by Paul Gitsham
Warren conceded the point. He’d leave the questioning to the experts — besides which, his team were busy enough as it was; he didn’t really want them up half the night as well.
“By the way, I notice that you haven’t mentioned pimps yet — do the girls have them?”
Fairweather shook her head. “Not in the way I’m imagining you are thinking. The days of flashily dressed thugs standing on street corners, watching over the girls and taking their earnings and dealing out beatings are largely gone. That being said, many of the girls, Mel included, work for so-called ‘Escort Agencies’ that source clients online for them. They then take a cut of the girl’s earnings.”
“Do you know anything about Mel’s…agent? I ask because it’s possible that she knew her attacker. We found a can of pepper spray and a rape alarm buried in the bottom of her handbag. They don’t appear to have been readily available to her, suggesting that she wasn’t feeling threatened.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into the pepper spray. It used to be that the girls would carry flick knives. We managed to discourage that, but have agreed to turn a blind-eye to pepper spray or mace. The problem is, the girls can’t conceal a can of pepper spray the way they could a flick knife, so they get left at the bottom of their handbag.”
“And what about her agent?”
For the first time, since meeting, the PC looked uncomfortable.
“I think it’s unlikely that he’s responsible. He’s no knight in shining armour, but he is a sensible businessman and he looks after the girls on his books. We have an…understanding with him.”
Warren looked at her sternly.
“Be that as it may, Constable, one of his workers was beaten to within an inch of her life last night and might never regain consciousness. There is good reason to suspect that she knew her attacker and so I intend to interview this so-called agent and see if it generates any leads, relationship or no relationship.”
* * *
Constable Fairweather had a BlackBerry smartphone with a list of the contact details for most of the local ‘escort agencies’. Mel had worked for a local agency called the Discreet Companions Agency. It had a glossy website that advertised well-turned-out ladies of all ages, suitable for private dinner dates, business meetings and companionship. Prices were negotiable with the escort and subject to a booking and administration fee. No mention was made of any ‘extra services’.
“The agency is run by a Daryl Hedgecox as an apparently legitimate business. He supplies women on demand for social functions or dates. He charges a hefty upfront administration fee, then the girl negotiates her own terms with the client and pays about twenty-five per cent to him to remain on his books. The girls are freelancers and he refuses to engage in any discussions regarding ‘extra services’ that the girls may supply. That way he is insulated from any suggestions that he is living off immoral earnings. He pays his taxes and apparently encourages the girls to do likewise. He skirts pretty close to the wind, but on the face of it he’s a legitimate businessman.”
“And nobody has tried to close him down? There must be something you can get him on?”
Fairweather looked irritated. “Look, I realise that it seems as if we are giving him a free pass — and perhaps we are — but people like Daryl Hedgecox are far better than the alternative. He’s an intelligent man; he knows that if he treats his girls OK, doesn’t rip off his clients and pays his taxes, we’d rather he ran things than some of the other scumbags out there. He also helps the girls report any dodgy clients and keeps his own records of who can be trusted. He doesn’t deal in drugs and he doesn’t threaten the girls with violence. Like I said before, he’s no knight in shining armour, but he’s better than a lot of the alternatives.”
Warren nodded.
“I understand your argument and I’ll try not to step too hard on your toes. Nevertheless we need to work out exactly what happened to Mel last night and he could well provide clues. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
Fairweather still didn’t look entirely satisfied, but she clearly knew when to fight her battles.
“He’s probably still in bed at this time of the morning. He tends to keep the same hours as his girls. He lives just south of Cambridge. If we go now, we’ll probably still catch him before he gets up.”
“Always the best time,” Warren agreed. “I find folks aren’t at their sharpest when you’ve just woken them up.”
Chapter 33
After picking up Tony Sutton and filling him in on the way, the three police officers pulled into the large, semi-circular, gravel drive in front of Daryl Hedgecox’s palatial home.
“Christ, guv, we’re in the wrong business,” opined Tony Sutton as he craned his neck to get a good look at the mansion in front of them. Warren parked between a brand-new Range Rover and a classic Mercedes soft-top.
“He can’t have made all of his money in the escort business, surely?”
Fairweather shook her head. “Unlikely. Rumour has it, he bought a whole load of cheap houses when the market was just right and rented them to students. A few years ago he offloaded some of them at a huge profit. Where he got the initial capital from, we don’t know.”
Warren grunted. “I wonder if his neighbours know what he does for a living.”
“I doubt it very much. Apparently, Mr Hedgecox has wormed his way into the local community since moving here. He sits on all the local committees. He even applied for an Enhanced Criminal Records Check to become a member of the governing body at his daughter’s primary school. Seems he’d forgotten about an early conviction for selling hardcore pornography under the counter in his father’s video shop in his late teens. That put the kibosh on that ambition.” Fairweather smiled briefly.
Warren was relieved she still remembered that he was ultimately not the sort of person you wanted associated with local schools.
After walking up a short garden path, the officers found themselves standing on a covered porch between two carved sandstone lions flanking the door. Money can’t buy good taste, mused Warren.
