The One a Month Man (5 page)

‘Of course not.’

‘Then it does indeed appeal to me!’

The rapport between us was often oxygenated by serrated sparring, not because we were at odds but because it kept our wits sharpened and oiled.

She poured the tea, knowing just how much milk I liked and the fact that I had sugar only in coffee. Any PI commissioned to do a job on us would have known the score even before the
kick-off
.

‘You believe the mother?’ she said, as soon as all the serving was complete.

‘Absolutely.’

‘No chance that she
does
know her daughter’s whereabouts and they’re in touch, reciprocating birthday and Christmas cards?’

‘Why should she lie – and so elaborately?’

‘For Tina’s sake. Even for her own sake.’

‘Go on,’ I encouraged.

‘Maybe Tina wants it all behind her. She could be married. Got a family. Her husband and his family may know absolutely nothing about the events here, in Oxford, all those years ago.’

‘But she has nothing to be ashamed of – over the attack on her, anyhow. She wasn’t raped or sexually assaulted. There’s no shame or embarrassment of any kind attached to it.’

‘Not in your eyes, Mike, but we’re not talking about you. We’re not even talking logic or objectivity. You’re seeing it purely from a cop’s perspective.’

‘But of course. That’s what we are, Sarah.’

‘We can skew things, though. We haven’t a clue how muggles see it. For all we know, Mike, it could be the mother who wants the whole thing buried. She’ll be coming at it subjectively.’

‘Everything you say is possible, even plausible, but I think you’re wrong, Sarah. All the old girl’s reactions, including emotions, were natural and spontaneous.’

‘She’s had years to rehearse them,’ countered Sarah, always a testing devil’s advocate.

‘Don’t forget, she told me much, much more than she needed to. She could quite easily have left out all the seedy escort agency stuff.’

‘True,’ she conceded, giving an inch, but no more. ‘But by doing so, it’s made her tale all the more credible. She could be cuter than you give her credit for.’

‘But let’s be generous and give her the benefit of the doubt, shall we?’ I said, democratically canvassing her vote.

‘You’re the boss.’ Now
that
was a concession. ‘Where do we start?’

‘No one can simply vanish from the planet these days,’ I said, maundering, my mouth lagging well behind my brain.

‘But Tina didn’t disappear in
these days.
’ Sarah was a long way from hoisting the white flag of surrender.

‘We’re talking thirty years – less from the time she left home – not the Ice Age,’ I pointed out, somewhat enervated by now. ‘She must have had a bank account, National Health Service and National Insurance numbers and an Inland Revenue file.’

‘But no mobile phone,’ said Sarah.

I gave that some thought. ‘She’ll have one now, doubtlessly.’

‘If she’s still alive. And if she is, she won’t be Tina Marlowe, bank on it,’ she said.

‘And if she’s dead, we’re wasting our time, because Richard Pope will be well and truly off the hook. At the time of Tina’s disappearance, credit cards were in circulation, but not
cellphones
, so you’re right about a mobile trail being a non-starter, unless she has kept her maiden name.’

‘And credit cards were nowhere near as rife back then as they are today,’ Sarah elaborated on the points she’d been making.

‘So let’s start plodding, Sarah.’

She waited, like a sniper, for her next target at which to fire.

‘Records of marriages and deaths,’ I said, in a tone that
translated
into,
I sincerely hope that this isn’t as exciting as it’s going to get.

She considered this proposed starting-point for a moment.

‘Beginning with which year?’ she said, stoically.

‘The year of her father’s death,’ I suggested.

‘Too far back,’ Sarah opined.

‘Maybe not even far back enough, if your hypothesis is right and her mother’s lying. If the escort agency yarn’s a fable, Tina could have married soon after leaving Oxford.’

She grinned. ‘You got me there, bastard! You want me to hunt the thimble in the marriages and deaths registers?’

‘Please. It could be productive, like some coughs. I’ll tackle the Inland Rev, banks, and also the escort agency, if it’s the one I suspect.’

‘Has any escort agency ever lasted that long?’

‘There are one or two long-runners. The well-organized ones.’

‘And what might
well organized
be a euphemism for?’

‘Usually gangster controlled.’

‘That’s what I thought. And you reckon they’ll do Old Bill a favour?’

