“So, how did you get on over the weekend?” Simon Pritchard asked his wife, more out of politeness than interest. Much to Sarah’s ire, he had flatly refused to join the group of volunteers she’d assembled to assist the local constabulary in canvassing the area’s sex workers, stating that he preferred managing the business side of the operation to being ‘hands on’ with the clients in the way she so dearly loved to be. Besides, he told her, there was a black-tie event at his Masonic Lodge on Saturday night, and she knew he hated to miss those.
“It went well, all things considering,” she replied.
“Did any of the girls you spoke to see anything?” he asked.
No, they didn’t; at least none of them admitted to seeing anything.”
Pritchard huffed. “A complete waste of your time, then,” he said, dismissively. “You should have come with me. I had a whale of a time.”
Sarah bristled. He could be such a smarmy bastard at times. “Actually, it wasn’t a complete waste of time. I doubt the girls would have spoken to the police at all if we hadn’t been there, and we managed to interest a few of them in our intervention project. If even one of them takes up our offer, that’ll be another girl off the streets and out of danger.”
Simon Pritchard snorted derisively. “Trouble is, for every one you save two more take their place. Besides, most of the girls that we supposedly ‘save’ end up back on the streets within a few months of leaving the Mission. Makes you wonder why we bother.”
Sarah thumped her desk so hard it made her hand sting. “It doesn’t make me wonder,” she snapped. Tears prickled at her eyes. “I don’t know why you bother if you think what we’re trying to achieve here is such a waste of time.”
No one could ever accuse Sarah of being a quitter and in spite of everything that had gone wrong between them she remained fully committed to working through the problems in their marriage, which ironically were all of his making. He claimed he was equally committed to sorting things out, but when he spoke so dismissively about the Mission and its legacy, it made her wonder if her husband was less worried about losing her than he was about losing the money and lifestyle her inheritance had given him.
As was his way, Simon Pritchard immediately backed down and showed contrition. “I’m so sorry, dear,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got a bit of a migraine this morning, and you know how cranky that can make me. I didn’t mean it the way it came across. I’m sure the police were very grateful for all the help they received, and I agree wholeheartedly that any situation that gives us a chance to promote the good work we do should be embraced.”
Sarah nodded, seemingly appeased. “They were very grateful,” she said, recalling how pleased Steve Bull and his colleagues had been about the support the volunteers had given them at such short notice.
“There is one thing that has come to light, though,” Sarah admitted uneasily, “and I don’t know if I should mention it to Steve or not.”
“Do tell,” he said, intrigued.
“Last night one of the sex workers pulled me aside and confided that she was having real problems with one of her clients. Apparently, he’s a bit of a deviant.”
“Aren’t they all in your book?” he said sarcastically.
“I make no secret of the fact that I am repulsed by any man who feels the need to pay for sex,” she said, her eyes boring into his like twin laser beams, “but this man doesn’t only want sex, he gets off on hurting the girls, and he often says very disturbing things when he’s – you know – approaching climax.”
“Like what?” Pritchard asked, sitting forward expectantly.
Sarah shook her head in disgust. “He describes the ways he’d like to hurt them in graphic detail. It seems to really turn him on.”
“Why haven’t you told the police?” he asked.
She gave a lame shrug. “The girl asked me not to. Apparently, this client claims to be a local police officer. She caught a glimpse of his rank, or rather his lack of it, on Saturday night, as he’d forgotten to remove his lanyard from around his neck when he visited her. It transpires that he’s actually a member of the civil staff.”
“What about his name,” Pritchard asked. “Did she see that?”
Sarah nodded. “Yes, he told her his name was Brian, but the name on the badge said Henry Boyden.”
“Bloody hell,” Pritchard said, looking shocked. “Surely it’s not the same Henry Boyden who volunteers here?”
“I think it is,” Sarah said, “and I think I’m going to have to break her confidence and tell Steve Bull.”
◆◆◆
“Victim number two is Alice Patricia Pilkington, currently using the street name of ‘Natasha,’ Tim Barton said. “She was a forty-five-year-old prostitute, originally from Liverpool but more recently residing on the Isle of Dogs. No known dependents or relatives, at least not in the big smoke. We identified her through her fingerprints. Unsurprisingly, she has some petty form for soliciting, theft-shoplifting and being drunk and disorderly. She wasn’t a drug addict, although she apparently liked a good drink.”
“Don’t we all,” Charlie White said, longingly.
“True,” Barton said, “but it looks like she was shit faced more often than not. According to the pathologist she had chronic progressive deterioration of the liver.”
“What does that mean?” Grier asked Murray, who was sitting beside him.
“It means she was a pisshead,” Murray replied sarcastically, and a little too loudly.
“Quiet.” Holland barked. Murray shifted uneasily in his seat. Grier folded his arms and sat up straight, like a schoolboy at assembly time.
“She was also syphilitic, and it looks like she had Chlamydia, too,” Barton said, reading from his notes.
After making sure that Holland was looking elsewhere, Murray leaned into Grier and shielded his mouth with his hand. “Oi,” he whispered, “do you know what the doctor
