Lost - Michael Robotham [116]
“What did they do?” asks Margaret.
“I believe they kidnapped a young girl.”
A murmur goes around the room.
“We need to discover how they’re linked—when they met, where they talked, what they have in common—but most importantly we have to locate them. Each of you will be given a task. You won’t be asked to do anything illegal, but this is detective work and has to remain confidential.”
“Why don’t we just ask the police to find them?” asks Eric, perched on the edge of a desk.
“The police aren’t looking hard enough.”
“But you’re a policeman!”
“Not anymore.”
Moving on, I explain that Kirsten was last seen going over the side of the Charmaine. “She suffered a stomach wound and may not have survived her injuries or the river but we’re going to assume she’s still alive. Gerry Brandt is a known drug dealer, pimp and armed robber. Nobody is to approach him.”
I glance at Dicko. The flesh around his mouth seems to be moving but no sound comes out.
Addressing him directly, I say, “I want you to talk to anyone who knows him—suppliers, junkies, mules, friends … He used to hang out in a pub on Pentonville Road. See if anyone remembers him.”
After a few seconds of clicking his teeth, he says, “Might need some readies.”
“If I catch you drinking I’ll drill a hole in your head.”
The women peel their eyebrows off their hairlines.
“Maybe I should go with him,” suggests Roger.
“Fine. Remember what I said. Under no circumstances do you approach Gerry Brandt.”
Roger gives me a casual salute.
“Philippa, Margaret and Jean, I want you to ring the hospitals, clinics and doctors’ surgeries. Make up a story. Say you’re looking for a missing friend. Rachel and the Professor will contact Kirsten’s family and any former employers. She grew up in the West Country.”
“What are you going to do?” asks Joe.
“Gerry Brandt had a former girlfriend, a skinny thing with bleeding gums and blond streaks. I’m hoping she might know where he’s hiding.”
Hell’s Half Mile is a road behind Kings Cross Station where the curbs get crawled and prostitutes hunt in packs. Some of these girls are barely sixteen but there’s no way of telling. Even without the scars and bruises, a year on the streets adds five years to the faces.
Very few prostitutes work the streets anymore because the police have chased them indoors. Now they work for escort agencies and massage parlors, or they move around following the political conferences, trade shows and exhibitions. Become a prostitute and see the world!
The walk-up places are open doorways leading to upstairs flats with signs in the windows announcing BUSTY YOUNG MODEL or something similar. Most have a maid, usually an older woman, who takes the money and a small tip.
Apart from the passing trade, they advertise with cards in phone boxes or rely on the patron saint of the horny—the London cabbie.
Cruising the street slowly I try to recognize any of the girls. A pixie with a pageboy cut and a padded bra saunters over.
“You want to ask me something?”
“Yeah, what was on Sesame Street this morning?”
Her face flushes. “Piss off!”
“I’m looking for a particular girl. Her name is Theresa. She’s about five foot six. Blond. Comes from Harrogate. And she has a tattoo on her shoulder of a butterfly.”
“What’s this girl got that I ain’t?”
“Boobs. Cut the crap. Have you seen her?”
“Nah.”
“OK, here’s the deal. I got a fifty here. You walk down the street, knock on the doors and ask if any of the girls know this Theresa. You get me the right answer and you get the fifty.”
“Are you a copper?”
“No.” For once I’m telling the truth.
“Why you want her?”
“She won the bloody lottery. What does it matter to you?”
“I’ll do it for a ton.”
“You get fifty. It’s the easiest money you ever made.”
“You reckon! Some of these guys blow just looking at me.”
“Sure.”
I watch her leave. She doesn’t even know how to walk like a woman yet. Maybe it’s an occupational trait.
The streetlights are beginning to glow purple as they