‘More so than a legit outfit, if there is such a thing in that
particular
meat trade. The last thing they want is heat on their backs, sniffing around, balancing their turnover against their tax returns.’

‘So which agency is your money on?’

‘Well, Mrs Marlowe believed it had the word Venus in its name.’

‘Unless her story was plucked from the fiction shelves.’

‘Quite,’ I said, my voice transmitting the message that Sarah was labouring her point. ‘Venus for the Lonely has been around since the days of the Kray twins and the Richardson brothers. If my memory hasn’t started on the slope to senility, thirty years ago the agency was run by an ex-prostitute who’d gone prematurely into whore-management. She was living with one of the “directors”, a Maltese slimeball, related to “Big Frank” Mifsud. Heard of him?’

‘Sort of,’ she said, vaguely.

‘Mifsud was in partnership with the Jewish East End creep Bernie Silver,’ I explained. ‘Hard to believe, but Mifsud was a former traffic cop in Malta. Despite being loaded, he dressed like a dosser. They made an unlikely partnership.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Silver was a north Londoner who’d served in the Parachute Regiment. His vice days began in the East End with a brothel in Brick Lane. That was the beginning of a vice empire that was to bankroll him to the dubious title of “Godfather of Soho”. Unlike Mifsud, he dressed impeccably and looked like a suave and dapper George Raft in one of those old black and white Hollywood gangster movies. Silver and Mifsud were as disparate as Laurel and Hardy, but not to be taken lightly. Together, they soon owned most of Soho’s strip joints. Silver was the brains, Mifsud the muscle.’

‘Are Mifsud and Silver still around?’

‘No, long gone – the way of the Krays and Richardsons;
star-polishers
in the great penitentiary of the sky.’

‘But what can you possibly hope to garner from this escort agency, Mike? Let’s take the mother’s account at face value: Tina just quit all those years ago. We’re not talking about a company like a bank or the Civil Service or the military that keep personal records indefinitely. The day Tina pulled the plug, everything about her would have been flushed.’

‘Wrong.’

Sarah cocked her head like a spaniel, her expression
challenging
, as if slightly pissed off with me.

‘It doesn’t work that way, never has.’

‘Educate me, then,’ she said, her tone unusually churlish.

‘Escort agencies and porn-brokers are kindred spirits. They retain everything, pictures, personal details, all the minutiae. Know why?’

‘You’re supposed to be doing the teaching, but I’ll play along: there’s always the chance that one of their girls – or ex-girls – becomes some sort of celebrity, a Mary Poppins-type film star or marries into royalty. Then all the tales of her tarting can be sold to one of the tacky tabloids for a bundle.’

‘Or used for blackmail and monthly pay-days for life.’

‘Even so, thirty years is a hell of a time to hang on to tat like that. Just think of the number of girls who must have excreted through that agency during that period. Tina’s fifty, right?’

‘
Right
,’ I echoed.

‘They wouldn’t be expecting her to suddenly become Hollywood’s newest discovery.’

‘We can mull over this for ever, but we’ll never know until we’ve tested the water,’ I sighed.

‘So go dip in your big toe,’ she said, like she was
my
boss.

‘I intend to. Tomorrow.’

‘Not too early, though,’ she said, impishly now. ‘
Whore-traders
aren’t noted for being early birds. They specialize in catching the nocturnal worms.’

Sarah had a flair for anarchy, an attractive feature in a servant of the Establishment.

There was only one important outstanding issue to be resolved that day: where would Sarah stay? The matter was solved early in the evening when I introduced her as my wife to my Oxford landlady, Betty Oliver.

As the two women shook hands, Betty said, ‘Been married long?’

‘Quite long enough,’ Sarah replied, roguishly. She loved these games, especially when I could do nothing but squirm.

V
enus for the Lonely was situated behind Park Lane, just off Shepherd Market. The premises comprised one room next to a pub and above a bakery. The pavement-level door was locked. Alongside the black-varnished door were three lit-up
bell-buttons
. The second and third floor bells were for “models” Melissa and Cristina.

I pressed the button for Venus. A husky female voice said, via the intercom, ‘Hell-ooh.’ There was heavy emphasis on ‘Hell’. The ‘ooh’ was as in
ooh-la-la
.

‘I’m looking for a lady,’ I said, confident that the double entendre would be a key to the door, which clicked open, without another word from ‘Husky’.

