Out Of The Red

by David Bradwell

  “And so, you want me to not look into it?”

  “There’s nothing to look into. Just a tragic accident. I told you.”

  “Which kind of makes me want to look into it all the more.”

  March leaned forward, his eyes boring into Danny’s.

  “And I’m just telling you, that wouldn’t be wise.”

  “Because?”

  “Because we wouldn’t want you to have a similarly tragic accident, would we?”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Threatening, Danny?” March leaned back again. “Nothing could be further from my mind. I’m appealing to your good nature. Let the boy rest in peace.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “You’ll do more than bear it in mind.”

  “Will I?”

  “Just make sure you do.”

  March stood up and went to the counter to pay for his drink. As he took his change, he turned back to Danny.

  “We still need to arrange your trip to the shelter. Good news sells papers, Danny. Mike would be proud of you.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind too.”

  “I’ll be seeing you, Danny.” And then he turned to leave.

  16

  I WAS standing opposite the coffee shop, partially hidden by a white van that was parked on double yellow lines. As soon as March emerged I was poised with my camera, ready to make a move, just as Danny had requested. He’d rung me with clear instructions just after his call with March, once the meeting had been arranged.

  Danny followed close behind him, then ran across the road towards me.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “Everything okay?”

  “It’s fine. Ready with the camera?”

  I nodded.

  We let March build up a bit of distance and then we started to follow. Danny filled me in on their conversation. March crossed the road towards Mornington Crescent station, but he wasn’t heading onto the Underground, thankfully. The station had been closed for years. Instead he walked past and then turned left, opposite Greater London House, the former Black Cat cigarette factory. He turned onto Eversholt Street, heading in the direction of Euston station. There were lots of buses and taxis. I feared he’d get into one and we’d lose him, but instead he just kept on walking, albeit crossing over to the left-hand side of the road.

  “When do I start taking pictures?” I asked, not unreasonably in my opinion.

  “I don’t know,” Danny replied, not altogether helpfully. “Just keep following and let’s see if he does anything interesting.”

  We carried on walking. And then we had to stop. Up ahead, March paused outside a shop, looking as though he was about to go in, but after a moment he continued.

  “That was close,” I said.

  “The old perv,” said Danny.

  “Who? March?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’s that, then? I mean we know, obviously, but specifically now?”

  “Because he was going to go into the porn shop.”

  “The porn shop?”

  “Yes, look.” As we approached we saw a shopfront claiming to be a “book shop” with smaller signs underneath offering magazines, and videotapes for sale and exchange.

  “How did you know it was a porn shop?” I asked.

  “Just look at the signs.”

  “I can see that now, but I couldn’t from where we were. So, at the risk of repetition, how did you know it was a porn shop?”

  “It’s famously a porn shop.”

  “Well, it’s not that famous. I live about two miles away and I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Everybody’s heard of it.”

  “Clearly not.”

  “Anyway, it is.”

  “Anyway, that’s avoiding the question.”

  But before Danny could come up with another excuse to explain his rather alarming knowledge of Euston’s filth merchants, March stopped again. We stopped too. Up ahead we saw him press a doorbell. I managed to take a picture, although I doubt it was brilliant. Then the door opened and he disappeared inside. We carried on, walking past, but took a good look at the building he’d entered. The neon sign outside flashed “sauna” and then “massage”, alternating between the two, in garish pink and blue. Danny smiled.

  “Now you can take some pictures,” he said.

  “Of March in a sauna? I haven’t got a bloody wide angle with me.”

  “You do know that it’s not actually a sauna, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m not completely stupid.”

  We crossed the road and hid in a side goods entrance that seemed to lead into the back of Euston station. I think it may have been a mail depot. There were lots of Post Office vans in the vicinity. I trained my camera on the door, ready for his reappearance from the brothel.

  “How long do you think he’ll be?” I asked.

  “Is this another test?” asked Danny.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Checking to see how well I know the working practices of massage parlours.”

  “Now you mention it.”

  “Well, I don’t know, do I? I’ve obviously never been in one. But probably half an hour, hour maybe. Depends on how long his appointment is.”

  “And do you think he’s... Really?”

  “It doesn’t even bear thinking about.”

  But in reality, we didn’t have long to wait at all. I was just starting to get nervous, in case anyone saw us casing the joint, when March reappeared, barely ten minutes after he went inside. He was doing up his jacket as he emerged.

  “That was quick,” I said. “PE do you think?”

  “What?”

  “Premature eja...” But Danny cut me off.

  “Can’t have been. He’d have barely had time to get undressed. That, I strongly suspect, was not a social visit.”

  “Business then?”

  “I’d bet my mortgage on it.”

  “If you had one.”

  “The principle applies.”

  March continued down Eversholt Street and then crossed over. He started ascending the steps into the Euston station concourse. We sped up to get closer. Discretion was paramount, but it would be easy to lose him in a busy mainline train station.

