instructing it to take me to Kelly’s offices. The brewer had depots scattered around the UK, but its head office was sited some 100 yards from the main operation, roughly half an hour’s drive from central Glasgow.
As the taxi pulled up at the main gate, we were overtaken by a white, windowless van, which was waved straight through security. While we waited for a green light to proceed, I watched the van pull up across the forecourt and disgorge maybe 20 worn-looking faces. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out that these were foreign hands, working for rock bottom rates.
We drove on to the main building, and the driver paused outside to let me out. They were unlike any offices I had ever seen before, let alone on a Glasgow factory site. Built in solid concrete, they were a cement-makers’ fantasy of arches, columns and vaulted windows; an exercise in ego. Why did this not surprise me? The smell of the brewery hit full force, as I climbed out of the taxi and paid the driver; a sickly putrid smell.
The entrance hall was like a cathedral, white marble everywhere. The receptionist offered to take my red coat and overnight bag, but I said I would keep them with me.
“I’ll let them know you’re here,” she pointed to a seated area.
DEAD MONEY Page 13