Dying Of The Light

1

Annie Wright licked her parched lower lip. At the same time, she touched the packet of cigarettes in her pocket, stroking it slowly, as if to draw the nicotine into her system through her fingertips. A bead of sweat began to trickle down her spine until, deliberately leaning back against her chair, she allowed the material of her blouse to absorb it, bringing relief from its tickling descent. Looking at her shoes she panicked, realising she had made a mistake. They were too red, too shiny and the heels far too high. In a word, cheap. And what had possessed her to combine them with black tights and a skirt that did not even reach the knee? Sweet Jesus! She rose quickly, determined to leave, but before she had taken a step the door opened and a tall fellow, his black gown billowing in the draught, crooked his index finger at her, beckoning her to follow. As if in a trance, she did so.

Pushing the menu card to the side of his notebook in disgust, the Lord Ordinary waited patiently for the witness to arrive and the trial to resume. In the expectant silence a whispered conversation between two jurors became audible to him. Under all that horsehair, was his lordship bald? Casually, as if still absorbed in the business of choosing his lunch from the card, he tipped his wig to one side, revealing copious grey ringlets. Honour had been satisfied.

The sound of Annie Wright’s shoes as she clicked across the parquet to the stand transfixed everyone, and all eyes were on her as she teetered up the few steps leading to it. From her elevated vantage point she surveyed the courtroom and then, surreptitiously, stole a glance at the judge. His headgear appeared to be distinctly squint, its front edge at a diagonal rather than parallel to his eyebrows. As she turned to look at the faces of the jurors, an elderly man with food stains on his jacket gave her the slightest nod, but the others, heads bent as if scrutinising something on the floor, pretended not to have noticed her entry.

Suddenly, she became aware of Lord Culcreuch’s deep voice and forced herself to concentrate, raising her right hand as requested and repeating the words intoned before her. As she was mouthing them, their meaning sank in. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. A noble enough sounding phrase, but one uttered only by fools and lawyers. In her experience, the whole truth rarely went down well, and even careful approximations of it cast her as less than human, someone unworthy of respect or sympathy. Scarcely a woman at all.

The first few questions asked by the Advocate-Depute, the prosecution counsel, were easy to answer, and she could hear her own voice becoming louder, more assured, as her confidence began to grow. And as the man continued to probe, turning now to the stuff of her nightmares, the chaotic mass of her recollection began to take on some kind of understandable shape. A proper narrative formed from the shards of memory that had been whirling around her brain for the past few months.

Yes, it had been dark, and yes, rain had been falling heavily. In fact, it had been bucketing down on Seafield Road as she returned from the corner shop with the night’s tea, heading home, soaked to the skin and keen to get out of her wet things. Tam’s appearance outside the pub on the Portobello Roundabout had been welcome, he had shared his umbrella with her and his suggestion that they take shelter in his flat on Kings Road until the worst of the downpour was over had seemed a good one. So she had happily chummed him along as he wove his way down the street, joining in his beery rendition of ‘Flower Of Scotland’. The wine he had offered her had been welcome too until he had edged up the settee, jamming himself against her and putting his arm around her shoulder, hand dangling uninvited over her left breast. Tam was Thomas McNiece, the accused. The man sitting between the two officers.

The Advocate-Depute continued speaking, questioning her, and she managed to respond, but the description that she heard herself giving seemed to be of someone else’s experience, someone else’s ordeal. It concerned a woman who had been raped by a man she knew and considered a friend, her bruised body then hustled down the tenement stairs before being bundled out, like a bag of litter, onto the drenched street. A woman who had, somehow, got herself home, only to collapse outside her own front door.

As she spoke she glanced again at the jury box, inadvertently catching the eye of a well-dressed older woman, who was dabbing her eyes discreetly with a little white hankie. Annie Wright had not expected to evoke sympathy in anyone, and the sight of the lady’s tears surprised and heartened her. Maybe these people would understand after all. Maybe her own fears would be proved groundless, and the police sergeant’s prediction come true.

While she was distracted, gathering her thoughts, the prosecutor cleared his throat, keen to regain her attention, and start the ‘new chapter’ he had just promised the jury. And she knew exactly what it would be about, and prayed silently that it would be over quickly.

‘Now, Ms Wright, it may be put to you by Mr McNiece’s Advocate, that on the night in question you were working as, er… a sex worker… eh… a prostitute. What would you say to that?’