Taking a deep breath, Warren pressed the doorbell. Deep inside the house a sonorous chime echoed. A few moments later, Warren depressed the button again. Finally, they heard a shuffling behind the door.
“Yeah? What is it? What do you want?”
The voice was rough-edged with sleep and irritation.
“Mr Hedgecox, it’s the police. Can we come in and ask you a few questions?”
Warren held his warrant card up to the door’s spyhole.
“No. Speak to my lawyer. I have nothing to say.”
“Well, you don’t even know what we’re here for, Mr Hedgecox, so how can you be so sure?”
“I’m a legitimate businessman. Speak to my lawyers if you wish to ask anything.”
Warren paused. “Are you quite sure about that, Mr Hedgecox? All we need to do is ask you a few questions as part of a routine enquiry. It’s your choice: either you invite us in and we do this all civilised and we’ll be on our way in a few minutes with nobody any the wiser. Or, we can return with an arrest warrant and blue flashing lights and those really annoying, deafening sirens that tell all of your neighbours for miles around that the respectable Mr Hedgecox has just had a visit from the Old Bill.
“Like I said, it’s your choice, Mr Hedgecox.”
For the next few seconds, all that the three officers could hear was muffled swearing. Eventually that subsided and was followed by the sound of heavy locks and chains being undone.
It was clear that they had woken him up, thought Warren with some satisfaction. The man in front of them had a dark, swarthy complexion, with heavy stubble. About six feet two inches and medium build, he wore a grey-and-black-striped felt dressing gown, with tufts of black chest hair visible, just below his neck. His shaved scalp made it impossible to place the age of the man; he could have been anything between thirty-five and fifty-five.
“I suppose you’d better come in, then,” grunted Hedgec
ox after introductions, leading the three officers into a large living room whose décor suggested a man with more money than taste. There was no question in Warren’s mind that had they been having this meeting thirty years ago, the wall above the fireplace would have been home to three china ducks positioned as if they were flying home.
Sitting down on an uncomfortable, rather firm leather sofa, Warren began, “I believe that you employ a young girl named Mel — short for Melanie.”
Hedgecox immediately raised a finger in correction. “I don’t employ anybody, Officer. I am merely involved in introducing girls that I know to clients who wish to spend time with those girls.”
“For which you charge a handsome fee,” Sutton pointed out.
Hedgecox shrugged. “I’m a legitimate businessman. I pay my taxes and do nothing illegal. The girls negotiate their own terms with a client.” He turned to Yvonne Fairweather. “Haven’t we been through this before, Officer? Don’t I do my best to co-operate with the police to keep the girls safe and ensure that rules are followed?”
Interrupting before Fairweather had a chance to speak, Warren interjected, “Your understanding with the authorities is none of my concern. What I want to know is what you know about this attack, which took place last night.” He showed the pimp the screen of his phone on which he had taken a photograph of Melanie Clearwater as she lay in the hospital bed.
The sudden intake of breath and the draining of blood from his face couldn’t be faked, decided Warren as he carefully observed the startled escort agent.
“Jesus…is that little Mel? What the hell happened?” The man’s voice shook. The photograph had left little to the imagination.
“All we know is that she was attacked last night with a piece of wood and left to die. Her handbag and emptied purse were found a few metres away over a fence. We want to know why.”
“Is she dead?”
Warren realised that the photograph was rather ambiguous on that score. The bandages and swelling and her grey pallor could easily have suggested a post-mortem photograph. Nevertheless, Warren saw no reason to lie. “Not quite.”
“Will she be OK?”
Credit to him for asking, decided Warren grudgingly.
“We don’t know. The next forty-eight hours are crucial. As for the long-term…” He shrugged.
Hedgecox shook his head slowly in disbelief. “Poor kid. Do you think it was a robbery? Seems a bit violent.”
Warren shrugged again. “We’re keeping an open mind, but you are right, it is violent. Most muggings are quick affairs. People get stabbed or injured all of the time, but as soon as the mugger has what they want it ends. But this was multiple blows to the head. We’re treating it as an attempted murder.”
“Where were you last night, Mr Hedgecox?” Tony Sutton had said little so far and now he leaned forward. From what Yvonne Fairweather had told them and Hedgecox’s reaction to the photograph none of the officers really suspected Hedgecox of being directly involved; nevertheless the perception that co-operation was in his best interest might help loosen his tongue even more.
As expected Hedgecox recoiled in surprise. “Woah, you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?” He turned to Fairweather. “Tell them. I’m just a businessman. As long as the girls turn up for meetings and don’t try and rip me off, we’re cool. I only arrange meetings with clients who contact me through the agency. I don’t have anything to do with what they do down on Truman Street — that’s their own business.”
“So where were you last night, between about ten and midnight?”
“Where I always am — down my brother’s club having a drink, waiting for phone calls from the girls. I can get you the address. I’m sure I’m on the security cameras.” He was clearly eager to please now and Warren decided to press home the advantage.
“Had Mel worked for you recently?”
Hedgecox’s brow furrowed as he thought hard.
“Not for a couple of weeks, no. She’s not the most popular of our girls, to be honest.”
