Onstage Elisa Velasco is already speaking. A wisp of a thing with green eyes and fair hair, she has the sort of accent that makes northern women sound feisty and no-nonsense. Dressed in a knee-length pencil skirt and a tight cashmere sweater, she looks like a World War II pinup girl.
Behind her, projected onto a white screen, is an image of Mary Magdalene painted by the Italian artist Artemisia Gentileschi. The initials PAPT are printed in the bottom corner and in smaller letters: PROSTITUTES ARE PEOPLE TOO.
Elisa spies me and looks relieved. I try to slip along the side of the hall without interrupting her, but she taps the microphone and people turn.
“Now let me introduce the man you have
There are one or two ironic handclaps. It’s a tough audience. Soup gurgles in my stomach as I climb the steps at the side of the stage and walk into the circle of brightness. My left arm is trembling and I grasp the back of a chair to keep my hands steady.
I clear my throat and look at a point above their heads.
“Prostitutes account for the largest number of unsolved killings in this country. Forty-eight have been murdered in the past seven years. At least five are raped every day in London. A dozen more are assaulted, robbed or abducted. They aren’t attacked because they’re attractive, or asking for it, but because they’re accessible and vulnerable. They are easier to acquire and more anonymous than almost anyone else in society…”
Now I lower my eyes and connect with their faces, relieved to have their attention. A woman at the front has a purple satin collar on her coat and bright lemon-colored gloves. Her legs are crossed and the coat has fallen open to reveal a creamy thigh. The thin black straps of her shoes crisscross up her calves.
“Sadly, you can’t always pick and choose your customers. They come in all shapes and sizes, some drunk, some nasty— ”
“Some fat,” yells a bottle blond.
“And smelly,” echoes a teenager wearing dark glasses.
I let the laughter subside. Most of these women don’t trust me. I don’t blame them. There are risks in all their relationships, whether with pimps, customers or a psychologist. They have learned not to trust men.
I wish I could make the danger more real for them. Maybe I should have brought photographs. One recent victim was found with her womb lying on the bed beside her. On the other hand these women don’t
“I haven’t come here to lecture you. I hope to make you a little safer. When you’re working the streets at night how many friends or family know where you are? If you disappeared how long would it take for someone to report you missing?”
I let the question drift across them like a floating cobweb from the rafters. My voice has grown hoarse and sounds too harsh. I let go of the chair and begin walking to the front of the stage. My left leg refuses to swing and I half stumble, before correcting. They glance at each other— wondering what to make of me.
“Stay off the streets and if you can’t then take precautions. Operate a buddy system. Make sure someone is taking down the plate number when you get into a car. Only work in well-lit areas and organize safe houses where you can take clients rather than using their cars…”
Four men have entered the hall and taken up positions near the doors. They’re clearly policemen in plain clothes. As the women realize I hear mutters of disbelief and resignation. Several of them glare angrily at me as though it’s my doing.
“Everybody stay calm. I’ll sort this out.” I carefully swing down from the stage. I want to intercept Elisa before she reaches them.
The man in charge is easy to spot. He has a ruddy pockmarked face, a punch-worn nose and crooked teeth. His crumpled gray overcoat is like a culinary road map of stains and spills. He’s wearing a rugby tie, with a silver- plate tiepin of the Tower of Pisa.
I like him. He isn’t into clothes. Men who take too much care with their presentation can look ambitious but also vain. When he talks he looks into the distance as if trying to see what’s coming. I’ve seen the same look on farmers who never seem comfortable focusing on anything too close, particularly faces. His smile is apologetic.
“Sorry to gate-crash your convention,” he says wryly, addressing Elisa.
“Well fuck off then!” She says it with a sweet voice and a poisonous smile.
“It’s lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss, or should I say
I step between them. “How can we help you?”
“Who are you?” He looks me up and down.
“Professor Joseph O’Loughlin.”
“No shit! Hey, fellas, it’s that guy from the ledge. The one who talked down that kid.” His voice rumbles hoarsely. “I never seen anyone more terrified.” His laugh is like a marble dropped down a drain. Another thought occurs to him. “You’re that expert on hookers, aren’t you? You wrote a book or something.”
“A research paper.”
He shrugs ambivalently and motions to his men, who separate and move down the aisles.
Clearing his throat, he addresses the room.
“My name is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz of the Metropolitan Police. Three days ago the body of a young woman was found in Kensal Green, West London. We estimate she died about two weeks ago. At this stage we have been unable to identify her but we have reason to believe that she may have been a prostitute. You are all going to be shown an artist’s impression of the young woman. If any of you recognize her I would appreciate if you could make yourself known to us. We’re after a name, an address, an associate, a friend— anyone who might have known her.”
Blinking rapidly, I hear myself ask, “Where was she found?”
“In a shallow grave beside the Grand Union Canal.”
The hall seems cavernous and echoing. Drawings are passed from hand to hand. The noise level rises. A languid wrist is thrust toward me. The sketch looks like one of those charcoal drawings you see tourists posing for in Covent Garden. She’s young with short hair and large eyes. That describes a dozen women in the hall.
Five minutes later the detectives return, shaking their heads at Ruiz. The detective inspector grunts and wipes his misshapen nose on a handkerchief.
“You know this is an illegal gathering,” he says, glancing at the tea urn. “It’s an offense to allow prostitutes to assemble and consume refreshments.”
“The tea is for me,” I say.
He laughs dismissively. “You must drink a lot of tea. Either that or you take me for an idiot.” He’s challenging me.
“I know what you are,” I bristle.
“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“You’re a country boy who found himself in the big city. You grew up on a farm, milking cows and collecting eggs. You played rugby until some sort of injury ended your career, but you still wonder if you could have gone all the way. Since then it’s been a struggle to keep the weight off. You’re divorced or widowed, which explains why your shirt needs a decent iron and your suit needs dry-cleaning. You like a beer after work and a curry after that. You’re trying to give up smoking, which is why you keep fumbling in your pockets for chewing gum. You think gyms are for wankers, unless they have a boxing ring and punch bags. And the last time you took a holiday you went to Italy because someone told you it was wonderful, but you ended up hating the food, the people and the wine.”
I’m surprised by how cold and indifferent I sound. It’s as though I’ve been infected by the prejudices swirling around me.
“Very impressive. Is that your party trick?”
“No,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed. I want to apologize but don’t know where to start.
Ruiz fumbles in his pockets and then stops himself. “Tell me something, Professor. If you can work out all that just by looking at me, how much can a dead body tell you?”
“What do you mean?”
“My murder victim. How much could you tell me about her if I showed you her body?”
I’m not sure if he’s being serious. In theory it might be possible, but I deal in people’s minds; I read their mannerisms and body language; I look at the clothes they wear and the way they interact; I listen for changes in
