by James Nally
‘So I suppose you’d legalise prostitution as well?’
‘Well, it works in Amsterdam,’ he said. ‘Two prostitute murders in the last five years. How many has there been in London in that time? A dozen?’
I nodded. ‘At least.’
Fintan flicked his cigarette against a wall. ‘How would you wipe out vice then, detective?’
‘I think the problem is we prosecute the girls for soliciting and let the johns off scot-free. I’ve never understood that.’
‘That’s because men are dogs who’d fuck anything and we might as well just accept that fact, and it’s up to the sisterhood not to go out there and let us succumb to our base needs.’
‘You think that?’
‘I’m just interpreting the official, legal stance.’ He smiled. ‘If all womankind banded together and took the male path, the world would turn into one huge brothel.’
‘Ooh, very impressive. Who said that?’
‘Some repressed Russian, probably.’
We turned right into Summerfield Road, the heart of the Brownswood red-light zone. There wasn’t a street girl to be seen.
‘You think maybe the murders have spooked them away?’ I asked.
‘You’re joking, aren’t you? They’re most likely delighted that there’s less competition. If we take this next left, Wilberforce, there’s an off-licence at the end. Sometimes, a bunch of the girls share a bottle of vodka out front, have a little boogie round a transistor radio. The locals keep complaining about it.’
‘Christ, that sounds like something out of our childhood. No wonder they’ve resorted to crack.’
Wilberforce proved as slavishly middle class as it sounded. Suddenly, thirty feet ahead of us in the matt-grey dusk, the passenger door of a beige parked car flung open. A black woman in her twenties leaned out and emptied her mouth onto the pavement with a repulsed ‘gaah’. She’d barely swung her feet back in when the car engine gunned and it roared off. Neither of us inspected the area she’d orally bombed; we both assumed it wasn’t vomit.
‘Christ, she must have been rattling so badly that she blew him, there and then, without a jonnie,’ said Fintan, shaking his head in wonder. ‘She couldn’t even hang on for the three-minute drive to Homebase.’
Further up the pavement, a skinny, pale frame of indeterminate gender fidgeted and twitched shiftily. With short brown hair, cadaverous face, loose white sweatshirt and shapeless jeans, the person’s sex remained a genuine mystery until we got to within ten feet.
‘Are you planning to propose or something?’ came a gruff voice and I found myself thinking, My God, that’s a woman. She raised her chin defiantly and glared at me, head wobbling in indignation.
‘Oh sorry,’ I stammered.
‘Are you a fucking pig or what?’
‘I must apologise for my brother,’ shmoozed Mr WD40, ‘he’s only just over from Ireland.’
‘Oh right, a bit special, is he?’
‘I think that’s a fair assessment.’
She looked me up and down. ‘I don’t just fuck anyone you know, you daft cunt.’
Fintan tittered. ‘Strangely enough, you’re not the first woman to say that to him this week.’
She turned to Fintan. ‘You want business then or not? Where’s your motor?’
‘Actually, I’m on foot, and I’m a reporter with the Sunday News. Fintan Lynch.’
He held out his hand. She backed away.
‘Don’t worry, I’m just doing some background research. I don’t need names or photos or anything like that.’
‘How do I know you’re not gonna drive back down here later and photograph me after I’ve spoken to you. I know what you lot are like.’
I had to smile; it wasn’t often you saw a street prostitute assuming the moral high ground. She enjoyed it too.
‘I’m happy to pay you for your time,’ he said.
She took a good bead on his eyes and sniffed. ‘I’m starving.’
‘There’s a bagel place on Seven Sisters Road, let’s get some and head into the park.’
‘How much are you gonna give me?’
‘Depends on how good your information is.’
‘You’re not mugging me off, Mr Reporter. Go away.’
‘Okay, twenty quid.’
‘Up front?’
He laughed. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you …’
‘Jo.’
‘Jo, it’s just that we never pay anyone up front.’
‘Forty then. I’m not leaving here for less than forty.’