“Can you be a little more precise? I’m told you pay your taxes, so presumably you must keep a record of each job.”
Hedgecox scowled briefly, before sighing and getting up.
“Yes, I keep detailed records on my laptop for my accountant.” As he walked over to a laptop sitting on the coffee table Warren asked him what he meant by Mel not being so popular.
“To be honest, she was a bit too skinny and young looking — sure, some guys like that sort of thing, but the majority of my business these days comes from lonely, middle-aged businessmen looking for a date or an escort to a business function. They want an attractive but respectable-looking woman in her thirties or forties. The sort of woman that if they are seen with in public will get them admiring glances, not suspicious stares. They don’t want a skinny young waif — too many questions.”
As he told them this he booted up the laptop and opened an Excel spreadsheet. Warren couldn’t help trying to look at the screen, but Hedgecox twisted the laptop away from him. “Not without a warrant, Chief Inspector,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll help you track down whoever hurt Mel, but you aren’t sniffing through my files.”
Warren shrugged non-committally. Hedgecox manipulated the track pad before clearing his throat. “Just as I thought. I last placed Mel with a client three weeks ago.” He smiled slightly. “The guy’s a regular. Never had any bother with him before.” He clicked the track pad again. “Feedback is clear. No complaints from him, feedback from Mel and other girls who’ve met him note nothing unusual — just your usual lonely, middle-aged man looking for a bit of company.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well, it depends how far you want to go back. She had a bit more work over the summer, with the tourists and, to be honest, before she lost so much weight. You’ve seen her, no doubt — stick-thin. She used to have a bit more meat on her bones.” He looked at Fairweather. “You remember, I’m sure. Bloody drugs, I’m guessing. At least she has the sense not to use them in front of the clients.”
The constable nodded her agreement. “If anything good can come of this, we may be able to wean her off them now she’s in hospital.”
“I’d like the name of that client, if you don’t mind, Mr Hedgecox.”
“No way.” He shook his head violently. “Not without a warrant. If word got out that I gave my clients’ details away to anyone who asked, I’d be out of business. We’re called ‘Discreet Companions’ for a reason. Besides which, this was three weeks ago. I doubt very much that he’s responsible.” He folded his arms resolutely.
Warren eyed him for several long seconds before turning to Sutton.
“DI Sutton, could you pop back to the station and get a warrant drafted? Constable Fairweather and I will stay here and keep Mr Hedgecox company.”
Sutton stood up. “Certainly, guv. Should I take your car or organise a lift?”
“I think the tax-payer can afford the petrol. Why don’t you phone the station and ask for a patrol car and a driver? Tell them to use the lights and the siren — we don’t want them to get stuck in traffic and waste any more of Mr Hedgecox’s time.”
Hedgecox slumped back on his chair with a look of disgust. It was clear that he was weighing up the potential damage to his business from naming a client and the very real damage to his personal reputation from having a police car with lights and sirens parked on his front driveway. In the end personal reputation won over any slight risk to his business and he grudgingly wrote down the mobile-phone number and contact details of the client.
“It’s likely that this gentleman will have nothing to do with this and have an alibi, but I assume that we can rely on your discretion to keep this between us, Mr Hedgecox?” Warren and his two colleagues were on their way out of the front door, having got what they came for.
Hedgecox snorted. “He won’t hear anything from me.” His expression turned uncomfortable, before he addressed Constable Fairweather. “I’d lik
e to send Mel some flowers. Maybe pop in and see the poor kid. She’s had a hard life — she didn’t deserve this shit. Where is she?”
He seemed sincere; nevertheless Warren was relieved when Fairweather shook her head. “I’m sorry, Daryl. She’s a vulnerable young woman. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to divulge that sort of information.”
He looked a little non-plussed, before nodding his head. “I understand — in that case, could you hold on a moment?” Before they could reply he darted back inside again, before emerging a few seconds later with a bulging leather wallet. Without pausing he opened it and peeled off a pile of ten-pound notes, pressing them into the startled Yvonne Fairweather’s hand.
“Buy her some flowers, will you, and use the rest to get her anything she needs? Judging by the photos, she may be in some time. No need to tell her who it’s from.”
And that’s why police work will never get dull, thought Warren. You really do see every facet of human life.
Chapter 34
Three hours later, Jones and Sutton pulled up outside the bungalow of Mr David Woods, Melanie Clearwater’s last client through Daryl Hedgecox’s Discreet Companions Agency. A search of the Police National Computer had revealed no records and they’d relied on the mobile-phone company to provide them with an address. With no evidence that the man had done anything wrong, the officers had no justification for pulling him in and so had decided an informal interview was the best approach.
Parking outside the house, the two officers started up the driveway.
“Something’s not quite right, guv,” muttered Sutton quietly.
“I feel it, too. I’m sure we’re missing something.” He looked around at the neatly manicured garden. It seemed as though Mr Woods was home; his car sat on the drive. Again something didn’t quite seem right.
The two officers looked at each other. With nothing more to go on than a vague feeling of uneasiness, Warren couldn’t justify calling in reinforcements. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, exchanged glances with Tony Sutton and counted down from three before ringing the doorbell.