‘Eh… nah, I wisnae. I wis havin’ a nicht in… at hame, ken. I wisnae workin’ that nicht, I was spendin’ it hame wi’ ma lassie.’

‘But,’ the Advocate-Depute interjected, ‘you are a… sex worker? A prostitute?’

‘Aye.’

‘And you have told us already, I think, that you did not consent to having sex with Mr McNiece?’

‘Aye. It wisnae a job. He jist jump’t me.’

‘Did Thomas McNiece know what your job was, what you worked as?’

‘Aye. Tam kent.’

‘And on that night, did any money change hands?’

‘Fer Christ’s sake!’ she almost shouted, her voice tinged with despair, ‘I wisnae oan the job, ok? I jist telt ye. Tam jump’t me. He wis supposed tae be ma friend… ah, wis beggin’ him tae stop!’

She looked hard at the jury, defiantly, daring them to disbelieve her. But every face was turned downwards, studying, once more, the floor below their feet. No-one wanted to meet her eye.

Sylvia Longman QC, the Defence Counsel, stood up, hitched her gown onto her shoulders, and strode purposefully towards the witness box. She knew exactly how the moves should go in this particular stage of the game, and had anticipated the Crown’s attempt to lessen the impact of the disclosure of the woman’s profession. They had raised the matter themselves to rob it of the shock value it might otherwise have had, in her skilful hands. An expected ploy, and one that would not succeed if she had anything to do with it. Conscious of the expectant hush in the courtroom, she began her performance by looking Annie Wright boldly in the face.

‘Ms Wright, would you be interested to know that the meteorological report for the night of Friday the fifth of October indicates only the presence of “light drizzle” in the Edinburgh area?’

The witness looked momentarily shaken, but managed to answer.

‘Eh? Well, a’ I can say wis that oan Seafield Road it wis pourin’ doon. Cats n’ dogs.’

‘Indeed?’ – a theatrical pause to let the doubt sink in – ‘and I think you have been a prostitute for about ten years or so. Is that correct?’

‘Aha.’

‘Thomas McNiece would know, of course, that you were a prostitute?’

‘Aha. I said he kent.’

‘And you also said that the two of you were friends?’

‘I thocht so. Aha.’

‘In fact, so friendly that I understand that you and he had a drink together before you went for your shopping?’

‘Aha.’

‘And the night of fifth of October you willingly accompanied…’

‘Aye! Accompanied!’ Annie Wright cut in, only to be interrupted in her turn by the languid tones of the lawyer.

‘If I might finish? You willingly accompanied Mr McNiece up the stairs to his flat?’

‘Aha, I said I done that, but I didnae expect him tae attack us!’

‘So. You both had a drink together. Then he invited you up to this flat, knowing that you were a prostitute, and you willingly accompanied him there?’

‘Aye.’

‘Mr McNiece will tell the Court that you, his friend, agreed to have sex with him.’

‘I niver done.’

‘And that you willingly did have sex with him?’

‘How come then I got they twa keekers tryin’ to fight him oaf?’ Annie Wright interjected angrily.

‘I was coming to that, to your “injuries”,’ the QC replied smoothly, brushing imaginary dirt off her fall. ‘Mr McNiece will maintain that after the sexual intercourse had finished you demanded money from him. He declined to pay you, no question of payment ever having been discussed between you beforehand, and you physically attacked him. In the course of defending himself he lashed out, accidentally hitting you on the face.’

‘Rubbish! That’s rubbish!’ The witness shook her head and then said, plaintively, ‘Miss, if it wisnae rape then why d’ye think I’m here, eh? Why’d I go along wi’ the polis an’ all?’

Sylvia Longman smiled. Things were working out better than she could have hoped. ‘Mr McNiece’s evidence on this matter’, she said, ‘will be that these proceedings, or at least your part in them, arise as a result of your desire for revenge. Revenge for the “freebie”, I think it’s called. What would you say to that?’

‘Me?’ the witness sighed, recognising defeat. She tugged nervously on a chain around her neck, pressing a small, gold crucifix between the tips of her fingers. ‘Me? I’d say nothin’ to it. Nothin’ at a’. No point. Yous hae got it a’ worked oot.’

