The Madam

by Jaime Raven

  ‘So how did it go?’ she said. ‘Was this one Mr Right?’

  I shook my head. ‘I should be so lucky. Suffice to say I won’t be seeing him again.’

  She gave a snort of derision. ‘I told you didn’t I? The only blokes you’ll meet on those internet dating sites are losers and cheats. It’s a waste of time and money.’

  And with that she turned and stepped back out of the room.

  ‘Can you get my phone for me?’ I called after her.

  ‘No I can’t,’ came the reply. ‘If you want it you’ll have to get up.’

  I took a deep breath and let it out in a long, tuneful sigh. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to accept that she was probably right about the dating thing. Last night had been awful. Another date, another disaster. The guy’s name was Trevor and in the flesh he looked nothing like his profile picture. Most of his hair had vanished since it was taken and he’d also grown a second chin. He said he was an IT consultant, and I believed him because he spent the whole time talking about what he did with computers.

  It became obvious early on why he was still single at the age of thirty-five. And if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d gone to the trouble of travelling all the way across London to meet me I would have left sooner than I did. But that would have been impolite, perhaps even a little cruel. So I’d stuck it out while knocking back the Pinot in an effort to numb my senses.

  Over the last five months I’d dated seven men through online dating sites and Trevor was the dullest. He’d been even less entertaining than Kevin the chiropodist who had offered on our first date to examine my feet. When I wouldn’t let him he went into a sulk and accused me of being a snob.

  But no way was I a snob. When it came to men I’d always been happy to cast a wide net. I’d never discriminate against race, colour or class, and I accepted that most guys around my age had baggage from a previous relationship. I just wanted someone who was honest, open, reasonably intelligent and with a sense of humour. It would help, of course, if there was also an instant physical attraction. But so far those I’d met online had lacked most or all of those qualities.

  ‘I suppose it’s time I called it a day,’ I said aloud to myself, knowing I didn’t really mean it.

  The trouble was I missed being in a relationship. The divorce was two years ago and I hadn’t slept with anyone since. But it wasn’t just the sex. I missed being part of a couple. I missed the companionship, the intimacy, the stream of pleasant surprises that were part and parcel of a burgeoning relationship.

  Of course, being a single mum with a full-time job kept me busy. In fact I had hardly any time to myself. And that was essentially the problem. I wanted more fun and a touch of romance in my life. I wanted to fall in love again and maybe have another child. I wanted a home of my own and to share it with someone who’d get to know me as well as I knew myself.

  My mother didn’t really understand me, or so she said. She reckoned I was being selfish, that I should forget about men and focus on bringing up Rosie.

  ‘You already work far too many hours,’ she told me when I first joined the dating scene. ‘You haven’t got time for a boyfriend or a husband.’

  But then she had her own reason for wanting things to stay as they were. As long as I remained unattached she got to have us living with her. Not that I’d ever complain. If it wasn’t for my mother I’d probably find it impossible to look after a three-year-old and continue to work as a journalist.

  Thanks to her I didn’t have to pay for child minders or meet the high cost of living in London. Whilst married, my husband and I had shared the exorbitant rent on a property in Dulwich. But Mum owned outright this three-bed terraced house in Peckham, and my contribution to the outgoings was relatively small.

  She was also on hand to take care of Rosie. That was important, given the fact that my job entailed horrendously unsocial hours.

  Take this morning, for example. I had a horrible feeling that the news desk wanted me in on my day off. Why else would the office call me at this hour on a Saturday morning? Had something happened? Was there a breaking news story they wanted me to get across?

  There was only one way to find out, of course, and that was to get up and phone them back. But it was the last thing I wanted to do. My head was hurting and I felt more than a little nauseous. Plus I didn’t want to have to tell my daughter that I might not be taking her to the park after all.