  “Let’s split,” suggested Danny. “We’ll be less obvious if we’re separate and it gives us double the chance of keeping up. We’ll call each other if one of us loses him.” It seemed a sensible plan.

  March moved across the concourse and seemed to be heading towards the escalators that led down to the Underground station. Brilliant. Danny followed. I held back a bit, but then thought I’d better be brave. All I had to do was follow Danny and I’d be okay.

  Luckily, the station was busy, so it was quite easy to go unnoticed. March was heading to the southbound Victoria Line. As I reached the opening to the platform, I saw Danny with his hand out to stop me. I stopped. He’s so masterful like that. Putty in his hands.

  “He’s walking down the platform,” he said. “Wait till the train comes in and then jump on.”

  Two minutes later I felt the familiar gust of wind as the train blasted into the station. The doors opened. A few people got off but the train was still quite crowded. Just before the doors closed we jumped on.

  “What now?” I asked as it started to pull away.

  “Stay by the door, then we just look out at every station and hope we see him getting off.”

  “Do you think he’s heading home?”

  Danny told me his address, but we were heading in the wrong direction. Warren Street and Oxford Circus passed without incident, but when the doors opened at Green Park, we saw March’s familiar bulky form emerge from a carriage two down from ours.

  We followed. Again, the platform was busy. That made it easy to hide, but increased the risk that we’d lose him. We split again. Danny stayed behind this time, following me. I was quite pleased at my espionage skills. March was a way ahead, but I only lost sight of him
at the top of the escalator as he approached the barriers. I moved to the left and sped up the final few steps, just in time to see him turn right and leave the station by the rear exit.

  Danny caught up, and we continued to follow, through the backstreets into Berkeley Square, where we saw him disappear into a casino.

  “We’re good,” said Danny. I had to agree. I gave him a hug. It was just like the old days.

  “What now, Poirot?” I asked.

  “Same procedure. We hide opposite and wait. Shit, what time is it?”

  “Nearly five.”

  “Okay. How long to get back to Leah?”

  “From here? God knows. Not my forte. It’s not even on the Underground.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “The studio? Near Hackney Central but it’s overground only. We’d have to change at Highbury and Islington I suppose. I drove last time.”

  I could see Danny thinking.

  “We could probably do it in forty minutes but to be safe we’ll give it an hour,” he said. “Does that sound right? That gives us till six. Hopefully he’ll be out by then.”

  “Is he the gambling type?”

  “I don’t know. Are casinos even open at this time of day?”

  “It’s a valid point. So, you’re thinking...”

  “Another meeting? Maybe.”

  We found a bench in Berkeley Square itself, appearing to all the world like a couple of tourists or young lovers, but with a good view of the casino entrance just off a side street. I was ready with the camera as soon as it was needed. It was cold but thankfully the rain had stopped. I snuggled up to Danny to keep warm. Neither of us spoke. I couldn’t hear the famous nightingales. If they were there, they were being drowned out by the sound of traffic and the construction that was underway on the other side of the square.

  “What do you think he’s up to?” I asked at last. There was still no sign of his reappearance.

  “I don’t know,” said Danny. “I’ve got a theory but it seems too obvious.”

  “Sometimes the obvious answer is the right answer.”

  He nodded, deep in thought.

  “It’s just too straightforward though. I mean, we know he’s trafficking, somehow, although whether as the ringleader or just a go-between, we don’t know.”

  “Okay.”

  “And that’s essentially bringing girls over and turning them into prostitutes.”

  “And he has a business meeting at a massage parlour?”

  “That’s the point, exactly. Is he giving them first look? Drumming up custom? Either way it all fits, exactly as you’d think. But it just seems too obvious somehow. Too basic. Too easy.”

  “He’s not the brightest, is he?”

  “But he is, though. Not Clare levels of super-bright, but he’s far from stupid.”

  I wasn’t particularly happy about that specific comparison. I sat up straight, putting a slight gap between us. I don’t know why, exactly, but just the sound of her name rankled. I could feel Danny looking at me.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it because I mentioned Clare?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not playing this again.”

  “Well then.”

  “Good.”

  Neither of us spoke for probably twenty seconds, but it seemed like longer. Then I just had to ask.

  “Have you heard from her again?”

  “No.”

  “That’s something.”

  “But I emailed her.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, come on, Anna,” he said. “I told you I was going to do that.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. And?”

  “I’ve not heard back yet.”

  “Ha.”

  “Oh, just get over yourself.”

  I turned to look at him.

  “Me? Me, get over myself?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I just care, Danny. I care about you. I don’t want you getting involved with some mental mass murderess, leading you God knows where.”

  “She’s hardly that.”

  “Really? How many people do you have to kill to qualify? I’d say she was the absolute epitome.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Well, we can agree to disagree. I can’t believe you’re defending her.”