Only the well-dressed matron noticed the smirk that flickered momentarily across Thomas McNiece’s features. But the Judge immediately stopped his note-taking and replaced the cap on his fountain pen.

‘Ms Wright,’ he began in his sonorous baritone, ‘I need to be absolutely clear about this. Are you accepting Counsel’s suggestion that you complained about Mr McNiece raping you in order to get revenge on Mr McNiece?’

‘Naw, yer Honour. I wisnae the wan who reported it oanyway. It wis ma daughter, Diane. She got the ambulance an’ the polis came at the same time.’

Lord Culcreuch nodded his head. ‘So your position remains that you never consented to sexual intercourse with the man?’

‘Aha.’

‘And that no question of payment by him ever arose?’

‘Aha.’

‘And your explanation for your injuries is what, exactly?’

‘Like I said. He belted me when I wis tryin’ to get him oaf o’ me. He slapped me, ken, richt across ma face.’

The older lady, Mrs Bartholomew, listened intently to the Judge’s charge to the jury. Only with such guidance would she be able to discharge her duty properly. Conscientiously. The onus, or burden of proof, it had been explained, was on the Prosecution to establish beyond reasonable doubt, that the accused had engaged in sexual intercourse with the witness and without her consent. And after three whole days of listening, she thought, three utterly exhausting days, they had better get it right. Of course, it was far too late now. She had already missed her own ‘surprise’ birthday party, not to mention the promised theatre matinee. So, justice had better be damn well done.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her closest neighbour doodling on a notepad. Some kind of motorbike or push-bike or other wheeled thing. Well, really! The lad looked too young, too immature, to be on jury service, fulfilling an important civic duty, and now appeared to be wilfully deaf to the guidance issuing from on high. Before she realised what she was doing, she surprised herself by releasing a loud ‘Tut, tut,’ only to be met with an amused grin and the closing of the pad.

Neither the dry address delivered by the Prosecutor nor the emotional appeal made by the female QC clarified anything for Mrs Bartholomew. And no wonder, she thought. She had, after all, heard all the evidence for herself, already formed her own impressions of the witnesses and knew exactly whom she believed. And, as importantly, whom she did not. But, of course, one could not be sure. How could one be unless one had been in the very room, at the very time, with the two individuals concerned? Had she been in the victim’s unhappy predicament she would have tried to fight off the Neanderthal and sustained bruising, abrasions and so on at his hands. A creature, she noticed, now so relaxed, that he appeared to be dozing during his own trial.

On the other hand, and there always was another hand, Mrs Wright was a self-confessed streetwalker. She would not be too choosy, and perhaps there had indeed been a misunderstanding. The accused’s version of events, it had to be accepted, was perfectly plausible and could account for everything, including the woman’s injuries.

But, she kept returning to it, it was Annie Wright whom she had believed. The prostitute’s fear, in the witness box, had been positively contagious. Watching her twisting and turning her poor, blotched hands, she herself had become apprehensive, on edge, afraid in fact. And nothing in the woman’s manner had suggested vengeance. It spoke far more eloquently of an unwillingness to participate in the proceedings, a clear reluctance to give evidence. In addition, the policewoman’s testimony about the victim’s shocked and distressed state immediately after the assault had seemed completely convincing. But again, that could be equally well explained away by the fight that McNiece spoke about. I’d be shocked if I’d been slapped in the face, however it happened, she thought. It was useless. She was going round and round in circles.

The discussion in the jury room was brief, hastened by the unspoken desire on everyone’s part to avoid, if at all possible, yet another unpalatable lunch courtesy of the Court Services. Yesterday’s macaroni sludge was still vivid in their memories. In any event, most of the jurors considered the case to be unprovable, as it amounted to no more than one person’s word against another’s.

However, to Mrs Bartholemew’s surprise, the scribbler boy argued passionately that the prostitute’s evidence should be believed, and tried to convince the others to accept, as he had, her account of her ordeal. In the face of increasingly voluble resistance from the other jurors, he pointed out her ill-concealed reluctance to play any part in the trial. She must have known, he said, that a working girl’s version of events would be viewed with scepticism. She appeared intelligent. For her, this would be a poor way of getting revenge. In fact, he said, she had spoken out not in order to get even, but to put a rapist behind bars.

‘No,’ the man with the food-stained jacket observed laconically, ‘she just miscalculated. Plenty of females better than her have done just the same, son.’