  As if on cue the bedroom door was flung open and there she was, the apple of my eye, looking absolutely gorgeous in a yellow dress, her long fair hair scraped back in a ponytail.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she yelled. ‘Nanny said you have to get up. You’re not allowed to go back to sleep because if you do you’ll be in trouble.’

  People have told me that Rosie is the image of her mother. And it was true up to a point. We both had blue eyes and hair the colour of wheat. Our noses were small and pointed, and we each had a slight lisp.

  But Rosie had her father’s facial bone structure and also his smile, which was one of the things I’d loved about him in the beginning. That was before I realised he used it as a distraction, a way to make me believe that he was a caring, faithful husband instead of a cheating scumbag.

  ‘Hurry up, Mummy,’ Rosie said excitedly. ‘It’s sunny and I want to go to the park.’

  She stood next to the bed, pulling at the duvet, her big round eyes pleading with me to get up.

  ‘Slow down, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘It’s still really early and Mummy’s got a headache.’

  ‘I can kiss it better for you.’

  The words out of my daughter’s mouth never failed to lift my spirits. I put the mug back on the bedside table and reached over so that she could peck me on the forehead.

  ‘I feel much better already,’ I said.

  Then I pulled her close to me and gave her a cuddle. She felt soft and warm and smelled of shower gel.

  ‘Go and tell Nanny to make me some more coffee,’ I said. ‘I’ll be out as soon as I’ve been to the loo.’

  She skipped out of the room, repeating my words to herself so that she wouldn’t forget them.

  I then dragged myself out of bed, only to be confronted by my own reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

  I usually wear silk pyjamas at night but I’d either forgotten to put them on or I just hadn’t bothered. I couldn’t remember which. But anyway I was naked except for my watch and a going-out necklace.

  As always I cast a critical eye over my body. And as always I felt a pang of disappointment. Despite all the diets, gym sessions and yoga classes, I was still very much a work in progress. My breasts were not as firm as they used to be, my thighs were riddled with cellulite, and my tummy looked as though it was in the early stages of pregnancy.

  But I did have my good points, thank God. My hair was full-bodied and shoulder length and I never had to do much with it. I was just over five seven in bare feet and had a face that most people considered attractive. In fact, my ex went so far as to tell me that I reminded him of the actress Jennifer Lawrence. It gave my ego a huge boost up until the day I discovered that he was incapable of being truthful.

  I shook my head, annoyed that I’d allowed that deceitful toe rag to invade my thoughts this early in the morning. But then it wasn’t as though I could distance myself from him. For all his faults – and there were plenty of them – he adored Rosie and made a point of seeing her twice a week as part of the custody arrangement. It meant we remained in contact, and in all honesty it wasn’t as bad as it had been at the start. I was over the shock and humiliation of his betrayal, and all the feelings I’d had for him had evaporated.

  I was now civil to him whenever we met and that made life easier all round. There were never any arguments over maintenance payments and he was usually willing to help out when I needed certain favours.

  Naturally my mother hated him with a vengeance, and when he called at the house she made a point of retreating to her bedroom to avoid seeing him
.

  But it wouldn’t be an issue today because he’d taken Rosie out on Thursday and wasn’t due to see her again until Wednesday when he’d pick her up from the nursery.

  Today it was my turn to spoil her – if I didn’t have to go to work. And that was a bloody big if.

  I turned away from the mirror, picked up my robe from the chair next to the bed and peered through the curtains. The sun was shining just as Rosie had said. It made a change since we were in the middle of one of the wettest and coldest Novembers for years.

  My bedroom was at the front of the house and the view was of a row of almost identical terraced houses opposite. All of them were worth in excess of half a million pounds, which seemed extraordinary to me given that Peckham used to be one of the grimiest and most dangerous parts of South London. But having undergone massive regeneration and steady gentrification, the area was now considered a trendy place to live, attracting families and city workers alike.

  For me, Peckham was both familiar and convenient. The house was a short walk from the railway station and from there it was just a ten-minute train ride to London Bridge and the offices of the The Post, the evening newspaper that served the capital. I’d worked there for the past five years.

