by LJ Ross
“I’ve heard of that one,” Lowerson said, unthinkingly, and drew a raised eyebrow from the woman seated next to him. “No—no! Not because I’ve ever…I just mean…I’ve heard the name before, that’s all.”
He fell silent, and they watched his neck slowly redden.
“Well, I suggest we check the place out, in a strictly professional capacity,” Ryan said. “I want to speak to some of the girls, if we can, and ask a few questions. Our contact said that, if we mentioned her name, we might be met with a bit less resistance.”
“I’m happy to go with you,” MacKenzie said.
Ryan braced himself for the next part of the conversation.
“Thanks, Denise. You know that, ordinarily, I wouldn’t want to draw gender lines in any of the work that we do. That being said, I think this could be a special case,” he said, and watched her eyes turn frosty.
God, help him.
“I think it’s fairly obvious that these establishments cater largely to a male audience,” he said. “I suspect we might look less conspicuous if myself and Jack or Frank go along, posing as punters.”
MacKenzie folded her arms, stared at him for a long moment, and then sighed.
“Though it pains me to admit it…you’re right. Though some women do go along to these places, I can’t say I know many,” she said. “And, if we’re hoping to find leads on where to find a certain kind of action, I’m the last person your average Pervy McPerverson would talk to. I wouldn’t be able to hide my contempt, for one thing.”
Mel snorted out a laugh that was pure sisterly solidarity.
“Well,” Jack said, clearing his throat. “So long as it’s all in the line of duty—”
She gave him a withering look, and decided to have a little fun.
“I don’t see any reason why I couldn’t pose as a girl looking for a job,” she said, innocently. “That might ingratiate me with the other girls, for one thing. I’d play the hapless newbie who’s still getting used to wearing seven-inch heels and dancing around a pole without chafing my arse.”
“WHAT?” Lowerson almost roared, and spun around in his chair to face her. “You must be mad if you think I’d let my—my—”
“Your what, Jack?” she queried. “In the first place, I don’t think it’s for you to decide what you let me do. I’ll be the one making those decisions, thank you very much. In the second place, don’t be such a hypocrite. It’s all right for you to toddle along there and get an eyeful while I play the little woman back at home, is it?”
Lowerson realised quickly that he’d been backed into a corner.
“No, it’s just—well, I wouldn’t want—”
“Men leering all over me?” she wondered, sweetly. “Why does that bother you, sweetheart? Because you know me, and love me? I guess it doesn’t matter so much, if the woman’s a stranger, hmm?”
Lowerson shook his head vigorously.
“I don’t know, I never really thought about it…” And that was half the problem, wasn’t it?
Ryan cleared his throat and judged it the right time to intervene.
“As it happens, if I didn’t have serious concerns about placing you in unnecessary danger, Mel, I’d have said that wasn’t a bad idea,” he remarked. “It would be a great way to get to know some of the girls, and I think you’ve got the guts to pull it off. However, building up their trust in you would take time we don’t have. That’s also why it might be easier to do a one-off visit as a group of supposedly lecherous males, to see what information we can elicit.”
“Pity,” she said, for Jack’s benefit.
“There’s just one thing,” MacKenzie said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
Ryan gulped.
“What’s that?”
She pointed a finger squarely at his chest.
“You best have Frank home by midnight, and, so help me, if you so much as let him near the stage, you’ll have me to answer to.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Later, Ryan reflected that, whilst he had won that particular battle, he certainly hadn’t won the war.
After all, he still needed to speak to Anna.
CHAPTER 24
“Run that by me, one more time?”
Ryan and Anna were seated at a cosy table in one of their favourite restaurants, The Potted Lobster, enjoying good food, good wine and even better company…
Until he’d opened his big mouth.
“Ah, well, I wanted to let you know I might be a bit late coming home tomorrow night,” he repeated, with considerably less bravado the second time around.
“Yes, I heard that part,” she said sweetly. “It’s funny, I thought you said it was because you’d be going to a notorious strip club with Frank and Jack.”
He watched her break a breadstick in half, with deliberate force.
“When you put it like that, I can see how it might sound…” he said, weakly. “But I need you to know, it’s purely professional. We got a tip that this was the place to go if we want to find out who’s offering kinky services—”
“Are you saying our sex life is too pedestrian for you?” she interrupted, smooth as you like.
“What?” he blustered. “No—no! Not at all, actually, it’s—”
“Ryan.”
She cast a meaningful eye around the restaurant, to remind him that they could be overheard. “Sorry,” he muttered, and made a grab for her hand to hold it in his own. “I haven’t explained myself very well…”
He trailed off, having only just noticed the glint in her twinkling brown eyes.
“You’re having me on,” he realised.
Anna gave a wicked chuckle.
“I’ve never seen you squirm so much,” she said, grinning. “That was priceless.”
Ryan felt his shoulders relax again.
“You had me going for a minute, there,” he said, and signalled the waiter for another glass of wine.
He needed it.
“Come on,” she said. “Don’t you think I know the man I married? I know that sort of place isn’t your scene.”
He gave her a crooked smile and nodded.