At last the longed for Silk Cut. Annie Wright leant against the statue of David Hume, a traffic cone sitting incongruously on his sculpted head and banging against it with each gust of wind. As she slowly inhaled, she felt calmer, almost as if she had, in some intangible way, regained control of her life. Of tomorrow, at least. Well, she thought, I’ve done what they wanted. Done my sodding duty, for all the good it has done me.

She turned her head towards the courtroom to avoid the glare of headlights dazzling her, as a few homebound commuters processed down the Royal Mile. Suddenly she shivered, her teeth starting to chatter, her body chilled to the bone in the icy air. Hunching her shoulders, she pulled up the collar of her thin coat with her free hand as a noisy rabble, all high fives and raucous laughter, emerged from the High Court, jostling themselves exuberantly onto the pavement. A tin of lager was held aloft, followed by a chorus of cheers and the raising of exultant, clenched fists. One of the stragglers on the margins of the group accidentally backed into her.

‘Sorry, hen’, he said almost to himself, before, looking at her a second time, he realised he knew her and let out a wild whoop.

‘Well, I niver, it’s wee Annie hersel’. Hey, Tam the Bam!’, he screamed, ‘it’s her – ken, yer wham bam ma’am!’

From the centre of the excited mob Thomas McNiece elbowed his way towards her, an uneasy grin on his glistening face, and as he did so his followers grew quiet, silent, like hyenas watching for the kill. Just as he reached her, a tall, dark-haired policewoman approached, and the men immediately began to disperse, some shifting themselves towards St Giles and Parliament Square, others heading northwards towards the Castle.

‘I’m sorry we never secured a conviction, Annie,’ the policewoman said, coming up to the woman, her exhaled breath like white smoke in the wintry air.

‘Yeh, right,’ Annie Wright replied. ‘I stood up and wis counted, eh? So he’d niver be able tae rape anybody again.’ She laughed loudly. ‘An’ he’s oot, free! Oh, an’ wan ither thing, sergeant, he’ll want tae git me fer that an’ a’, he says as much already. So I’d better watch oot fer masel’, eh?’

Detective Sergeant Alice Rice was painfully aware that no words of hers, no truthful words at least, would be adequate. She had no comfort to offer. They both knew that justice had not been done and that a guilty man now walked free. But she could not bring herself to apologise for persuading the woman to complain. It would be altogether too hypocritical, because she would do the same again, tomorrow and the next day. And the day after that, too.

‘We’ll keep an eye out as well,’ she answered, unpleasantly conscious of the hollowness of her reassurance. McNiece had, after all, just routed them all. Made fools of them all.

A double-decker drew up at the stop on the North Bridge and the woman clambered in, glad to be back in the warmth and returning to some form of normality. Taking a seat at the back she pressed her face hard against the window pane, conscious of every vibration on her cheekbone as the vehicle juddered over the potholed road, finally squealing to a halt at the Balmoral, ready to cross Waterloo Place. Ignoring an amber light it trundled onwards, stopping and restarting endlessly in the rush-hour traffic, crawling slowly past the brutal architecture marring the west side of Leith Street as if the sight of it was something to savour. Pedestrians streamed endlessly along the pavements, catching the January sales, most weighed down by bulging carrier bags and all wrapped up against the biting cold.

At the first stop at the top of Leith Walk an old man, cap in hand, maundered unsteadily up the central aisle towards her, lurching onto her bench as the bus continued its erratic progress towards Portobello and her destination. Another abrupt halt and he fell against her shoulder, apologising the instant contact was made and righting himself to the best of his ability. And then, hesitantly, he began to talk to her, waiting for a response, nudging her into the usual, inconsequential, companionable banter that can help a journey pass. A daughter in Australia, a doctor no less, he boasted; and a son, fortunately close by in Port Seton. He’d spent Hogmanay there, the little of it he could remember anyway. And once he too had been a bus driver, doing the Haddington run.

The man seemed so kind, fatherly almost, that Annie Wright would have liked to have told him the truth about her day, unburden herself of its painful reality, and in the telling somehow reduce its importance. But she could not bear to watch him recoil. To smash his innocent illusions. After all, she was not, as he probably imagined, just another middle-aged body returning from a day’s shopping in the town.

