The Severed Streets

FIFTEEN

‘Mr Stephens, Mr Dawson, please sit down. This won’t take a moment. Thank you for choosing the Underworld. The first thing I’m going to need from you is a three-hundred-pound deposit, cash or credit card, against your tab at the bar. You leave that with me, and the girls who’ll be attending to you this evening will let me know how much of that you’ve used in services; if you go over, you can top up with them. Anything left — and we all hope there won’t be, I’m sure, because we’re looking to provide you with a good time — will be refunded to you on your departure. Now, you’re not on a clock; please don’t feel rushed, and just to let you know the way we operate: after you’ve chosen the girl or girls who’ll be attending to you, the first thing she or they will do is take a long relaxing shower with you. During that, she or they will just make sure that you’re as healthy as you gentlemen appear to be.’

‘She’s saying they’ll check us down for creepy crawlies, yeah?’ Costain looked over to Sefton, sprawled beside him on the very Eighties sofa, their legs way apart, their clothing once again that of the small-time gang soldiers they’d spent a lot of their careers pretending to be.

‘Let’s get this done.’ Sefton took out two rolls of cash and gave them to this businesslike middle-aged woman in an evening gown. ‘You available?’

‘Not this evening, though if you become regular customers, perhaps I might make an exception.’ Her voice, thought Costain, was exactly what he was used to from hookers, just enough acting to let everyone stop worrying about what was real and what wasn’t, but not the full commitment that might lead to doubt. He felt aroused at that familiar timbre and immediately guilty for it.

* * *

Ross and Quill sat in the car around the corner, parked in front of a newsagent, watching the young media folk and the tourists looking for nostalgic thrills pass by in the late evening sunlight. They were listening to what was going on round the corner, via the wires each of the undercovers wore. The two speakers were, at the moment, providing a weird sort of stereo. Now there was just the sound of the two men going through to some other room. Ross had rebuffed Quill’s attempts at conversation. She could feel time running out, could feel tiredness rising inside her. She would take that meth as soon as it was offered. She was desperately wondering whether whoever had accessed her dreams now knew about the Bridge of Spikes, whether the address they had for the owner had already been raided by something with a lot more power than they had. Costain had promised to wait to check the place out until she could come with him. She believed him. Just about.

The sound coming over the speakers changed. ‘Is that someone moaning?’ she asked Quill.

* * *

‘That’s from one of our less private rooms,’ said the middle-aged woman, having led Costain and Sefton into what Costain thought looked like the front room of a couple in their eighties, or maybe the stage set of one, because it felt hardly used. It smelt of cigarettes. From an inner door four women entered, all dressed in lingerie that looked as if it had been through the wash too often, all affecting a pose which was meant to be that of a fashion model, but was similarly dulled by repetition. They were professionally present, and that was all. Costain tried not to find that absence exciting. He should really be too worried about the current situation his team, and himself in particular, were in to be aroused, but the body did what it did. There were two white women, an Asian one and a black one. ‘Gentlemen,’ said the hostess, ‘please pick one or more. Our rates obviously increase steeply for more than one.’

There had been a door leading off each room they’d been in. Through it, Costain was sure, would be one or more hard cases, ready to protect the investment here. The prostitutes would be on a percentage, but it would still be more than they’d get on the street. ‘The one on the end,’ he said, picking one of the white girls.

‘You know what I like, Tone,’ said Sefton, and nodded towards the Asian woman.

* * *

They were both led to rooms leading off a corridor; through a couple of other doors could be heard more, rather artificial, sounds of passion. Again Costain tried not to respond to the art of those simulated groans. The woman he was with smiled professionally at him and let him into a particular room, a rather bare bedroom with a double bed, a shower in one corner and a single painting on the wall, apparently sourced from the same sort of place that provided anonymous art for hotel chains. ‘One hundred and fifty for a blow job,’ she said, her voice retaining that businesslike composure, ‘two hundred for straight sex, two hundred and fifty for anal, eighty for spanking, and I tell you when to stop, fifty for me using a strap-on on you, and if you want to look in the cupboard, there are toys in there, and I can tell you what each of them will cost to use.’

‘Okay,’ said Costain. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘But first.’ She went and turned the shower on and, turning back to Costain, started to undress, with a series of practised movements. ‘Please call me Lucy, and let me know what you’d like me to call you.’

Costain wondered how long he could ethically wait to do this, and decided that, especially given who was listening, now would be good. ‘My name is Tony,’ he said, ‘and I’m actually a private investigator. No, keep the shower running.’ He stepped between her and it, and took a roll of bills from his pocket. ‘On top of your cut from what I gave your boss, I’ll give you four hundred for the answers to a few questions, none of which will jeopardize your employer or put you or your job at risk.’