‘Alright, forty.’
‘If you don’t pay, I’ll say you tried to rape me. Embarrass the shit out of both of you.’
‘Salmon and cream cheese, okay?’
By the time we reached Finsbury Park’s rotting, birdshit-spattered picnic tables, Jo had already demolished her bagel. As we took the bench opposite hers, Fintan placed his cigarettes in the middle and said, ‘Help yourself.’
‘I don’t smoke,’ said Jo, ‘or do drugs. I get pissed most nights, mind.’
‘Is that a Geordie accent?’ he said, happy to lead the informal interview.
‘Middlesbrough, but I’ll let you off this once.’
‘Is that where you started doing this then?’
She nodded. ‘I used to see the girls over the border – that’s what they call the rough part of town, north of the train station. They’d be standing there, outside their houses at half four every evening, waiting for the men finishing their shifts at the industrial estate. I swore I’d never do it.’
She sighed. ‘One lunchtime, I was having a drink at the Zeppelin, a pub near the station, when one of the girls asked me to come out and take the registration number of this fancy jeep ’cos she hadn’t seen it in the area before. I went out, memorised it. While I’m standing there, the girl gets back out of the jeep, comes over and says, “he wants to talk to you”. I laughed and said “tell him to fuck off, like”, and she said, “go over, he’s loaded”. Ten minutes later, I was back in the pub with forty quid. It’s the money I got hooked on.’
‘How did you end up down here?’
‘I had a boyfriend who got hooked on the money as well. He wouldn’t leave me alone. After a couple of trips to A and E, I fucked off out of it.’
‘Wouldn’t it be safer to work in a sauna than on the streets?’
‘They’re all controlled by vicious bastards. I’ve had enough of being controlled by vicious bastards.’
‘Why not King’s Cross? More trade. CCTV. Liaison officers, free clinic, soup kitchens …’
‘Don’t you fucking listen? I want to be completely independent. I don’t need someone to buy johnnies for me, or give me soup. Anyway, it’s safer here. It’s like Middlesbrough; you get to know the punters. And some of us work together, keep an eye out for each other.’
‘How does that work?’
‘Same as back home. We work in pairs, memorise any car numbers that we don’t recognise. I’ve just been stood with a lass who’s gone off in a beige Datsun Cherry and I’ve got his number.’
‘Memorised?’
‘My brain’s not what it was.’ She grinned, bearing medieval teeth. She leaned to her left, squeezed her hand into the right front pocket of her jeans, pulled out a piece of paper and a blue bookies’ pen.
‘I write ’em down now,’ she said, unfolding the sheet. As she flattened it out on the rain-blackened table top, I could see at least ten scrawled plate numbers, each one accompanied by a car make, model and initials.
‘Do the initials stand for a girl?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘Do you time and date them?’
‘I’m not a fuckin’ traffic cop.’
I found myself worrying why she’d taken such a dislike to me. Maybe she could sense I was a cop. She had that kind of raw animal intuition. Of course she’d warmed to Fintan – one shameless whore to another – so I happily let him resume control.
‘We’re looking into the mu
rder of Liz Little, the girl found on Brownswood the other night.’
‘Posh, were she then? Went to a good school? ’Cos you don’t give a shit when it happens to one of us street girls.’
‘Our interest isn’t driven by the victim,’ he lied, ‘so much as who we believe carried out the killing. It’s really important that we catch this guy, Jo. He’s a wrong’un, a real fucking brute.’
She chewed her bottom lip and nodded. Knew the type. I tried to imagine living with violent sexual murder as an everyday occupational hazard.
‘Do you think any of the girls knew her?’
‘I’ve been through this with the police,’ she said quietly. ‘How would any of the girls have known her? She never worked here.’
‘Did anyone see anything suspicious around Brownswood that night?’
She shook her head.
‘Were any of the girls around between three and six that morning, who may have made a note of a vehicle acting strangely?’
‘They’re mostly crack heads at that time, love. Those girls don’t know what day of the fucking week it is.’
