by T S O'Rourke
‘City Slickers Escort Agency, Jeanie speaking. What can we do to you?’ she said seductively.
Carroll could hear a faint voice on the other end of the line, and Jeanie nodded in response to whatever questions were being asked.
‘Yes, we can have someone call over to you. It’s £150 for one hour, all inclusive, or £500 for a night. We’ll need your credit card number in advance, and we’ll need to ring you back to check the number, okay?’
Carroll looked around the room. It was sparsely decorated and had two other doors leading off from it. Carroll knew one to be a toilet. He wanted to find out what was behind the other one. Jeanie was still busy on the phone as Carroll walked over and opened the door.
Inside, a young woman lay naked on a bed, while another performed oral sex on her. Neither seemed to notice that Carroll had opened the door. They seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously. Jeanie caught Carroll by the arm and pulled him back from the doorway, closing the door.
‘You’ll have to pay if you want to watch that, Detective Carroll,’ she said. Dan thought that he wouldn’t mind paying to watch it for a little while. It looked wonderfully sexy, and he could already feel a presence in his trousers, as his penis began to extend. Slightly red-faced, he turned to Jeanie.
‘Not for now, thanks. We just need the details of Isabella’s last jobs – contact numbers, addresses and all that....’
Grant looked over at Carroll. He hadn’t gone over to the door when Carroll had opened it, so he wasn’t aware that Carroll had seen anything unusual. Even though Jeanie had said he would have to pay. Grant seemed a little distracted today, Carroll thought, sitting on Jeanie’s desk.
‘How was she killed?’ Jeanie asked. ‘Was it just some sort of accident or overdose?’
‘She was murdered and mutilated. We’ll need any information you might have on her address and any family she might have in the area.’ Grant said.
‘She doesn’t have any family in England – you see she’s Italian – she’d only been over here about a month before she started working for me,’ Jeanie said.
‘And when did she start working for you?’
‘About two months ago – she has a flat up in Highbury or Canonbury. I’m not really sure – we don’t keep records of those things...’
‘Well, we’ll need your help to try and trace her family, okay?’ Carroll said.
‘I’ll ask the girls if they know any more than I do...’ Jeanie said, still trying to come to terms with the fact that one of her girls had been murdered whilst out on a job. Suddenly a thought struck her. Hadn’t she heard of another working girl being killed on the job recently? Somewhere in the Islington area, too? She decided to ask Carroll, to confirm what she was thinking.
‘This is the second killing in the area, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not at liberty to discuss any other cases with you, ma’am,’ Carroll replied, trotting out the old and well worn police line used on busy-bodies. Only Jeanie wasn’t your average busy-body. No – Jeanie was a valuable link in a chain of events that could help to catch whoever was responsible for these gruesome murders. And he knew that he had no right to brush off her question in so light a manner.
‘We,’ Carroll hesitated, questioning his judgement, ‘had another girl turn up in the same way last week – she was cut open like an envelope. Whoever killed Isabella, killed the first girl – that’s why it’s so important that you help us in our inquiry. You see, if we can get a good line on who might’ve done this, well, we have a good chance of stopping what could turn into a serial killer. Do you understand?’
Jeanie nodded, unsure as to whether she actually did understand. It all seemed so far from the dream-like world she had come to know over the two years she had been managing, and on the odd occasion working for, the City Slickers Escort Agency. The times when she just sat there motionless and staring off into space while the girls went off on a job – they seemed to all blend into one right now, as they always had. She had never expected that one of the girls might never return from a job. Sure, she’d had her fair share of fat-lips – not that there was anything fair about a client slapping you across the face and refusing to pay. No, but it was par for the course. It was to be expected to a greater or lesser degree, and that was what she accepted. No more, no less. It came with the job.
Poor Isabella had come to the City Slickers Escort Agency with no experience whatsoever. Jeanie had taken her to one side and explained the way the business worked. £150 for an hour, straight sex with condom, and anything else could be worked out on a personal basis. She had used the example of a client she regularly had to explain her point. For £200, she’d let him piss into her shoes, and then lick her inner thighs, before giving himself one off the wrist. It was easy money, she had told Isabella. It was just a matter of knowing how far you could take it with each punter. It didn’t take Isabella long to find her feet in the business – hovering above her head, as Jeanie had joked on the odd occasion. She did the job and there were no complaints. One hundred percent satisfaction. What more could you ask from a professional? And now poor Isabella was dead.
Chapter 14
Henry Young was in a rather good mood, as usual. For someone who made a living out of opening up dead bodies and weighing their entrails, he seemed pretty content.
You couldn’t say that about very many people in the business. At least not in Henry’s business. Always one with a joke or a pun, Henry was getting his table and cadaver in order, while he waited for Carroll and Grant to arrive. They had fixed the ‘opening time’ as Henry liked to put it, for 3.30 PM, but it was now 3.45. He didn’t seem overtly worried – the dead have plenty of time, he thought, and this particular corpse was going nowhere.
