‘Very nice of you, I’m sure.’
‘And we’ll start with you.’
Angie’s answers were predictably guarded. One of the masseuses claimed not to recognise Jessica, another said she might have seen her at the massage parlour, only one admitted straight away that she and Jessica were friends.
‘How long have you known her?’
‘A while. She’s a mate.’
‘Have you seen her recently?’
‘She’s around.’
‘When did you last see her?’
The girl shook her head.
‘I don’t know. I saw her – I don’t know. She’s around. We went for a drink the other night. We had a few drinks and Jess got wasted and said she felt sick. Then she went off and never came back. That’s the last time I saw her.’
‘Didn’t you wonder what had happened to her?’
‘I thought she’d got lucky, you know, pulled.’
‘When was that exactly?’ Geraldine asked again but the girl just shrugged.
‘Where did you go?’
The girl gazed around the room without answering.
‘Can you remember where it was? This is important.’
The girl shook her head.
‘I don’t know. It was just some pub she knew.’
‘And you haven’t seen her since?’
‘Good friends, were you?’ Sam asked.
‘She’s a mate,’ the girl repeated, her voice and face devoid of any expression.
Geraldine had to look away to hide her disgust when the girl didn’t visibly react on hearing Jessica had been murdered. She was too spaced out to feel anything, and somewhere a callous drug dealer was profiting from her loss of humanity. It almost made Geraldine want to join the drug squad.
‘Do you have any idea who might have killed her?’
The girl appeared to be considering.
‘No.’
‘Did she have any regular customers?’
‘Only Robbie.’
‘Who’s Robbie?’
‘You asked about regulars. He’s Jessica’s regular.’
‘Were they having a relationship?’
‘God, no. Nothing like that. He’s old. Jessica didn’t even like him. She said he freaked her out. She didn’t want to do him, but Angie said if Robbie asked for her Jessica had to go with him, and he always did ask for her. I thought she might have left to get away from him. He’s a creep.’
‘Why did she see him if she found him so repulsive?’
‘For the money, of course. If we don’t see clients, we don’t get paid.’
‘Doesn’t Angie pay you?’
‘Angie?’
The girl laughed hoarsely.
‘Angie doesn’t pay us. She provides us with – all this.’
She waved her hands around, indicating the premises.
‘And she takes her cut in return.’
Geraldine glanced at Sam, who was scowling.
She turned her attention back to the masseuse.
‘What can you tell us about Robbie? Think, please. This is important.’
‘Not to her it isn’t.’
She gave a nod at Jessica’s photo.
‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘He liked Jess.’
‘What’s his other name?’
‘I don’t know. Blokes here don’t tend to give their full names, not real ones anyway.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He’s always sweaty and he’s a big bloke.’
‘What do you mean, big? Is he tall?’
The girl gazed around, glassy-eyed.
‘Yes, he’s tall. He’s a big guy, really solid, you know.’
‘What else can you tell us about him? Is he white? Black? Asian?’ Geraldine prompted her.
‘He’s white and his hair’s dark, combed over like he thinks that fools anyone.’
‘Would you be able to identify him?’
The girl shook her head, animated for the first time.
‘No, no.’ She sounded scared. ‘I can’t remember him. I don’t know. I – I only saw him once.’
Angie gave them an address and mobile phone number for Jessica but resisted passing them a list of Jessica’s clients, claiming it was confidential information. Geraldine pointed out she was obstructing the police in a murder investigation, and Angie caved in at once. There was only one Robert on the list of Jessica Jones’ regular clients, Robert Stafford. He had booked in for a massage every Tuesday evening for a couple of months but had given no contact details.
‘No address?’
‘Don’t be stupid. We don’t ask, they don’t tell. As long as they pay what difference does it make to me where the punters live? Probably not his real name either, what else would you expect? But this one hasn’t been in for the last two weeks and he’s not the only one. I’ve lost several of my regulars recently since your lot decided to do a raid,’ she added sourly.