Fintan dug out a newspaper from his briefcase and laid it out in front of her. ‘What about this girl, Valerie Gillespie. She worked down here for four or five nights back in December.’
‘Until what?’
‘Until she got killed and chopped up, possibly by the same guy.’
‘I’m good with faces,’ she said, unfazed. ‘I’ve never seen that one before.’
‘Could you show this picture to the other girls?’
‘Could you go down there and dish out a few blowjobs? You stick to your work, Mr Reporter, and I’ll stick to mine.’
Fintan sighed and leaned back, defeated. As he lit a fag, I had a thought.
‘You’ve taken the number of that beige Datsun Cherry, Jo. Who was going to take the number of the next car you got into?’
‘I can look after meself, thanks.’
‘How do you know you haven’t got into a car with a maniac? Because if you have, no one’s taken his details.’
‘I’m not desperate like most of the other girls. I make sure he’s a regular. And if he’s not, I know the signs.’
‘The signs?’
She turned to Fintan and chuckled dirtily. ‘I hope your pal here isn’t looking for fucking tips.’
Fintan laughed. ‘He can use all the tips he can get, Jo, for any kind of lay.’
‘Okay,’ she started, ‘firstly, I don’t know you, so that’s got my bells ringing. You’re not a regular. Now if you go on too much about paying me a fair amount and not ripping me off, that’s a warning sign. If you’re very quiet or if you try to choose where we go to do business, then I know I’m in trouble. But you know what the biggest sign of a psycho is?’
I wondered why she was addressing all this towards me.
‘If you’re not horny. If a guy’s horny, he wants one thing. Simple. And no guy will ever attack you after he’s come. You check it out. The violent bastards never fuck the girl first. So if you’re not horny, and I can tell within seconds, I’m getting out of your car, ’cos you’re looking for something else.’
‘You must’ve had some close shaves,’ said Fintan, taking out his wallet.
She smiled defiantly. ‘What you never hear about are the girls who fight back.’
As he peeled off two twenties, he asked: ‘Jo, how many of these handwritten sheets of car plates have you got?’
‘Dozens,’ she said, snatching the two bank notes from his hand and the sheet from mine, ‘going back eighteen months.’
‘I’d love to get a look at those,’ he said.
‘I bet you would –’ she smiled ‘– but they’re my little nest egg.’
She turned, marched out of the park and directly into the off-licence across the road.
‘Ah well,’ said Fintan, ‘at least we know she can only drink herself to death tonight.’
Chapter 19
Arsenal, North London
Tuesday, April 6, 1993; 21.00
On the way home, we slipped into the refreshingly unfussy Plimsoll pub on St Thomas Road to discuss a more pressing matter.
‘What the hell is Da doing over here?’ I asked.
‘He says it’s best that we don’t know, which has my alarm bells ringing, I’ve got to admit.’
‘Ma won’t pick up, which is worrying the hell out of me. She knows something, I can tell. It’s got to be something to do with the “beardos”, hasn’t it?’ I said, using our code for Da’s pals in Sinn Fein/IRA.
Fintan leaned in closer. ‘I asked him, straight out, “is what you’re doing here going to land me or Donal in the shit?” and he swore on his mam’s grave that it wouldn’t. And you know when he swears on that, he means it. All he’ll say is it’s political but nothing dangerous or illegal.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It’s got to be connected to these secret peace talks. What else can it be?
‘Why don’t they put him in a hotel then?’
Fintan sighed and raised conciliatory eyebrows. ‘He says he promised Ma he’d stay with us … and that he’d try to patch things up with you.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘At least give him a chance Donal. Jesus. He’s a proud man.’
He fidgeted. ‘Okay, failing that, try for Ma’s sake.’
I shrugged.
‘Good man,’ he said, ‘I tell you what though, he’s useless around the house. He’s driving me mad. He keeps peering over my shoulder when I’m cooking and telling me ‘that’s done’ or ‘that needs another minute’. He leaves everything out, and open. There are currently three butchered cartons of sour milk sitting on the worktop.’