  Danny sighed. I turned away from him again. I started having nostalgic thoughts about the previous evening, and how simple and refreshing it had all seemed. How uncomplicated. And then I remembered I’d agreed to go for dinner with Mitch tomorrow night. My first thought was what a disaster and how I could get out of it, but almost immediately it seemed like the thing I most wanted to do. I wanted to call him there and then, just to reconfirm. I’d been short with him earlier. I regretted that now. God, my head was a mess.

  But before I had a chance to even evaluate the pros and cons of that little conundrum, Danny spoke again.

  “You’re not going to like this either,” he said.

  I took a moment to respond.

  “What?” I said eventually.

  “I need to go to the massage parlour.”

  I took another moment.

  “Why?” I asked, eventually, my mind already thinking things it didn’t want to.

  “To see for myself. See if I can find out who he spoke to.”

  “Am I hearing this?”

  “Oh, Anna. Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m a bloody investigative journalist. It’s what I do.”

  “What? Shag prostitutes?”

  “I’m not going to be shagging a prostitute.”

  “Oh right. Quick massage and a happy ending then?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jesus yourself.”

  “There’s no talking to you at the moment.”

  That was just brilliant. Blaming me. I was the one trying to maintain a sense of decency.

  “Fine,” I said again, for want of anything better.

  “Listen, I’ll be careful. I’m not shagging anyone. I’m not having a massage. I’ll make my excuses and leave. But I’ve got to go in there, see if I can find out what he’s up to.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “I don’t know yet. Play it by ear.”

  “Okay. And when do you hope to do this exactly?”

  “As soon as.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Possibly. Depends how long we’re with Leah. If not, tomorrow.”

  “And you’re putting it on expenses, are you?”

  “If necessary, yes.”

  “Oh well, that’ll look good.” It was at times like this that I fancied a fag.

  Movement at the casino entrance stopped any further discussion. I raised my camera. But it wasn’t March. It was somebody else. He turned up his coat collar and headed in the opposite direction.

  “We should go,” said Danny, after a moment, looking at his watch. I agreed. I’d had enough of this anyway. I didn’t know then that this was to be the highlight of the evening. Things were about to get far worse.

  17

  WE left Berkeley Square and headed back to the tube at Green Park. It was frustrating not to have seen our target, but I suspected this was the life of people undertaking stake-outs. Long periods of waiting, punctuated by brief moments of excitement, or, as in this case, nothing at all.

  It was peak time on the tube and the carriage was packed. For once I didn’t mind. At least it gave us both an excuse not to talk to each other. I realised, deep down, that I was being childish, and of course Danny had to follow up every lead. But I just didn’t like it, and the thought made me queasy. The annoying thing was just how unapologetic he seemed about it. That was the bit that upset me. Oh yeah, and his seeming enthusiasm to hang out with prostitutes in their place of work, when he wasn’t fawning over a certain murderess.

  We changed at Highb
ury and Islington and caught the overground train. It was still busy, but it was only a short journey. We were close-ish together, although there was still a distance between us. I was just getting annoyed by the sound of a mobile phone ringtone when I realised it was mine. With considerable embarrassment, I took it out of my pocket and answered the call, earning several disapproving glances in the process.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi Anna, it’s Mitch,” came the reply. “Is it a better time to call?”

  “Hi,” I said again, feeling a slight case of butterflies. “Much better, yes, although I’m on a train and have to get off in a moment. Sorry about earlier.”

  “That’s okay. Are you all right? I’ve been worried.”

  “Ah, don’t worry. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner tomorrow.”

  “Are you still on for that?”

  “Of course.” I’m ashamed to admit I did a little girlish giggle.

  “That’s good. I was worried I’d lost you.”

  “No, not in the slightest. I had a great night. I’ve been wanting to call you but I’ve been out working.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I’m going to have to go again in a minute, though. I’m just arriving.”

  “Where are you off to? Anywhere nice?”

  “Hackney Central.”

  “Fair play. Work or pleasure?”

  “Kind of work. Just helping out Danny, really.” I couldn’t remember how much I’d mentioned about my flatmate’s career choice, but I think I’d covered the basics.

  “Sounds exciting. Are you on a mission?”

  “Something like that. Oh, I’m sorry. Got to go again. I’ll call you tomorrow to make a plan, okay?”

  “Can’t wait. Take care, Anna.”

  “You too.”

  And that was the end of that. Immediately, however, my mood was lifted. Two can play at this game. Danny was giving me a funny look.

  “We’re here,” he said, and then turned away.

  I followed him off the carriage and along the platform. He wasn’t speaking.

  “It’s only about a five-minute walk,” I said, as much to break the silence as anything. He just shrugged. Fine, I thought. By the time we reached the exit, though, I’d had enough.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.