  Peckham Rye Common was also close by and that was where I’d planned to take Rosie today. I really didn’t want to disappoint her because Mum was right about me not spending enough quality time with her. I definitely needed to make more of an effort, put Rosie before everything else and stop jumping to the tune of the news desk.

  I came to a decision suddenly. If the news desk asked me to go to work I’d tell them it wasn’t possible. I’d say I’d already made plans and they couldn’t be changed.

  They’d no doubt be surprised because I loved the job and could usually be relied on to come in at short notice. But this time they’d just have to call up someone else, assuming they hadn’t done so already.

  ‘You took your time getting back to me,’ Scott Granger said. ‘I was about to get someone else to cover a story that we’ve just got wind of.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s what you’ll have to do, boss,’ I said. ‘It’s my day off and I’ve made plans.’

  ‘Well I suggest you change them or else you’re going to be sorely disappointed. This is huge.’

  ‘That’s what you always say when you’re short of people.’

  ‘I mean it this time, Bev. You’ve got first call on this because you’re the paper’s crime reporter. So I want you on it from the start. And trust me it’s right up your street.’

  Granger was The Post’s senior news editor and an expert in the art of manipulation. He was an old-school newspaperman who knew there was one sure way to get a reporter – any reporter – to do his bidding, and that was to dangle the carrot of a cracking yarn.

  ‘So, just out of curiosity, what’s the story?’ I said.

  I could imagine him smiling on the other end of the line, thinking he’d got me hooked and that all he had to do was reel me in. He’d been my mentor after all. Had helped nurture my career since I got the job at The Post. He was also the one who had nicknamed me The Ferret, because of my uncanny ability to ferret our stories.

  Three years ago he appointed me to the position of the paper’s first ever female crime reporter. And in the pub afterwards he told me: ‘You got the job because, like me, the news is embedded in your psyche, Bev. It’s part of your DNA. You can’t resist the excitement that comes from being the first to tell people what bad things are happening all around them. It’s like the rush you get from a sniff of the white stuff.’

  He’d been right, of course. From an early age I’d been fascinated by the news and how it was covered and disseminated. Before I left school I knew exactly what career path I wanted to follow. It wasn’t easy, given my background, but I’d managed to pull it off, and like every other hack I knew I was now addicted to the chase.

  ‘There’s been a murder,’ Granger was saying. ‘And the victim is none other than Megan Fuller.’

  It took a second for the name to register.

  ‘Do you mean the actress?’ I said.

  ‘Yep, although as you know that’s not her only claim to fame. As well as being a former TV soap star she was also the ex-wife of a well-known London gangster.’

  ‘Christ,’ I blurted. ‘Danny Shapiro.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Granger said, as though he’d scored a point. ‘Danny fucking Shapiro – the villain with the film star looks who took over a huge criminal empire after his notorious father got banged up.’

  I felt a surge of adrenaline. Granger wasn’t far wrong in saying the story was huge. Danny Shapiro was one of the country’s highest-profile criminals. His gang operated south of the Thames and was involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, extortion, money laundering and even kidnapping. He and Megan Fuller had been tabloid fodder throughout their four-year marriage which had ended in divorce fourteen months ago.

  ‘Megan was found stabbed to death at her home in Balham earlier this morning,’ Granger said. ‘We had a tip from a paramedic who attended. So we’ve got the jump on everyone else.’

  I was suddenly oblivious to the ache in my head as my mind filled with a flood of questions that I doubted Granger would know the answers to. I was certain the story would have created a buzz in the newsroom. The headline writers would already be focused on the paper’s early edition front page, and the online team were probably about to publish something on the website. Then it’d be out there, leading to a full-blown media firestorm.

  ‘So do you still want me to pass the story on to one of your colleagues?’ Granger said. ‘Only I can’t piss around. We need to move on this.’

