Was the man a pimp or a punter? Either way, Jack doubted that he had anything illegal on him; he had been far too cocky, almost seeking confrontation.
“Did you see that ugly bugger in the BMW?” Dillon asked, popping his head into the car.
“I did,” Tyler confirmed.
“Well worth a stop, that one.” Sometimes Dillon longed for the good old days when they had been free to act on impulse and get involved with anything they came across.
Tyler smiled nostalgically. He knew exactly what his friend meant. It was at this instant that he spotted Bull and White escorting the limping form of Sandra Dawson towards their car. The smile vanished instantly, and he got out of the car to meet them.
One of his staff joked that her legs were almost as bandy as Whitey’s, and there was laughter, which Jack silenced with a stare.
“What the bloody hell’s going on here?” Dillon demanded, guessing the answer and not liking it one bit.
“Tell me this isn’t what I think it is, Steve,” Tyler asked. The calmness of his voice belied the anger he felt inside.
Bull glanced at White for support, but his colleague’s gaze was riveted on the floor.
“Excuse me, how long till we get to the cop shop?” Sandra inquired, breaking the awkward silence. “Only I’m desperate for a wee.”
“Well?” Tyler said, irritation creeping into his voice.
Bull shrugged apologetically. “It’s a long story, sir.”
◆◆◆
Unexpectedly, the arrest of Sandra Dawson gave the Murder Squad its first break, although by the time this became apparent Tyler, along with the rest of the team, was at home fast asleep.
As an unspoken punishment Bull and White had been left to process Dawson and make their own way back to Arbour Square, and Tyler had made it clear that whatever time they finished he expected them to be there for the meeting.
The tape-recorded interview was to be conducted in a small, windowless and sparsely furnished room in the custody suite at Whitechapel police station.
They waited impatiently for their turn, and even though they managed to pull some strings, there was still two hours between arrival and interview.
Bull wrinkled his nose as he ushered Dawson inside. The room was a disgrace: rubbish on the floor, paper strewn across the small table, a crushed Seven-Up can lying on the floor right next to the overflowing trash basket. To add insult to injury, the previous prisoner – at least they assumed it was the prisoner and not the interviewing officers – had left a pungent legacy of stale body odour and rancid farts.
Steve indicated that Sandra should sit down across the table from him. He let Charlie deliver the usual pre-interview spiel about what the process entailed, wondering if she could understand a single word he was saying; it wasn’t always easy to follow Charlie with his broken nose induced nasal problems and thick Glaswegian accent.
As he unpacked the cellophane wrapped audiocassettes, Steve reflected that he was probably in for a roasting next time he saw the boss. Well, sometimes shit happened. All he could do was explain how circumstances beyond his control had forced his hand and hope that Tyler would understand.
In truth, neither officer expected the interview to yield anything productive in relation to the murder. They just wanted to ask her about the Class ‘A’ drugs she’d thrown away and get her bailed as quickly as possible pending the lab results. Dawson waived her right to have a solicitor present, which they were grateful for because it would speed the whole process up.
Steve opened the interview by explaining that he and White were part of an enquiry team who had been canvassing working girls in the area in relation to a murder investigation, and that was why they had approached her.
“Hang on a minute, love. Murder? What murder? What are you talking about? I thought this was just about drugs.”
“A working girl was murdered last night.” Charlie White explained impatiently. He was annoyed that she’d interrupted; the interview would only take five minutes if she’d refrain from speaking other than to answer a direct question.
“What did he say?” Dawson asked, looking at Bull for help.
“A working girl was murdered last night,” Bull translated.
“Oh, my gawd. That’s terrible,” Sandra said, clearly shocked by the news. “But what’s it got to do with me?”
“Her name was Tracey Phillips,” Steve said, watching carefully for any sign of a reaction. “Did you know her?”
Sandra gasped as though she had just been punched, and the colour drained from her chubby face. “Oh gawd, no,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Please tell me it’s not true. Not poor little Tracey.”
As the murder squad detectives shared a look of surprise, Sandra buried her head in her hands and began to cry uncontrollably. After a pregnant pause, Steve fumbled inside his pocket for a clean tissue, which he handed over awkwardly. Charlie White looked down at his watch and grimaced as he realised any hope they had of grabbing some kip before the meeting had just evaporated.
Suddenly, Sandra looked up, her moist eyes wide with horror. “Oh, my gawd, I think I know who did it,” she exclaimed.
“Who did what?” Charlie demanded impatiently, convinced she was still away with the fairies after smoking too much crack.
Steve Bull placed a restraining hand on his arm. “What do you mean, Sandra?”
Sandra Dawson didn’t respond. Tracey’s failure to come back and collect the crack she had been so desperate to get her hands on was completely out of character, and it had worried Sandra. So much so that she had popped over to the squat Tracey usually dossed down in this afternoon to make sure she was okay. No one there had seen her for a couple of days. The fact that this was not unusual did nothing to ease the fear gnawing at Sandra’s insides like a bad case of indigestion. Now, a disturbing chain of thoughts exploded inside