No harm, though, in escaping into make-believe. So, enjoying the sound of his cracked voice and ready laughter, she created a job for herself working as a school cleaner up South Clerk Street, and found that it was easy. She had been one, once, a lifetime ago. Together they exchanged anecdotes about the thoughtlessness of children and the litter trailed by them wherever they went. By the time the bus drew into Baltic Street little flakes of snow were dancing in the beams of its headlights, blown this way and that by the movement of passing vehicles. A few minutes later, smiling fondly, Annie stood up to get off and the old fellow squeezed her hand as she eased herself past his legs.

‘Tak’ care o’ yersel’, dearie,’ he said, giving her a wink.

The chill air on Seafield Road reminded Annie Wright where she was, and, more importantly, who and what she was. She started to walk, buffeted by blasts of a cutting wind, towards Pipe Street and home. A little figure, head hooded and bowed, stood leaning against the lamppost, bathed in a circle of golden light. Drawing parallel the woman stretched out her hand and felt it grasped by a cold, wet mitt.

‘Guess whit, mum?’ the high-pitched voice enquired.

‘Whit?’

‘I’ve got us a chinky an’ it’s in the oven, in the hoose!’

‘Diane,’ the woman replied wearily, ‘ye’re a star. Ma ain wee star.’

He pressed the flat surface of his knife onto the first yolk, noting as he did so that the two eggs had been perfectly fried. An opaque film covered both their yellow suns, and there were no signs of any wobble or slime on the white of either. Slicing the streaky tail off his first rasher of bacon he dipped it in the yolk, then speared a sliver of buttered toast and ate the tasty combination. Perfection. Nothing could beat a good high tea in front of the television on a cold winter’s evening. A loud roar drew his attention back to the screen and he watched entranced as Hartson dribbled the ball towards the Hibs goal, nutmegged the final defender and then flicked it effortlessly into the net past the helpless keeper. A goal! He looked at his watch. Only 8.30 and still another twenty minutes of the second half to go. Life was sweet indeed.

Intent on the game, he did not hear the phone ringing until his wife handed the receiver to him, whispering conspiratorially, ‘It’s Bill’. At the sound of the man’s name his heart sank. He knew only too well what the call would mean.

‘Where are they?’ David Chalmers asked dully.

‘Along by the bridge at Ma Aitken’s.’

‘How many?’

‘Four or five.’

‘OK. I’ll meet you at your gate in ten minutes.’

Thinking only of his wife and twin daughters, he bolted the remainder of his fry-up, no longer savouring the ritual of putting the pieces together, and gulped down his mug of tea. No time for the scones and honey. He’d have them later, when he got back. In the hallway, he picked up his olive green anorak and set off at a brisk pace towards Claremont Park and ‘Jordan’.

The night air felt sharp, a strong breeze blowing off the sea from the east, carrying salt in the air and waking him up. In his luminous yellow jacket his neighbour, Bill Keane, was visible a hundred yards away, and David Chalmers waved at him as he approached.

‘Forgotten your vest?’ Keane asked.

Looking down quickly, Chalmers patted the side of his cheek, cross with himself for being so inefficient. He knew the value of their day-glo wear, distinguishing them from anyone else on the street, drawing attention to any fracas that might ensue and warning all and sundry of their presence. In an attempt to soothe his companion, Keane, his hat nearly wrenched off by the rising wind, lifted his placard from the pavement and handed it to the other man. Chalmers took it eagerly, reading the message emblazoned on it in jet black capitals. ‘YOU CAN’T GET NO SATISFACTION IN LEITH’.

‘Right enough’ he muttered.

Together, the pair continued past the Links and headed towards Seafield Place, a few pedestrians eyeing them warily as they marched on, the placard held high, its message lit up by each passing car. Halfway down the street their prey came into view, a woman lurking in the deep shadows cast by the pedestrian bridge, facing seaward and watching the road as if expecting company. The sound of their footsteps on the pavement was drowned by the engine of a huge articulated lorry, its accelerator revving in readiness for the lights to change and filling the air with thick fumes. Keane’s tap on the woman’s shoulder had her whirling round, the momentary panic on her face quickly replaced by an exasperated sneer.

‘Yous again,’ she hissed, her hostility undisguised.

‘Aye, lassie, us again,’ Keane replied calmly. ‘So, on your way, eh? Back to where you came from.’