The stairs were the kind I’d mounted a million times in the course of my invasive work in the West End. You could be in one of the most salubrious neighbourhoods, but front doors could be exactly that – just a
front
. And behind those doors could be a moral cesspit. More often than not.

The stairs were uncarpeted. All light was artificial, provided by a single, jaundiced bulb; no lampshade. The peeling walls were painted a sickly green. The first-floor landing creaked under my modest weight. The door to Venus was ajar.

‘This way,’ Husky called out, hearing my footsteps.

The décor of the office was very different from the approach. For a start, there was a carpet. Alongside a window was a
burgundy-coloured chaise longue that was in reasonable condition. Framed soft-porn prints, art deco style, were hanging on all four walls. The rest of the furnishing was minimal. Husky sat behind a large, sturdy redwood desk, on which were stacked black-leather portfolios of the agency’s ‘talent’; also a couple of white phones and the two-way intercom speaker. I suspected that there was also a red panic-button somewhere down the side of her desk that, when pressed, would bring the blue cavalry to the rescue.

‘Hi,’ Husky said, cheerily, rising and offering a hand that was decorated with rings on every finger. ‘I’m Jasmine, sweet as the flower.’

‘Nice,’ I said, stupidly.

‘And you are?’

‘Not so nice. Michael Lorenzo.’

With a fleeting, sickly smile, she said, ‘Well, how do you do, Michael? Or do you prefer Mike?’

‘I do well, thank you, and Detective Inspector will do just fine.’

For a moment she appeared like a figure in a DVD when you have pressed the ‘pause’ button. Her large, puffy mouth was stuck half open in a ridiculous rictus, while her darkling eyes were frozen. I held my ID in front of her painted face and
sightless
gaze, but it was still a few more seconds before the DVD was running again.

‘I see,’ she said, finally, at last
really
seeing. Her hand was quickly withdrawn before I could squeeze her flesh. These sorts of folk weren’t inclined to do handshakes and other welcoming gestures with cops. ‘I assume this is a business call?’ Her voice had lost much of its husky texture, which must have been fake, like most of her face, though there didn’t seem to be much
imitation
about the breasts that were tippling over the top of her décolletage.

‘Strictly business,’ I said.

By now she had returned her substantial bum to the leather chair from whence it had risen like a full moon. She crossed her legs, made black and shiny by the tights that submarined down her undulating legs. Her skirt was as tight as a corset, with the hem nearer her navel than her knees. With her long fingers and brightly painted nails, she eyed me suspiciously, in the manner of a wife whose husband has called to say he’ll be working late at the office for the fifth successive evening.

‘How can I help?’ said Jasmine, without much enthusiasm, a touch of cockney creeping into her voice that was now
metallic-hard
. ‘You said you were looking for a
lady
. If that’s true, you’ve come to the right place. We have lots of ’em on our books.’ She patted the leather-bound portfolios to underscore her statement, much of her cockiness restored. ‘Much of the dating these days is done by Internet. We have our own website. If you visit it, you’ll see all the same girls that we have in our albums and you can browse at leisure.’

‘I’m not here to make a booking,’ I said, inviting myself to sit.

‘Then I don’t understand. You did say you were looking for a lady, right?’

‘Yes, but a specific lady. One who would have been on your books almost thirty years ago.’

The hiatus that followed was filled with suppressed laughter and overt incredulity. When finally she was able to speak, she said, ‘There’s no demand these days for grandmas.’ She thought she was funny.

‘I said the person I need to find was one of this agency’s girls about three decades ago.’

‘About the year I was hatched.’

Or spawned
. God, she was a scream, so she thought. ‘How far back do your records go?’

‘When a girl parts company with us, so does her CV.’

She was lying, of course, but it wasn’t yet showdown time. Diplomacy always had to be given a chance before going to war.

‘How long have you worked here, Jasmine?’

‘Five years, thereabouts.’

‘Who owns the business?’

Suddenly she wasn’t so comfortable, or so jasmine-sweet. Her eyes turned jumpy, as if spooked. ‘You want the name of my boss?’

‘No, I want the name of the proprietor.’

‘Same thing,’ she said, petulantly.

‘Fine. Give.’

‘Do I have to?’ she said, weakly.