‘Whatever he’s up to, Fintan, he can’t stay at ours. I’m a policeman, for God’s sake. Some of his beardo pals would have me shot.’
‘Yeah, but like I told you, he says he can’t go anywhere where he has to book in.’ Fintan sighed. ‘Look, I’m working on it. I should have something sorted by tomorrow, so you just need to act civilised to him tonight, okay?’
I shrugged again.
He finished his pint. ‘Come on, let’s head. I don’t like leaving the old fecker there on his own. There’s a good chance he’ll burn the place down.’
‘You go. I’m staying here.’
‘Ah, Donal …’
‘I just can’t talk to him,’ I said, ‘and that’s that.’
I picked up a couple of bottles of wine on the way home, and took my time doing it.
Da had always been an Olympic-standard drinker and sleeper, rarely making it beyond 11pm. As the church bells chimed midnight, I guessed that the coast would be clear and strolled home.
I crept silently through the front door into the hallway. Now I just needed to open both bottles and make it to my bedroom.
‘Well,’ came his standard taciturn greeting from the sitting room.
My heart bulged and that aching dread returned. What if he’s pissed? What if he starts?
‘Well,’ I said back, and walked on to the kitchen. I opened a bottle and turned to find him standing at the door.
‘You’re after getting fierce stout,’ he said, pulling at his shirt collar, ‘around the old neck and the face there.’
‘Gee, thanks, Da. I’m guessing you haven’t changed a bit. More’s the pity.’
The one thing I inherited from him is a complete inability to disguise emotions. His eyes smouldered. God, he hated my guts.
‘Fintan was telling me about your manhunt. This Conlon fella from Offaly. Any luck?’
‘We haven’t even verified he’s a real person yet,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I know a lot of people back home. I could make a few calls for you. If it’d help, like.’
‘You helping the British police? Wouldn’t that be collaborating with the enemy?’
Those eyes blazed.
‘His name rings a bell,’ he said. ‘I just can’t put a finger on it. And
he sounds like someone that needs to be put away.’
I felt my resolve sag. He’s a proud man. At least give him a chance.
‘Fintan’s got a piece going in the Leinster Express tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Hopefully that anonymous Garda will get in touch.’
‘I hope so,’ he said.
Go now, my brain screamed, that’s enough peace and reconciliation for one night.
‘I was on the plane yesterday, watching the safety briefing,’ he said. ‘The woman says about the oxygen masks, always fit your own before helping a child. It got me thinking. I got married late. I was set in me ways. I always thought that I needed to sort out all the things in my life first, and once I’d done that I’d still have time to fix everything else, you know, later.’
I tried not to look confused.
He sighed. ‘We’re not that different, you know, Donal.’
My bitterness laughed before I could stop it.
‘Your job,’ he said, ‘it’s about getting justice, isn’t it? Helping the small man stand up against the bully?’
I nodded. ‘Sometimes.’
‘When I first went to Belfast in the sixties, Catholics couldn’t get jobs. They couldn’t get housing. Even though they were the majority, they weren’t represented in councils or in parliament. I wanted to help the small man against the bully. Like you.’
‘One minor difference, Da. I don’t support terrorism.’
‘Civil rights is all we wanted, like the blacks in America. Things got out of hand, I agree. But I won’t walk past someone getting bullied. And neither will you.’
I wished I’d poured a glass. I felt parched. Right on cue, he looked down at the open bottle of wine in my hand.
He looked back up, his smile pitying me. ‘When you’re Irish and you give up on religion, or it gives up on you, you’re left with an awful lot of space to fill. Some people spend their whole lives trying to fill that space and they can’t. I found my cause, Donal, whether you agree with it or not. I hope you find yours.’
Those dreams I’d been having about him flashed through my mind. ‘Fintan and I both know this famous cause of yours has just landed you deep in the shit. So spare me the lecture about how to live my life. All I want from you is reassurance that you’re not going to drag us into the shit with you.’