The girl, her face uncomfortably close to the men, unexpectedly flicked the peak of her baseball cap up and shouted in their faces, ‘Lena! You up at Boothacre?’

In the distance, from the direction of the cottages, a faint female voice replied, ‘Aye. Is it they jokers again?’

‘Aha. I’m oaf the now. See you up at Elbe, eh?’

‘OK. Over ’n’ oot, Belle.’

‘Roger,’ Belle answered, before, laughing and looking scornfully at the two men, she taunted them. ‘Nae rogering for yous though, eh? No the nicht, anyway.’

So saying, she sauntered, hips swaying provocatively, toward Salamander Street and the darkness. In response to a snatch of ‘Greensleeves’, Keane fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile, his wallet coming with it and falling onto the wet pavement. An urgent voice said, ‘Bill, get yourself over here and bring anyone you’ve got with you. It’s the van. They’re in Carron Place again, the cheeky bisoms!’

Accidentally dropping the phone from his cold fingers, Keane swore in his frustration and David Chalmers immediately discarded his placard and bent down to pick up his friend’s possessions from the ground. Acknowledging his help with a curt nod, Bill finally replied, ‘I’ll see you there, Raymond. David’s going to check the cemetery first. One of them’s hanging about the place as usual.’

Lena was neither difficult to find nor troublesome to dislodge. She had found only a token hiding place a few yards up Boothacre Lane. When she saw the man approaching her she did not look knowingly at him, an illicit bargain sealed, but instead raised both hands above her head theatrically to signal her surrender, and then sashayed past the Lodge House, heading back towards Mother Aitken’s pub. When, finally, she disappeared past the warehouse corner, David Chalmers began his walk westward towards Carron Place.

By the junction with Claremont he noticed a woman, short-haired and in a calf length skirt, waiting between the tall gateposts of Villa Deodati. As he came closer, she stayed exactly where she was, the defiant hussy, until he was only a few yards distant.

He was familiar with the girls’ new techniques – dressing down in an attempt to escape detection. Well, he thought, it won’t work with me. I’m not so easily fooled. Anyway, it’s the eyes that are the giveaway, the windows of the soul. That adamantine hardness, that inhuman look, cannot easily be disguised.

While he was still openly looking her up and down, a car arrived which, unknown to him, had been shadowing him for the past few minutes. It stopped beside them and a uniformed officer in the car slowly rolled down his window.

‘On the prowl, eh, sir? That’s illegal now, the new Act… the Prostitutes Act. But maybe that’s not enough to put you off? One of the hardliners, I daresay. We’ll need to name and shame you, eh?’

David Chalmers heard himself bluster, a string of high-pitched vowels emanating from his mouth, outrage robbing him of the power of coherent speech. Then he remembered that he was not wearing his luminous jacket, and that he had left his placard at the Boothacre Cottages. Well, at least the man was doing his duty, and this certainly was the high visibility enforcement that they had all been promised. While he was still babbling excuses, to his surprise, the woman began to speak. Usually, in his experience, the hussies remained silent, sullen, aware of the need to say nothing in the face of the enemy.

‘I’m not exactly sure what you’re implying, Constable, but, perhaps I should make my position clear. My name is Sandra Pollock, Sister Sandra usually, and I’m a nun. A Sacred Heart sister if you’re any the wiser. I’m based at the convent in Eskbank, but I was seeing a friend. I’m waiting for a lift from Sister Rowena, but she’s late, maybe lost for all I know.’

A guffaw could be heard from the passenger side of the car as the driver apologised profusely, his face puce with embarrassment. And as they drew away from the kerb, loud giggles could still be heard from the marked panda car. Flustered and still unable to speak, David Chalmers doffed his cap to the nun, who acknowledged him with the slightest nod. Both felt uncomfortably exposed, left unchaperoned together, some bizarre bond temporarily created between them because of the policeman’s mistake. Each felt the need to say something, but neither felt up to the task.

Carron Place is a cul-de-sac, a dead-end leading from Salamander Street to nowhere. The uneven tarmac on its road is flanked by cheap industrial units, each with its own car park, and commercial yards protected by high mesh fencing. During working hours it is a vibrant area, lorries transporting goods to and fro, workmen shouting to each other, and white-collared executives managing things, ensuring that business continues until 5 p.m. But once closing time arrives and the workers have gone, it becomes a desolate, soulless place, a street no longer serving any purpose.