Now her discomfort was even more pronounced. ‘The
information
you’re asking for is confidential. I’m forbidden from releasing those details.’

‘With clients, maybe; but not with the police, I can assure you. No, I’ll
promise
you.’

‘I’ll have to make a phone call.’

‘It’s your office and your phone,’ I said.

‘Would you mind stepping outside while I make this call?’

‘I would mind,’ I said, cementing my position in the chair.

Jasmine scowled effortlessly as she punched a number, going to ridiculous lengths to prevent my seeing the keys she was hitting. Didn’t she really realize that, with infinite ease, I could discover every number called, on any day, from this address?

A man answered. ‘Yes,
now
what is it?’ He spoke so loudly, I could hear clearly what he was saying, despite Jasmine
swivelling
away from me and pressing the receiver hard against her ear.

‘I have a cop here.’

‘What sort of cop, for fucksake? A traffic cop? A Keystone Cop?’

Jasmine smirked, suddenly pleased that her boss was shouting. ‘Plainclothes. Very
plain
clothes. Some sort of inspector.’

‘Vice?’

‘He never said.’

‘So what’s he want?’

‘You.’

‘Me! Shit! What for?’

‘About one of our ex-girls.’

‘Which girl?’

‘I don’t know. Ask him.’

‘Put him on.’

‘Here,’ she said, sulkily, handing me the phone.

As I introduced myself, oozing civility, I experienced the disorienting feeling of speaking in a vacuum or echo chamber.

‘I hope you haven’t got a problem with my agency?’ he said, his rancorous tone now dipped in sugary insincerity.

‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ I said, without menace.

‘So what’s this about a girl?’

‘She won’t be a
girl
now. Tina Marlowe, working name Lolita. But that was thirty years ago.’

‘Hey, hey, wait a minute, did you say three-zero years ago?’ he guffawed, though still cagey.

‘I did.’

An exhalation of relief blew down the line. ‘Well, that was long before my tenure began. I’ve had this business less than twenty years.’

‘And you are?’

‘You want my name?’ he said, as if I’d asked for a mortgage loan.

‘Just for the record.’

‘I don’t like being on records,’ he vacillated.

‘Nevertheless …’

‘Lenny Diamond. My business is straight, understand? No rackets.’

‘Did I suggest otherwise?’

‘No, but I just wanted to make it clear. I know you people.’

‘
Know
us? Do you mean you’re a known item to us?’

‘No, I don’t,’ he protested, trenchantly. ‘I’m clean, that’s all I meant and nothing more.’

‘I believe you. So who did you buy this business from?’

‘A guy.’

‘A
guy
with a name?’

‘Frankie.’

‘Just Frankie?’

‘Frankie Cullis.’

‘And where can I find him now?’

‘How should I know? I’m not his keeper.’

‘It would help if you did know because then I’d walk right out of
your
life and into
his
.’

Now he had a real incentive to co-operate.

‘He moved out of London. Went south, to the coast. Last I heard, he was living in Bournemouth.’

‘Retired?’

‘Maybe. We never kept in touch. We were never buddies. I didn’t even know him that well when I bought him out. I think he opened a bar and started some sort of girlie agency down there, supplying strippers for stag parties and escorts; I heard something like that on the grapevine.’

‘In Bournemouth?’

‘Bournemouth or Brighton; one or the other. What’s the
difference
?’

‘Only about a hundred miles, three counties, and a culture gap as wide as a strip joint from the Royal Opera House,’ I said.

‘Not much difference, after all, then.’

‘Got a number for him?’

‘Haven’t you been listening?’

‘How about the name of the bar?’

‘Inspector, he’s been off my radar for light years. Now, that all?’

‘For now.’ My favourite one-liner sign-off. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Any time,’ he said, duplicitously.

I passed the phone back to Jasmine.

With her eyes throwing daggers in my direction, she said into the mouthpiece, ‘Sorry to have troubled you again, Lenny.’

‘Get rid of the jerk,’ I heard Lenny say, snarling.

‘Just going,’ I said, sufficiently loudly for Lenny to hear.

Jasmine blushed. Bless her. Such innocence! I picked myself up, brushed myself down, and ambled to the door, departing with a one-fingered salute over my shoulder.

‘Good riddance!’ Jasmine seethed.

‘Mutual,’ I retorted, resorting to kindergarten retaliation.