“I went along with a bunch of the boys from school when we turned eighteen,” he admitted. “Out of curiosity, more than raging hormones, and once was more than enough. The only other times I’ve been are in connection with an investigation, and that’s been surprisingly few and far between.”
He hadn’t needed to get his jollies in any seedy club, and didn’t intend starting now.
“Didn’t Frank want to go, for your stag do? Or his, for that matter?”
Ryan only smiled.
“Don’t be deceived,” he said. “Frank might be a rough diamond, but he’s still a diamond. He has far too much respect for women, and for himself. A few of the blokes from work suggested it, but he just said they were free to go at the end of the night, if they wanted. No judgment, no arguments; it was as easy as that. We went our separate ways—Frank and I, and a few others, called it a night, while some of the others went on to gawk at a strange woman’s boobs.”
“Well, it’s as I always say,” Anna said, in mock severity. “Why pay to ogle, when you can ogle at home, for free?”
“Words to live by,” he said, and wriggled his eyebrows at her cleavage to make her laugh.
“I’d have thought some of the other men from the office would give you some stick for opting out,” she said. “What do they call it—conscientious objection?”
Ryan laughed.
“If you hadn’t guessed it by now, Anna, I’ve never been a man to care much about what other people think of me,” he said. “No amount of peer pressure would change my views on any subject, least of all this.”
And there, she thought, was the difference.
“I try not to judge anyone else,” he continued. “At least, until I began investigating this case.”
“What do you mean?”
Ryan thanked the waiter for their wine, and then clinked his glass with hers
before answering.
“Before I started to re-examine human trafficking, and sex trafficking in particular, I don’t think I fully appreciated the nature of supply and demand in that industry,” he said, softly. “I don’t know why that is—possibly because of what I’ve just told you. Paying for sex or anything related to it isn’t a part of my life, as it is for some people, and I don’t work in Vice. I’m a murder detective, so I see the consequences of violence against sex workers, and I work hard to bring the perpetrators to justice. That’s always my focus. What I haven’t really thought about is what drives the demand, in the first place—long before the violence is perpetrated.”
Anna nodded thoughtfully.
“A lot of people say it’s harmless,” she said. “Part of British culture. Certainly, from a historic perspective, prostitution is the oldest profession.”
“That may be true,” Ryan said. “But there are degrees. For instance, a person choosing to enter the profession without coercion, in full command of herself and in the full knowledge of its risks and benefits is not the same as a person who’s been trafficked by force or coercion, assaulted and abused for profit—a profit they’re never likely to see.”
He sipped his wine.
“Look, this is hardly dinner conversation—”
“No, I’m enjoying our discussion,” she murmured, touching his hand. “It’s important.”
“I think a lot of people see it as victimless fun,” he said. “Harmless, as you say. But, that’s because they see the glamorous side, and not the side where women and girls, men and boys, are forced into the sex industry to meet a growing demand. There’s a race and ethnic factor, too. It isn’t always the British workers who suffer the same degradations; only foreign workers.”
Anna shook her head, in sympathy.
“It’s like the twenty-somethings who snort cocaine,” he said, conversationally. “They think it’s mostly a harmless high, their mates at university or in the office are all doing it, so they can work longer hours or be more confident. They think it’s a victimless crime. But that’s because they don’t consider all the links in the chain—all the dealers and distributors, the kids dragged into County Lines, all driven by soaring profits. Every time they buy a few grams, they’re adding to the demand. It’s the same in the sex industry, as far as I’m concerned. Every time someone buys a lap dance, or more, they’re proving that there’s a demand. So long as there is that demand, somebody will want to supply.”
Anna listened to him and heard the restrained anger, the passion to make the world a better place, and was moved.
“I’m glad our daughter has you as a father,” she said softly. “She doesn’t know how lucky she is, yet, but one day she will.”
Ryan only shook his head, embarrassed.
“She has the best role model in you,” he countered, meeting her eyes across the table.
The music playing softly on the restaurant speakers changed to an old track by U2, and Ryan smiled.
“A blue-eyed boy and a brown-eyed girl,” he whispered.
“The sweetest thing,” she said.
CHAPTER 25
“Pull up a chair, lad.”
Mick adopted a friendly tone, and Ollie looked between him and his father, who was hovering in the doorway to their sitting room looking restless.
“Is that Mick?” His mother’s voice trilled from the kitchen, and a moment later they heard her clumsy footsteps coming down the hallway.
“It is! Long time, no see, Mick…”
He turned to face Gaz’s wife, and was struck by how much she’d aged—even in the few months since he’d seen her. Once, Keeley had been every young man’s dream; blonde, busty, with big blue eyes and an unenquiring mind, which was the perfect combination, as far as he was concerned.
He’d envied Gaz, and had once tried seducing her, just to have a piece of the pie.
Luckily, she’d been too drunk to remember, and his mate had been none the wiser.
“Lookin’ good, Keeley,” he lied. “You lost weight, have you?”
She ran a hand over her hip, and preened a bit.
“Maybe…maybe I have! Thanks, Mick. That’s more than I ever get from him…” she muttered, cocking her chipped thumbnail in the direction of her husband, who lounged against the wall looking bored. “You want a drink, Mick? Fancy a little cocktail, hmm?”