She thought about it for a moment. ‘Money now, and I decide.’ He handed it to her. She counted it, then put most of it in her bag. She put the rest on the duvet. ‘You tell them you had a blow job.’

* * *

Sefton was also sitting on a bed, next to the woman he’d come here with, who called herself Mi Ling. He hadn’t come out with any particular cover story. He’d just started talking, which hadn’t surprised her. He supposed a significant minority of her clients did that.

‘You’re going to have to pay for the time,’ she reminded him after a moment.

He handed her some money and gave his background as one of the people he’d been as an undercover once, adding that they must get all sorts through here.

She made a non-committal noise, alert to anything in that direction. More than her job was worth, to give away information. Sefton realized that this was going to take a while. He manoeuvred the one-sided conversation back onto safer ground.

* * *

‘I don’t think I want to tell you about that.’ The woman with Costain was looking angry and … yeah, afraid. ‘We never saw any politician, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

* * *

Sefton and Mi Ling had finally found themselves laughing together at a completely safe conversation about recent celebrity misdemeanours. Sefton was pleased when she went from that to ones she knew about herself, because, as he’d suspected, she was sometimes at the sort of party that had paparazzi waiting outside. It was safe for her to talk about what her famous acquaintances got up to there.

After a while he took a risk and held up his phone to show her a picture of Spatley. ‘Is that the bloke who got killed?’ she said.

‘What about this one?’ He showed her a picture of Tunstall, then Staunce, but the only result was her frowning at him. These people meant nothing to her other than faces on the telly. ‘Would you know if they’d been here?’

‘Course I would,’ she said. ‘We all know when someone famous comes through. Are you a reporter or something?’

‘Look at this,’ he said, showing her a picture of Rupert Rudlin taken from CCTV footage.

‘That’s-’ She stopped. She was looking at the phone intently. ‘I don’t know the man, but-’

‘But?’

‘The woman he’s with … she’s a mate of mine.’

Sefton realized that he was looking at her in shock. He made himself point to the image of the woman who, a few moments after this picture had been taken, would be thrown up against the wall. ‘Her, you mean?’

‘Yeah. She left here. I mean, suddenly. I mean she still owes them money. Nobody knows where she went.’

‘What’s her name?’ The woman looked suddenly awkward, wondering again if she should get involved with this. ‘Listen, look at me, look at me, I’m not after her to harm her, I’m trying to save her. You believe me, don’t you?’

The woman considered for a moment, then finally nodded. ‘That’s Mary. Mary Arthur. She wasn’t full time here. She did jobs on the side. When she disappeared … we all said she must have made it big, gone to Saudi.’

‘Do you know where she lived?’

‘Somewhere in Muswell Hill.’

‘This is saving lives…’

‘That’s all I know.’

The door burst open and an enormous man in a Brazilian football strip, carrying a baseball bat, with a bar through his nose and a huge moustache, threw himself at Sefton.

* * *

Costain jumped back off the bed, his hands in the air. ‘Mate, mate, I didn’t touch her!’

His own assailant, shaved head and paunch, pretty designer T-shirt with a much-copied image of some Seventies model, hefty about the limbs, obviously used to dealing damage and carrying what looked like a specialist hunting knife, instinctively glanced at the woman.

Costain wrenched his arm over, made him drop the knife and dived for the door.

* * *

Sefton felt his bruised ribs as the Brazil fan made to smash him across the body. He danced out of the way, avoided the grasp and headed for the door. He saw Mi Ling carefully not reacting, then he was out of there, into the corridor, where he could hear a whole stampede of footsteps rushing up the stairs. There was Costain, dashing out of a door in front of him. They looked at each other. ‘Window?’ said Costain. They grabbed for it, and started to haul it away from its sealed, peeling paintwork.

* * *

‘Fuck,’ said Quill, panting as he arrived at the door, Ross beside him. ‘Fuck.’ He hammered on the door, rang the doorbell, and then kicked it for good measure.

The door opened and a woman he assumed to be the one who’d welcomed Costain and Sefton looked out. ‘This is a private-’

Quill shoved his warrant card in her face. ‘I know what this is. My name is DI James Quill, and the two men you’re having a go at are police officers on an operation. So unless you want to be party to assaulting a police officer-’

There came a crash from behind the building. ‘I think,’ said the woman, her voice dripping with contempt, ‘you’ll find they just left.’