  From where I stood in the kitchen I could see Rosie at the table in the adjoining dining room. She was busy drawing pictures on a pad with big colourful crayons. My mother sat next to her, but her eyes were on me and her brow was scrunched up in a frown. I could tell she knew what was coming.

  I felt my resolve dissipate and the guilt rear up inside me again as I turned away from them and said into the phone, ‘Okay give me the details and Megan Fuller’s address. I’ll get right on it.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Granger said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ETHAN CAIN

  The girl had said she was eighteen, but Ethan Cain wasn’t sure he believed her. She looked younger. Much younger.

  It hadn’t stopped him spending the night with her, though. She was mature enough to know exactly how to please him.

  And even if she was underage there was no danger of anyone in authority ever finding out. The girl would be too scared to let slip that she’d been shagged by a thirty-four-year-old man at his flat in Wandsworth.

  She was still asleep on the bed and she hadn’t stirred when he’d got up just now to have a piss. It didn’t surprise him. Last night she’d consumed copious amounts of vodka and had sniffed at least five lines of coke. So she’d probably be comatose for a while yet.

  But that was okay because he wasn’t in a hurry to get shot of her. It was Saturday and he didn’t have to go to work. Besides, he was already aroused at the prospect of fucking her again, maybe a couple of times this morning if he could manage it.

  After emerging from the en-suite bathroom, Cain sat naked in the armchair next to the bed and lit his first cigarette of the day. It was always the best, the most satisfying, and he savoured the acrid warmth that filled his throat.

  He could see himself in the stand-up mirror and decided that it wasn’t a pretty sight. He looked far better with clothes on. At least they concealed his paunch and the man boobs that had begun sprouting up after he’d stopped working out. He wasn’t grossly overweight, just bigger and softer than he wanted to be.

  He switched his gaze back to the girl. The duvet had been pushed aside to reveal her lying spread-eagled on her back. She looked good enough to eat and it was all he could do not to get back on the bed and feast on her b
are flesh.

  She had lush black hair, small pert tits and skin as smooth as porcelain. It struck him that she was a picture of innocence. But this made him smile because she was far from innocent.

  Ania Kolak – if that was her real name – was among the thousands of Eastern European sex workers who had poured into London in recent years. She was Polish and had told him that she hoped one day to embark on a career as an actress.

  He’d heard it all before. Most of them believed that selling their bodies was a means to an end and that after a few years they’d have enough money saved to be able to fulfil their dreams. But in most cases that never happened. Instead they ended up as drug addicts or pathetic zombies drained of every last drop of self-respect.

  Not that he gave a toss. As far as he was concerned it served them right. They didn’t deserve his or anyone else’s pity.

  He did have some sympathy for those who were forced into sex slavery, though. Their plight was indeed tragic. But all the women and girls he’d been with had clearly become prostitutes out of choice. Many of them had told him they actually enjoyed being on the game. It meant they had enough cash to live well in one of the world’s most expensive cities.

  It still amazed him how much some of them earned. The high-class escorts who worked the West End often raked in thousands of pounds in a single night.

  Ania wasn’t in that league, not yet anyway, and her fee for an entire night was five hundred pounds. Cain was just glad he didn’t have to pay her and the others out of his own pocket. He would never have been able to afford it.

  As it was he was lucky. The girls and drugs were the perks he enjoyed for being on Danny Shapiro’s payroll. Danny, like his father before him, ran the biggest prostitution racket this side of the Thames. But it was only part of his empire, an empire that stretched across the whole of South London.

  He was, without doubt, the shrewdest villain in the capital and the most feared. Even the Russians, who controlled the West End, and the Albanians who ran most of North London, knew better than to try to muscle in on his territory. They did attempt it a couple of years ago and quickly came to regret it. Two of their top people were shot dead outside their homes in Kensington, and one of the casinos they operated up west was set on fire.