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Chapter 4

When they drove past the train station, Myron read the sign and said, “King’s Cross. Isn’t that from Harry Potter?”

“It is.”

Myron took another look. “Cleaner than I expected.”

“Gentrification,” Win said. “But you never really get rid of the dirt. You just sweep it into dark corners.”

“And you know where those dark corners are?”

“I was told in the email.” The Bentley came to a stop. “We can’t get any closer without the risk of being seen. Take this.”

Win handed him a smartphone.

“I have a phone,” Myron said.

“Not like this one. It’s a complete monitoring system. I can follow you via GPS. I can listen in on any conversations via microphones. I can see what you see via the camera.”

“The key word,” Myron said, “is ‘via.’”

“Hilarious. Speaking of a key word, we will need a distress signal if you get into trouble.”

“How about ‘help’?”

Win looked at him blankly. “I. Missed. Your. Humor.”

“Remember when we first started out?” Myron couldn’t help but smile. “I would call you on the old cell phones and you would listen in.”

“I remember.”

“We thought we were so high tech.”

“We were,” Win said.

“Articulate,” Myron said.

“Pardon?”

“If I’m in trouble, I’ll say ‘articulate.’”

Myron headed out past the station. He realized that he was whistling a show tune-“Ring of Keys” from Fun Home-as he walked. That might strike some as odd. This situation was, after all, horrible and dangerous and deadly serious, but he’d be lying to himself if he said it wasn’t also a thrill to be working with Win again. Most of the time, it was Myron who kicked off their often foolhardy rescue missions. In fact, come to think of it, it had always been Myron. Win had been the voice of caution, the sidekick dragged along, joining in more for the fun of it than for any form of justice.

At least, that was Win’s claim.

“You,” Win would tell him, “have a hero complex. You think you can make the world better. You are Don Quixote tilting at windmills.”

“And you?”

“I’m eye candy for the ladies.”

Win.

It was still daylight, but only the naïve believe this sort of trade goes on solely under the blanket of darkness. Still, as Myron arrived at the lookout spot Win had used yesterday, he looked down and saw that this would not be easy.

The police were here.

In the spot where Win had seen probably-Patrick, there were two uniformed officers and two what looked to be lab technicians. The splattered blood, even from up here, still looked wet on the pavement. There was also a lot of it. It looked as if someone had dropped cans of paint from a great height.

The bodies were nowhere to be seen. Nor, naturally, were any streetwalkers-they knew enough to stay away from scenes like this. A dead end, Myron thought. Time for a new plan.

He turned to head back to where the Bentley had dropped him off when something caught his eye. Myron stopped. There, in the “dark corner,” as Win had put it, at the end of Railway Street, he spotted what had to be a streetwalker.

She was dressed in Seventies American Hooker-fishnet stockings, high boots (those two looks seemed to be a contradiction), a skirt that covered up as much of her as, say, a belt would, and a purple top so tight it could have been sausage casing.

Myron started toward her. When he got closer, the woman turned to him. Myron gave her a little wave.

“Looking for company?” she asked him.

“Uh, no. Not really.”

“You don’t really get how this works, do you?”

“I guess not, sorry.”

“Let’s try again: Looking for a little company?”

“You bet I am.”

The woman smiled. Myron expected something horrific in the dental category, but she had a full mouth of nice, even white teeth. He guessed her age at around fifty, but it could have been a hard forty. She was big and shapely and sloppy and spilling out everywhere, and the smile made it all kind of work.

“You’re an American,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Lots of my clients are American.”

“Doesn’t look like you have much competition.”

“Not anymore, no. See, the girls stay off the streets nowadays. Do everything with a computer or an app.”

“But you don’t.”

“Nah, it ain’t me, you know what I mean? So cold, everyone on Tinder or Ohlala or whatever. Shame really. What happened to human contact? What happened to the personal touch?”

“Uh-huh,” Myron said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Me, I like the streets. So my business model is to be something of a throwback, you know what I mean? I appeal to people’s- What do you call it?” She thought about it for a second and then snapped her fingers. “Nostalgia! Right? I mean, people are on holiday. They visit King’s Cross to see a hooker, not fiddle with their iPhone. You know what I mean?”

“Uh-huh.”

“They want the full experience. This street, these clothes, the way I act, what I say-see, I’m what they call niche marketing.”

“Good to fill a need.”

“I used to be in porn.”

She waited.

“Oh, you probably don’t recognize me. I was only in three films back when- Well, a girl has to keep some of her secrets. My most famous role was Third Wench in a scene with that famous Italian guy, Rocky or Rocco something. But for years I was a top-notch fluffer. You know what that is, don’t you? A fluffer?”

“I think I do.”

“Most of the guys, truth is, with all the cameras and lights and all the people watching, well, it wasn’t easy on them to stay, you know, hard. So that was what the fluffers provided. Offstage. Oh, it was great work. I did it for years, knew all the tricks, I can tell you.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“But then Viagra came along and, well, a pill was a lot cheaper than a girl. Shame really. We fluffers are extinct now. Like dinosaurs or VHS tapes. So here I am, back out working on the streets. Not that I’m complaining, am I right?”

“As rain.”

“Speaking of which, you’re on the clock.”

“That’s fine.”

“Some girls sell their bodies. Not me. I sell my time. Like a consultant or barrister. What you do with that time-and as I say, the clock is ticking-is up to you. So what are you looking for, handsome?”

“Um, a young man.”

That made the smile flee. “Go on.”

“He’s a teenager.”

“Nah.” She made a swatting motion with her hand. “You’re no short eyes.”

“No what?”

“Short eyes. A pedo. You’re not going to tell me you’re a pedo, are you?”

“Oh no. I’m not. I’m just looking for him. I mean him no harm.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked at him for a long moment. “Why do I believe you?”

Myron forced up his most winning smile. “My smile.”

“No, but you do have a trusting face. That smile is bloody slimy.”

“It’s supposed to be winning.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m just trying to help him,” Myron said. “He’s in real danger.”

“What makes you think I can help?”

“He was here yesterday. Working.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“So are you the one who killed those cockwombles?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” she said. “I would have thrown you a freebie for that.”

“This kid. He’s in real danger.”

“So you said.” She hesitated. Myron took out his wallet. She waved him off. “I don’t want your money. I mean, I do. But not for that.”

She seemed unsure what to do.

Myron pointed to himself. “Trusting face, remember?”

“None of the boys’ll be back here for a bit. Not with the coppers around. They’ll go to their other spot.”

“And where is that?”

“Hampstead Heath. They usually hang near the west end of Merton Lane.”