‘If he turns up again call me immediately, without alerting his suspicion.’
‘Working for you now, am I?’
‘No, you’re trying to keep your business going and avoid us closing you down. Can you describe him?’
‘Tall and broad, built like a tank, dark hair, clean shaven, pale face, if he’s the one I’m thinking of.’
‘Could you give a description to an E-fit officer?’
Angie shook her head.
‘Not bloody likely. I see so many blokes. After a while you find you don’t really look at them very closely. Not that most of them are much to look at anyway.’
‘What now?’ Sam asked as they left.
‘You’re going to find every Robert Stafford who might have visited the massage parlour here regularly on Tuesday evenings. Check CCTV in case he came by car.’
‘We’re assuming Robert Stafford is actually his name,’ Sam said.
‘It’s all we’ve got.’
‘Evidence from a girl so stoned she didn’t even notice her best mate had gone missing.’
‘Would you want to be clear-headed if you worked there?’
‘I’ll get onto it.’
Sam nodded, tense. They both knew they were clutching at straws.
21
HELL TO PAY
Douggie had been having a run of bad luck on the dogs and was skint. He was still owed a thousand quid for torching the BMW but doubted he’d ever see that. He’d been an idiot not to insist on full payment in advance, but there was something about the geezer that had stopped him asking. He drained his glass and was about to leave when George sauntered in. Douggie hurried to join him at the bar.
‘I’m buying.’
He slapped his money down and followed George to a corner table.
A few minutes went by in silence before Douggie came out with it.
‘There’s no point hassling me,’ George answered sharply. ‘I’m only the messenger. I can’t hand jobs on if there aren’t any, can I? Be reasonable. If you’re not needed any more then you’re not needed, and there’s fuck all I can do about it.’
‘Not needed any more? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s not supposed to mean anything. Jesus. There’s just nothing happening right now, that’s all. It’s a quiet time. Everyone’s on holiday. Things are bound to pick up again after the summer.’
‘What are you talking about, everyone’s on holiday?’ Douggie grumbled into his pint. ‘I’m not on holiday. You’re not on holiday.’
‘Chance’d be a fine thing. Fancy a few weeks in the Bahamas, me. Look, I want my cut, same as you. It’s not my fault there’s no jobs on right now.’
‘Who’s on holiday then?’
George shook his head.
‘You know I can’t say.’
Douggie put his empty glass down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘There’s other people can get me jobs,’ he muttered.
‘Whatever you say.’
‘I’
ve got other contacts, is all I’m saying. You’re not the only one passes work my way.’
‘Well, piss off to your other contacts then and leave me to drink my pint in peace.’
Douggie felt a brief surge of rage but held it down.
‘You’re alright mate,’ was all he said.
It wouldn’t do to fall out with George. Like he said, things were bound to pick up again soon.
George grunted and nodded.
‘Soon as there’s a job on, I’ll let you know.’
It was late when Douggie got home. He fumbled with his key, stumbled across the step and kicked the front door shut behind him. He hoped he hadn’t woken Mary or there would be hell to pay. He reached for the light, but before he could flick the switch something closed on his left hand and twisted it round behind his back, pushing him up against the wall. At the same time, leather gloved fingers gripped him so tightly round the throat he struggled to breathe.
‘Hello again, Douggie.’
He recognised the voice at once. It was the man who had given him the car to torch. The man who owed him another thousand quid. What the hell was he doing in the flat? Douggie groaned as the man loosened his stranglehold slightly and jerked his left arm further up behind his back.
‘Let go,’ Douggie gasped. ‘You’re breaking my fucking arm.’
‘We had an arrangement,’ the man said, giving Douggie’s arm another tug.
‘I know. I’ve done it, just like you said.’
The man loosened his grip on Douggie’s arm.