As he waited, Henry flicked through the report of the last similar murder victim on whom he had done a post mortem. Joanne McCrae – her details and his report lay on the slab before him. The marks he could see on the new corpse, which lay there waiting to be examined, were uncannily similar to those detailed in Joanne McCrae’s file. The more he looked at the file, and then at Isabella, the more he wanted to get started to prove to himself that it was the same guy, the same Modus Operandi.
Grant arrived at 3.50, apologising for Carroll’s absence, and informed Henry that he would soon be there. He’d had one little errand to do before he could get down to the morgue. Dr. Young didn’t seem to mind.
‘It looks like it’s the same guy from a first glance at the entry wounds, Detective Grant,’ Henry said.
‘Call me Samuel, please. Henry, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Henry. If you look here, Samuel, you’ll see the puncture wounds at the top of the abdomen,’ he said pointing at the torn flesh on the cadaver in front of him. ‘It’s looking like the same sort of knife that was used on the last woman you brought in here a week or so ago – Joanne McCrae....’
‘We think it’s the same guy....’
‘So do I, detective. So do I. If you can see here,’ he said pointing at the corpse again, ‘the serrated knife or blade that I told you about in the McCrae case – it’s virtually identical. Either it’s the same murder weapon, or the guy wants it to look like it is – and murderers aren’t that smart, Samuel, are they?’
‘Not generally,’ Grant agreed.
Carroll arrived at 4 PM and bustled through the corridors until he found the examination room. He entered gingerly.
‘So, what’s the story, Henry? Is it the same guy? Same style?’ Carroll looked anxious for it to be so. The last thing that they needed were two nutters wandering the city with knives in their paws and hate in their hearts. No prostitute would be safe if there was more than one guy at it. It seemed highly unlikely that there could be. Besides, the description that Elizabeth Gardener had given them matched the general description that Noel Harrigan’s guys down at forensics had given them. It was the same guy all right, and Carroll knew it.
‘It appears to be the same type of weapon, at any rate. Shall we get start
ed?’
A succession of nods persuaded Dr. Henry Young that they should.
Reaching up above him, Henry switched on the microphone that dangled above Isabella Visi’s lifeless body. For the benefit of the tape, he read out the case number, the date and time, followed by the victim’s name.
‘Right, gentlemen. From initial examination it appears that the subject was murdered with a long knife, partially serrated. That would account for the ripping and tearing marks in the upper abdomen. Once the knife had pierced and ripped the skin, then it must’ve been easier to cut her open. The victim appears to have ligature marks on her neck, which also appears to be bruised. From the state that the body was found in, I would say that the victim was alive when the first incision was made, but died shortly afterwards from loss of blood. The aorta has been severed, and that would account for her death.’
Henry reached up and flicked off the microphone. ‘Well, anything you’d like to know or add to that?’
‘Was she, I mean, had she had sex before she was killed?’ Carroll asked.
‘Just a moment,’ Henry said, flicking through the report that had come with the corpse from the forensics lab. ‘It appears that she did have sex with at least three men that day. I take it that Isabella here was a prostitute, or a least a very popular woman....’
‘Right first time, Henry – an escort,’ Carroll said, turning to his partner. ‘Did you sort out the raid on The Bulldog with Jones?’
‘Yeah, he said we could have four uniforms and that was it,’ Grant said.
‘We’ll need a damned sight more than four fuckin’ uniforms if we’re gonna be arresting Mr. Popular tonight....’ Carroll replied.
‘Do you need any more information from me, boys? Because if you don’t, I’d like to get properly started on this examination. It’s quarter past four and I’ve got to be out of here by half five at the latest – and I’ve got to get two reports written up....’ Henry said.
‘What’s the rush? I’ve seen you working here until ten at night, Henry – you got yourself a hot date or something?’ Carroll inquired.
‘I’m going to the Opera if you must know,’ Henry said.
‘I’d never have thought you were into that shit, Henry!’ Carroll smiled.
‘Leave the guy alone, Dan, he’s got taste in music – that’s all – none of your fuckin’ diddley-idle rubbish,’ Grant said.
‘But the fuckin’ Opera! Well, there’s no accounting for taste, Henry....’
‘Actually I’m going with a lady-friend who just happens to like going to the Opera – I hate that sort of music, if you must know – but hey – a man’s gotta do....’
‘So, it’s for a good cause then?’ Carroll interrupted.
‘What greater cause is there,’ Henry said, patting himself on the crotch.
Grant thought that it seemed sorely out of place, patting yourself on the crotch and talking about sex whilst a murdered prostitute lay naked and opened like a set of barbecued ribs behind them. Besides, he wanted to get going. He’d had enough of the conversation and was beginning to feel uneasy.
‘Come on, Dan, let’s get out of here and let Henry get back to his work – he’s got a lot to do. Right, Henry?’ Grant said, looking over at the young pathologist, who held a scalpel in his hands.