“Not now, love,” he said, politely. “I’m here to talk to Ollie about a promotion, as it happens.”
“That’s grand! That’s—” She hiccupped. “That’s grand that is, Mick. Aren’t y’gonna thank your Uncle Mick, for givin’ you a chance?”
She gestured at Ollie to show some gratitude, and he thanked him in a dull voice, knowing fine well their conversation had nothing whatsoever to do with any promotion.
“This def—definitely calls for a celebration,” she said. “I’ll go an’—an’ rustle up somethin’ for us.”
“Why don’t you throw together a few sandwiches, pet?” Mick said, knowing the task would keep her busy for a while. “I’m starvin’.”
“Comin’ right up,” she mumbled, and they heard her humming to herself as she retreated back to the kitchen.
Once she’d gone, Mick’s face fell again.
“Have a seat,” he repeated, and Ollie lowered himself onto the edge of a grey velvet sofa. “Good. Now, we just want to ask you a couple of questions, lad. Nothin’ to worry yourself about, all right?”
Mick gave him a smile, and Ollie might have been fooled, except for the look in the man’s eyes.
He knew.
Oh, God. He knew.
His body began to tremble, and he clasped his hands between his knees.
“Let’s all have a seat,” Mick said, expansively. “Howay, Gaz. Let’s all just relax for a minute.”
Gaz, who was even more concerned than his son, forced his legs to move towards an armchair which afforded him a good view of both men in the room.
“Right then,” Mick said, keeping a tight rein on himself. “I want you to tell me the truth, Ollie. I’ll know if you’re lying, so don’t try and make a mug of me, all right?”
Ollie swallowed with difficulty, and bobbed his head. Fear ran like a torrent through his veins, and he found no comfort in the eyes of his father, who stared through him from his position across the room.
“Yes, Mr Donnelly,” he managed.
“Good lad,” Mick said, soothingly. “Now, all I want to know is one thing.”
He paused, and Ollie felt physically sick.
“Did you find a woman down on the beach, in one of those caves?”
Ollie hesitated, and that was his undoing.
“I—”
“You?”
“Yes, Mr Donnelly,” he croaked, and Gaz closed his eyes in defeat.
Mick ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, and linked his hands together.
“All right,” he said, softly. “Now, why didn’t you tell us about it?”
Ollie should have heard the warning, but he didn’t. He thought he was speaking to a family friend, the man he’d seen almost every weekend since he was born, the man who was his godfather, however meaningless that title might have been.
But he was wrong. He was no longer speaking to Michael Donnelly.
He was speaking to The Postman.
“Sh—she was badly injured, Mr Donnelly,” he stammered. “I—I knew you wouldn’t be able to get her any help, and she couldn’t speak any English—”
Mick raised an eyebrow.
“Go on, lad, I’m all ears.”
“I—so, I—I called…the ambulance,” Ollie lied, having wit enough to know that he could not admit to having sought out the police. In his addled mind, he thought that, perhaps, they might forgive him for trying to seek medical help. It was better than having called in the police.
Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing that Mick had connections spread far and wide, which enabled him to find out exactly what Ollie had said, when he
’d said it, and to whom.
But he gave the boy points for improvisation.
“Well, that was a kind thought, wasn’t it, Gaz?”
Gaz said nothing—he couldn’t.
“Now, you know that isn’t how we do business,” Mick admonished, in the tone of a favourite uncle. “But, look, now you’ve explained it to me, I understand you were only tryin’ to be kind. The problem is, we can only be so kind, in our line of work. You’ve got to think of it as a production line, and them as the produce. Sometimes, accidents happen…some of them are defective, or broken. You’ve got to leave them behind, or put them down. D’ you understand?”
Ollie nodded vigorously.
“I’m sorry, Mr Donnelly. I made a mistake.”
Mick sighed heavily, then held up his hands, palms outward.
“I understand that, Ollie. No, really, I do,” he said, for added effect. “I’m glad you’ve told me the truth; that’s the most important thing.”
There was a heavy silence.
“What—what’ll my punishment be, Mr Donnelly?”
Mick laughed, as if he’d just told a good joke.
“Don’t be daft, lad. I’m not about to punish you for one little mistake, am I? We all make ’em, don’t we, Gaz?”
But Gaz had heard this line countless times before, and knew where it would end.
“I don’t want you to think any more about it, but, promise me, you don’t pick up that phone again—even if you see one of ’em bleeding on the floor. All right?”
Ollie nodded, feeling sick with relief.
“I’m sorry again,” he said, quickly. “I should never have—”
“Draw a line under it,” Mick said, and crossed the room to give Ollie’s hair an affectionate rustle. “I’ll be off, now. Thank your Ma for the sandwiches, if they ever come, eh?”
The boy managed a smile at that. “Thank you, Mr Donnelly.”
“One last question for you, lad.”
Ollie waited.
“Have you ever read The Bible?”
The boy was confused. “N—no, Mr Donnelly. Would you like me to?”
Mick shook his head. “If you ever get the chance, you should read the Book of Job,” he said, conversationally. “It’s all about proving your loyalty.”