‘You said two days.’
‘I meant the day after the next day.’
‘I thought you meant two full days I had to wait.’
The man sniffed. ‘Never mind. We can help you.’ He opened a drawer and tossed her two keys on an inexpensive key fob. ‘It’s 123 Claremont Road. Do you know it?’
Couldn’t be better, Yewdall thought, but said, ‘No. . I can find it.’
‘Left out the door, on the left just before the railway line.’
‘Got it.’
‘Your room will be the ground floor room, on the left once you are over the threshold.’
‘OK.’
‘But you’ll be working.’
‘Not on the street.’
‘No. Other jobs.’
‘OK.’
Penny Yewdall walked the greasy pavement in a steady drizzle to the address she had been given, the very address central to the investigation, and her room was the room in which the Welsh girl, Gaynor Davies, had been strangled. It could not, she once again thought, it just could not be better. She reached the house and rang the front doorbell. There was no answer. She tried the first key in the lock. It didn’t fit and so she let herself in with the second of the two keys. The house was gloomy. Even mid-morning it had a gloom about it and the smell of damp was strong and gripped her chest. ‘Hello,’ she called. Her voice echoed in the hallway. She walked forward and closed the door behind her, and then let herself into the ground floor room to the left of the hallway. She stepped into the room and stopped. A man stood in the room — tall, muscular, cold eyes. Yewdall and the man stared at each other.
‘I was told this was my room,’ Yewdall spoke nervously.
‘Where you been, girl?’
‘None of your business.’
The slap sent Yewdall reeling backwards until she fell against the wall and then to the floor. The urge to retaliate was strong but she resisted it. The handler was correct. She had to role-play, and weakened, emaciated female dossers take the slaps, they don’t hit back.
‘Where you been!’ The man advanced and stood over her, fists clenched. ‘Where you been! Where you been!’ The man’s eyes burned with anger.
‘Begging. .’ Yewdall panted. ‘I’ve been begging.’
‘Make any money?’
‘Hardly nothing. .’
The man pulled her up by her upper arm and threw her against the wall. He felt in her pockets and pulled out a handful of loose change, and the plastic bag containing twenty pence pieces. ‘What’s this?’ He held the bag up to her face.
‘Money. It’s all I have.’
‘Since when do dossers collect twenty pence pieces?’ Unlike the large, black police officer, the breath of this man was hot and malodorous, a mixture, it seemed to Yewdall, of gum disease, tobacco and alcohol.
‘I nipped a guy for them. He was milking parking meters.’
‘You nipped a guy for them but you won’t work King’s Cross? Mr Yates, he won’t like that.’ The man gripped her forearm.
‘Who’s he?’
‘The man. . he’s the man you work for. You live in his house, then you work for Mr Yates and Gail Bowling — you work for them both.’
‘But I knew the guy.’ Penny Yewdall turned her head away; she looked down towards the floor. ‘Known him for years. We had a thing going once so I didn’t see myself as being a brass. . he wasn’t a stranger.’
‘How does he do it, the parking meters?’
‘He uses tweezers — slides them in and the coin pops back out. Filth to worry about and CCTV cameras but he’s real quick, real lively.’
‘In London?’
‘No. . up in Stoke-on-Trent.’
The man sneered and relaxed his grip, but still held her. ‘Now I know you’re telling the truth — can’t do that in London but up in Stoke they’re still fighting the Second World War. . primitive. Anyway, get yourself washed and clean your clothes, Mr Yates wants to see you — you’ll be working tonight.’ He dropped the bag of coins on the floor and let go of Yewdall’s arm, then left the room, and went out of the house.
Yewdall stood dazed for a moment, and then collected herself and went to the bathroom, where she stripped and washed herself, and then washed her clothing, rinsing them as much as she could. She wrapped herself in a towel and unlocked the bathroom door. Josie Pinder stood in the hallway. The two women looked at each other.
‘I heard you come in,’ Pinder said — short, frail, she had to look up at Yewdall. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Just a slap. . yes. . OK. . I’ve had worse. He says I’m going to work.’
‘Yes, they start you as soon as. That’s Sonya’s towel. .’
‘I. . sorry, I don’t have one. . I was told to wash.’
‘She’s out, dry yourself and put it back; I’ll tell her I used it.’
‘Thanks,’ Yewdall mumbled. ‘I have clothes that need drying.’
‘Bring them to my room; I’ll put them over the radiator for you.’
‘Good of you.’
‘OK, just do as you’re told; that way you survive. The last girl in that room, a Welsh girl, teenage runaway, she made good money working King’s Cross. . Michael brought her back here.’
‘Michael?’
‘The guy who had the room, he died on Hampstead Heath. . in the snow. He brought her back one night, bringing her off the street. . rescuing her. . left her here; said he would get her money to send her back to Wales but Rusher and “Mongoose Charlie” came round and strangled her. They made us watch. Watching someone get strangled. .’
‘Oh. .’
‘Well, that was “Mongoose Charlie” just now. They work for Yates. They left the Welsh girl in the room, told us we’d seen nothing, but said if we grassed then that would happen to us.’
‘Oh. .’ Yewdall sank back against the wall.
‘Yeah. . right. .’ Pinder slid past her. ‘Bring your kit to my room. That one — ’ she pointed to the door at the end of the landing — ‘you haven’t got much there so they won’t take long to dry — heater’s full on.’
The man closed the curtains of the front room window and sat in the deep armchair and picked up the telephone. He dialled the number which he had been given. ‘They’ve been,’ he said when his call was answered. ‘Checking up on her, heavy duty boys.’
‘Yes, we know. I mean we know they’re a heavy team,’ the voice replied. ‘What did they want?’
‘Usual stuff. . what you’d expect. . asking for her. I gave the angry father response. . don’t know where she is, she put her mother through hell. . the number agreed, sent her to good schools, Our Lady of Lourdes. . so she brings trouble to the door and runs away, sent us a postcard from London, so that’s where she is, London — that’s what I said.’
‘Good. When was that?’
‘Midday.’
‘Midday today?’
‘Yes. I didn’t phone you earlier because I can be seen from the street, and it would have looked suspicious if I had picked up the blower immediately.’
‘Yes. . good thinking.’
‘They hung about. They waited. Two guys with pinched faces — had wrong ’uns written all over them. I left the house and walked to the shop at the end of the street. One of them followed me so they were checking me out. They just sat in the car smoking fags, yellow BMW, no idea of blending.’