‘Yeah, I’ve got a lot to do. I suppose you two are finished for the day?’
‘We’ll be working while you’re watching that fat lady tickle her tonsils, pal. Some of us have to work – you know....’ Carroll said, thinking ahead to the raid that they were due to carry out on The Bulldog in search of Mike Taylor.
Grant led the way out past the storage facility, where Carroll had recently threatened to dislodge his breakfast on seeing the trolley-bound corpses through the wire-glassed windows in the swing doors. There’s no dignity in death, Carroll thought, as he bravely glanced through the self-same window, only to see a similar sight. Rubbery cadavers, devoid of colour, devoid of life. Specimens waiting to be opened up by Henry and his boys. Coronary cases, stabbings, shootings, hangings, poisonings and any manner of unusual death was apt to be hauled up in front of Henry’s expert eye, that the State may determine whether there should be an investigation into the circumstances of the death. It wasn’t always completely obvious that someone was murdered.
Carroll remembered a case Henry had worked on that was very odd indeed. A pensioner had fallen over in the shower and had knocked himself unconscious – or at least that’s what it looked like – only this guy had died – and there was no heart attack – nothing that would point to natural causes or misadventure. Carroll and his old partner, Lewis, who had just recently retired, had been called in to investigate the death. It had only taken a couple of days before the forensics guys found that the old man had a piece of glass in his brain. It turned out that the man’s wife had found him unconscious in the shower and had pushed a piece of glass into one of his veins. He never regained consciousness, and died less than a day later, whilst the doctors were trying to find out what was wrong with him. It had only been a minute shard of glass – but one that was big enough to kill him. Whether she had killed him for the insurance or because he had a history of beating her, was never established. It just turned into one of those cases that had to be eventually dropped. The old woman who had slipped the shard of glass into her husband’s vein claimed, in her defence, that she had broken a bottle in the shower the day before. Her brief was nothing short of a genius, and she had been released without further charge. The insurance company was not satisfied though, and she never got a penny. Still, she had managed to get rid of her husband. The press had a field day with her – making her something of a celebrity. Carroll wondered whether the same thing would happen to their present quarry. He thought not.
The journey back to the station house was interrupted by five or six press photographers and several reporters who were hanging around outside. The barrage of questions came like machine-gun fire from a trench. It was almost impossible to make any progress from their parked car.
‘Detective Carroll, you are working the Escort Killer’s case, aren’t you?’ one eager young reporter asked, having nudged his way through the pack of news-hounds.
Carroll smiled and kept on walking.
‘The two murders are related, Detective Carroll, aren’t they? Do you have any suspects yet? Have you brought anyone in for questioning? Do you think the killer will strike again?’ The questions seemed never-ending.
‘We think it’s the same guy who killed the two women, yes,’ Carroll said, almost sorry he’d opened his mouth. DCI Jones would surely have his head on a platter for that one.
‘Have you any advice for women who work in the sex industry, detective – what would you advise them to do?’ the young reporter continued.
‘I’d say keep records of where you’re going – and if possible stay off the game until this is all sorted out.’
‘Are you going to give out a description of the killer, detective?’ a young female reporter demanded, shoving her radio mike through the crowd of reporters.
‘Not as yet. We’ll keep you all posted on any developments as they occur....’ Carroll and Grant had reached the door to the station house and they were glad to get inside.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing talking to those reporters? Jones will have your ass for this, man! What were you thinking of?’ Grant demanded.
‘I was thinking of all those poor hookers out there who haven’t got a fuckin’ snowflake’s chance in hell of stopping this guy once he gets started on them. That’s what I was thinking of – okay?’
Carroll didn’t have to wait too long before Jones was on his case. He had been watching from his office window as Carroll and Grant pulled into the station car park.
‘You two – in my office – now,’ Jones said, scratching his jaw with obvious irritation. He had a mean look in his eye, and Grant wasn’t looking forward to an ear-bashing because Dan couldn’t keep his trap shut.
Once the two detectives were seated in front of Jones, he began.
‘Now, I distinctly remember telling you two to keep quiet on this case until you’d made some progress, and to refer any press queries on the case to me....’ Jones said.
‘It’s my fault, sir,’ Carroll interrupted. ‘We’ve just been down to the morgue and I was still feeling a little angry. I just thought that the escorts out there should know that this guy is a nutter – to take extra precautions and all that, you know?’ Carroll concluded, looking suitably remorseful for his actions.
‘Well, I can understand,’ Jones said, ‘but don’t let this happen again. The Chief Super is gonna give me all sorts of shit over this – so keep your mouths shut for the immediate future, okay?’
Grant couldn’t believe the way that Carroll had just played the DCI. Just as though he were a puppet on a string, responding to every little change of emotion that Dan had thrown at him. He’s a slippery bastard and no mistake, Grant thought, secretly admiring Carroll’s little piece of acting.