The SPEAR van was parked on a dogleg, facing the docks, ready to move whenever the need arose. Around it were clustered a group of women, some leaning against it smoking, some clutching polystyrene cups, sipping hot tea and chattering to each other. The driver of the van, a plump woman with heavy curtains of hair falling on either side of her face, was handing out leaflets to the working girls. Each bore the photo of a man, together with a short warning of his violent tendencies and a description of the car normally used by him. Annie Wright stood in the open back of the transit clutching a packet of new syringe needles and a plate piled high with chocolate fingers.

‘Biscuits, ladies?’ she said in a parody of a posh voice.

From her lookout point she was the first in the group to notice the crew of men marching towards the vehicle, and she let out a low whistle of warning. Immediately, the women’s chatter ceased and the relaxed, even convivial, atmosphere became tense. As the men approached, Annie, still clutching the plate of biscuits, sloped away, disappearing into the shadows cast by a large warehouse before making a dash for Salamander Street and a safe place from which to make a telephone call. The plump woman came forward with a pained expression to meet the newcomers, halting their progress before they came too near the women who were now bunched together, immobile.

‘We are allowed to be here, you know,’ she began. ‘We have permission. All we are doing, you will appreciate, is trying to protect the sex-workers against blood-borne viruses and…’

Her practised spiel was interrupted by an angry-looking man, wagging his finger as he spoke.

‘All you are doing, madam, is attracting these “sex-workers” as you term them, whores to everyone else, to our area. To our homes. With their…’, he stopped briefly, his own fury having got the better of him. ‘…HIV needles, and their used condoms.’

‘Aye,’ chorused another man, ‘their used condoms!’

‘And we,’ the first speaker continued, ‘have had enough.’

So saying he began to bang his fists rhythmically on the side of the van. One by one the other men joined him, until the drumming noise from its metal sides was ear-splitting, loud enough to wake the dead.

Detective Sergeant Alice Rice was surprised to get a call from Annie Wright on her mobile, until she remembered that she had, a couple of months earlier, given the woman her number. Listening to her breathless tones, she soon realised that the incident would be no more, in all probability, than a breach of the peace, something easily dealt with by whatever uniforms were in the area. But the concern in Annie’s voice, together with the vague disquiet that Alice still felt for persuading her to give evidence in the rape trial, was enough to make the policewoman change her mind. After all, she was already on the Shore, not so far from the main coastal road and the rundown streets around it.

Turning down Bernard Street she put her windscreen wipers on. Urgent flurries of snow were flying down and obscuring her view. Carron Place was one of the roads off to the left, and she peered down each one until, at last, she found it.

She heard the rumpus long before she saw it. Angry men were thumping the panels of the yellow van, the air vibrating, their crashing rhythm drowning the moaning of the wind. Gathered by the bonnet were the prostitutes, resolute. They were asserting simply by their continuing presence on that freezing night their right to come to this meeting point, the only organisation in the whole of the city concerned with them and their welfare.

A stand-off had been reached, and now both camps seemed to consider that they had made their point and were only too glad, on seeing the police car, to leave the chilly site. One group to return to the warmth of their hearths, the welcome of their wives, and the other to disperse into the darkness, searching for trade elsewhere along Coburg Street, Dock Street and their other dank haunts.

Catching sight of a peroxide blonde in the group, Alice waved her over and, reluctantly, the woman left her companions and came to the car.

‘Irena,’ Alice said ruefully, ‘the last time I saw you – well, you’ve got an ASBO out against you, haven’t you? You’re not supposed to be here, in this area, I mean.’

The girl shook her head, replying in broken English.

‘No madam. I am allowed… allowed… em… to come to van.’

The plump woman, aware of Irena’s limited ability to speak any language other than Russian, joined Alice and began to explain that any of the ASBOs served on the girls still allowed them to attend the SPEAR van.

Looking the newcomer squarely in the face, Alice realised that she recognised her straight brow and broad cheekbones. But it could not be the person she was thinking of, surely! All those working for SPEAR were ex-sex workers, she knew that. Everyone knew that. It gave the organisation its strength, distinguished it from all the other charities.

‘Is your name Ellen?’ Alice asked, tentatively.

‘Yes.’ The woman looked blank.

‘Ellen Barbour?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Well,’ Alice began, ‘I think we know each other. From school.’