Jack blew out his cheeks and turned his attention to the mound of paperwork sprawled across his desk. Like the furry little Tribbles in Star Trek, the pages seemed to be self-replicating at an alarming rate.
CHAPTER 9
The Sutton Mission was located in Old Montague Street, just east of the junction with Brick Lane, a few doors along from The Archers Public House. The double fronted shop had a green façade with the words: ‘The Sutton Mission’ printed in bold white capitals above the entrance. It was nearly ten-thirty by the time Steve Bull pushed open the door, triggering a very loud and very annoying entry buzzer.
Biiiiiinnnng-booooooonnng.
He had the hump; partly because it had taken the best part of ten minutes to find a parking space, and partly because, despite all the flannel the boss had given him about him being the right man for the job, Steve couldn’t help but feel he had been lumbered.
A small glass partition in the wall, like the serving hatches he’d seen in houses built in the 1970s, separated the receptionist’s office from the waiting area, which contained half a dozen worn fabric chairs and a battered coffee table laden with out of date health magazines. A sprinkling of watercolours broke up the obligatory plethora of posters promoting local self-help groups, walk-in medical centres, and soup kitchens. The walls themselves were in desperate need of a fresh lick of paint, and the grey industrial carpet that covered the floor had obviously seen plenty of wear during its long lifetime. While the décor was a little shabby, at least the Sutton Mission was clean and odour free.
“Help you?” a bored voice enquired from within the serving hatch. It emanated from a twenty-something Asian girl in baggy blue jeans and a red woolly jumper, who was sitting at a cluttered desk inside the tiny office, filing her fingernails. Her jet-black hair was swept back and tied into a ponytail that reached just below her shoulders. The face, while undeniably pretty, was every bit as bored as the voice. A radio was playing quietly on a shelf just above and behind her head, and Bull could just about make out some of the words from Elton John’s 1973 ballad, Daniel.
“Hello,” he said, leaning into the small opening to show his warrant card. “My name’s Steve Bull. I’m a Detective Sergeant from the murder squad. I wonder if I might have a word with whoever is in charge.”
The receptionist regarded Bull with interest. “That sounds exciting,” she said. “Is it to do with the girl who was murdered in Quaker Street? I heard about that on the radio.”
Before he could answer, the telephone rang and she immediately picked it up, motioning Bull to wait with an upraised index finger. “Hello, The Sutton Mission, Charise speaking, how can I help you?” Her features reverted to ‘bored’ while she listened to the caller speaking. “Okay, thanks for letting us know. I’ll let Mrs Pritchard know you’re running late.” She hung up and scribbled a note on the pad in front of her.
“As I was saying –” Steve said.
Charise held up her finger again. “Sorry, hon,” she said. “Just gotta let the boss know her ten-thirty is gonna be late.” She dialled an internal four-digit number, which was picked up almost instantly. “Oh, hello, Sarah. Just to let you and Dr Pritchard know, Jim Sellers has phoned to say he’s going to be delayed by about thirty minutes due to bad traffic. He sends his apologies and promises he’ll be as quick as he can.”
As soon as she hung up, Steve tried again. “As I was saying…”
“Oh yes,” she smiled at him conspiratorially. “You were just about to tell me all about that grisly murder.”
“Actually, Miss, I was going to ask if I can speak to your boss. Sarah, was it?”
The look Charise gave him implied that he’d just deprived her of the only excitement her otherwise boring day would contain, but she redialed the extension she’d rung a few seconds earlier without protesting. “Hi, Sarah – me again. I’ve got a police officer here who wants to talk to you about that murdered prostitute.” She looked up at Bull and said, “Yes, very important from the sound of it, and very hush-hush, too”. She shook her head in response to something her boss had just said and gave him a sad pout. “No, he won’t tell me anything more, says he needs to speak to you in person.”
Bull shrugged apologetically. Sorry, he mouthed.
Charise cradled the phone. “Sarah will be right out,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“For the record,” Charise said, smiling knowingly, “I would have cracked you, given a few more minutes. Not that it really matters. Sarah will tell me all about it when you’ve gone.”
Bull grinned back at her. “I’m sure she will,” he said.
A door at the far end of the waiting area opened and a slender, middle-aged woman with silvery blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and a radiant smile emerged. She wore faded jeans and a blue V-neck sweater over a white cotton blouse. A worn pair of Timberlands completed the outfit.
“Detective Sergeant Bull?” she enquired.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bull replied, guessing that this must be Sarah. The woman stepped forward to shake his hand warmly. “I’m Sarah Pritchard. I run The Sutton Mission. Let’s go to my office where we can talk in private. Please come this way,” she said, retreating through the door she’d appeared from.
As he followed, Bull glanced back over his shoulder at the receptionist. “Nice to have met you, Charise,” he said.
Charise gave him an impish wink and