‘How did you get in? You’ve no business here. And where’s my money? You owe me. If you’ve touched Mary - ’
‘The money’s on the table.’
‘I want it in tens and twenties,’ Douggie blustered. ‘Fifties aren’t so easy to get rid of.’
The man laughed, a puff of moist breath in Douggie’s ear.
‘Money’s always easy to get rid of. So tell me. What happened to the car?’
‘Don’t worry. I got rid of it like you wanted.’
‘How?’
‘What difference does it make now?’
The man twisted Douggie’s arm so sharply he yelped.
‘Tell me. I want to know.’
‘Is that you?’ Mary called from the bedroom.
The man tightened his grip on Douggie as though to warn him.
‘It’s only me, love. I – I just knocked my shin.’
‘You’ve been drinking again.’
‘Go back to sleep. I’ll be in soon. Don’t get up.’
He held his breath but she didn’t come out into the hall.
‘Well?’
‘I torched it.’
‘Where?’
‘I drove it out to a place I know in Epping Forest and torched it. Nothing left that could be traced, see? No prints, nothing.’
‘You’re sure no one saw you?’
‘You think I want to get banged up? I went straight there on Sunday night and no one saw. Look, I’m telling you, there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t mess about. I didn’t even wait for the scrap yard to open in the morning. The car’s gone alright. You can rely on me. That’s why you came to me, isn’t it? I’m a professional.’
Unexpectedly the man let go and shoved Douggie in the small of his back, pushing him to the floor. Douggie put out his hands to break his fall and hit his head against the wall with a painful thud. He clambered to his feet and clasped his head in his hands.
‘How did you get in?’
There was no answer. He stumbled backwards and felt the wall behind him, which was lucky because he was shaking so much he could barely stand. Pressing himself against the wall he peered into the darkness. A figure appeared briefly silhouetted against dim orange light from the corridor outside before the front door slammed shut.
Trembling, Douggie felt his way to the living room and flicked on the light. The money lay on the table, secured beneath an ashtray. He fingered the notes, wondering how the geezer had found his way in. Suddenly decisive, he ran back to the hall and turned on the light. The front door was closed. He examined the lock but it didn’t appear to have been tampered with. He checked all the windows but everything was shut. He went into the bedroom. Mary was fast asleep, her mouth wide open, snoring gently. She certainly wouldn’t have let a stranger in and then fallen asleep. He must have picked the lock, only instead of breaking in to rob Douggie, he had left him a thousand quid better off. A robbery in reverse. If the stranger hadn’t put the frighteners on him it would have seemed funny.
He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge and knocked back his last can of lager. Fishing out a half bottle of whisky he gulped down a generous slug, followed by a second, until the bottle was empty. He felt better for a moment until it sunk in. An intruder had been in his flat, poking around. Pent up rage swelled in his head until he felt it would explode with the pressure, and his chest heaved. Gripping the handle of the fridge, he leaned forward and banged his forehead against the cold metal door, fighting an urge to roar out loud in fury. Instead he smashed the empty whisky bottle violently against the wall. Glass flew everywhere, crunching beneath his feet as he swayed and stumbled. Blood welled up on his hand and he felt a sharp sting where a shard of glass had sliced into his thumb. ‘Shit!’
He grabbed some kitchen towel and winced as he pressed a wad of paper against the wound. But worse than the pain was his fear that the stranger might return. He shoved the bloody notes back in his pocket as Mary appeared in the doorway, white faced with shock at the sight of blood spattering the floor.
‘Oh Douggie,’ she said, ‘what have you gone and done now?’
‘It’s alright,’ he told her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
He hoped that was true.
22
MURDER IS MURDER
‘I’m shattered.’
Sam slumped into a chair beside Geraldine in the Major Incident Room, arms flopping over the edge of the seat, legs splayed, head flung back.
‘That’s me done for the day.’
Even when exhausted, she radiated energy.
Geraldine logged off her computer and they left the building together.
‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Only if you agree not to talk about the case, gov.’
‘That sounds like a good idea. And it’s Geraldine.’
‘OK Geraldine. What do you fancy? How about a karaoke night to take our minds off work?’
Seeing the expression on Geraldine’s face, Sam laughed. ‘Salsa?’
‘I was thinking more like a quiet drink, or maybe something to eat if you’re free?’
‘I’ve got no plans for this evening, and I’m starving,’ Sam replied promptly. ‘How about a curry? Or there’s an all-you-can-eat Chinese not far from here that’s not bad.’
‘Not bad?’ Geraldine echoed. ‘Is that the best London can offer?’
They ended up going to a small Indian restaurant close to the office. It was almost empty, but it was cheap and the food was surprisingly good.
‘How does the Met compare with Kent then?’ Sam asked. Something in her tone suggested she was confident Geraldine would be favourably impressed with London.
‘It’s different in some ways.’
Sam waited and Geraldine suppressed a smile at her sergeant’s childlike enthusiasm.
‘It’s less formal, which I like, but at the same time I get the impression a lot of officers don’t really know each other. In Kent I knew most of my colleagues, one way or another.’
‘It’s a much smaller force in Kent. The Met has about a fifth of the entire UK police force.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘But don’t you find it more exciting?’ Sam insisted.
‘London is, certainly,’ Geraldine agreed. ‘But as far as the investigation goes, murder is murder wherever you are.’
‘No talking about the case.’
Sam raised a reproachful eyebrow and Geraldine laughed.
‘Have y
ou worked with the DCI before?’ Geraldine wanted to know.
‘No.’
‘What do you think of him?’
They agreed that Reg Milton seemed like a decent detective chief inspector, and gossiped briefly about the fellow officers they had both met. Geraldine held back from being frank about her colleagues, and suspected Sam was being similarly cautious. They didn’t yet know one another well enough to speak freely, and she approved of the sergeant’s discretion.
‘That was great,’ Geraldine said as they finished. ‘I didn’t realise how hungry I was.’
‘I’m always hungry. We could go for a drink?’ Sam suggested, but Geraldine excused herself. She wanted to do some more unpacking before she went to bed.
It was past ten when she reached home and put the kettle on before settling down to open a few more boxes. She wished she could be like her sergeant, who seemed happy to put the case out of her mind when she left work. It wasn’t necessarily helpful that Geraldine couldn’t stop thinking about Jessica Palmer’s battered face and disfigured right hand. At least now they knew the identity of the dead girl they should begin to make rapid progress. Tomorrow they would look into Jessica Palmer’s life before she started working at the Paradise Parlour, and track down the man Angie knew as Robert Stafford. Geraldine hoped that was his real name.
Her priority was to find Jessica Palmer’s killer. Until the case was resolved, she wouldn’t be free to pursue her investigation into her own past. She had already made up her mind she was going to return to the adoption agency and press them for more information about her birth mother. If they still refused to disclose her whereabouts, Geraldine was prepared to take matters into her own hands. She finished putting away her towels and bed linen and set to work on her books. She had decided to defer sorting them out until after the move, something she regretted now that the time had come. First she spread them out on the carpet so she could see the covers. Once they were out of their boxes she began putting them into alphabetical order before placing them on the bookshelf. It took a while but she kept going, determined to finish the task before going to bed.
Methodically she placed her books on the shelves, distracted by an image of the dead woman’s beaten and bruised face. If only it were possible to pigeonhole people as easily as books, rearranging them into a logical pattern that would help her find what she was looking for: a brutal killer concealed somewhere among the millions of people in London. Geraldine hoped Jessica’s death had been quick even though it had clearly been violent. She couldn’t help speculating about what Jessica Palmer had looked like before she had been beaten to death. The mug shot on the police files wasn’t particularly flattering and was several years out-of-date, but she must have been pretty despite her sullen expression.
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