Sarah Pritchard led Bull along a narrow corridor lined with rooms to a large office at the far end. She opened the door and waved him inside. “Take a seat,” she said, gesturing towards a brown leather sofa by the far wall. Apart from the sofa, the office contained an old mahogany desk, a couple of dented filing cabinets and a small fridge.
As he sat down, Steve’s eye was drawn to a large colourful painting that hung on the wall behind the desk. It featured a pair of carefree teenagers, siblings judging by the striking similarity of their facial features, standing side by side in a farmyard. Both had wavy blond hair, with the boy’s being only marginally shorter than his sister’s. Both were clad in well-worn dungarees and mud-stained work boots. One held a rake, the other a hoe. Both were smiling contentedly, and the boy had an arm draped protectively around the girl’s shoulders. The girl looked vaguely familiar.
“That’s me and my twin brother, Edward Sutton,” Sarah said, following his gaze. “We were inseparable in our youth. I founded this Mission five years ago to honour his memory.”
“What happened to him?” Steve asked.
“He died in his mid-twenties from a heroin overdose. Actually, his body was found in a squat not too far from here.”
Bull could see that the pain of her loss was still raw, even after all these years. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “Was he living rough?”
She gave him a sad smile. “Eddie and I came from what you might call a very privileged background. Unfortunately, after Eddie moved to London he started mixing with the wrong people and they got him hooked on drugs.”
“I see,” Bull told her, not knowing what else to say.
“When my father passed and I inherited his wealth, I decided to put some of the money to good use. It was too late to help my brother, of course, but at least I could do something to help the many others like him.” Sarah Pritchard sat down next to Steve Bull, closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “But that’s enough about me and my family. Why don’t you tell me what brings you to the Mission?”
“Well,” Steve began, “a young sex worker called Tracey Phillips was found murdered at a building site in Quaker Street in the early hours of yesterday morning.” He removed the photograph that Rita had supplied from his inside jacket pocket and showed it to her. “Do you know her?” he asked.
Sarah studied the photograph carefully for a few moments and then shook her head. “No, she’s not one of ours,” she said with certainty.
Steve pocketed the photograph. “It’s possible that some of the other working girls have information that would help us identify and catch her killer, but none of them are willing to talk to us.”
Sarah Pritchard understood where he was going with this immediately. “I see,” she said. “I’m guessing you’re hoping that we might be able to persuade them to speak to you?”
Steve nodded. “Basically, yes.”
“Why us? There are a lot of local charities that might be better placed to do this sort of thing than we are. After all, we mainly work with the homeless.”
“One of our colleagues recommended you. Besides, isn’t your husband on the Lay Advisory Group for the borough?”
She nodded. “Simon does sit on the LAG. Did Charles Porter recommend us?”
“Actually, it wasn’t Chief Superintendent Porter, it was a civilian analyst called Brian Johnson, who used to work in the Borough Intelligence Unit but recently joined us at AMIP.”
Sarah shook her head. “It’s not a name that I’m familiar with, but I’m flattered your colleague thinks that highly of us.” Sitting with her hands clasped on her lap, she studied him carefully. “So, what do you know about the work we do here?” she asked.
Bull smiled guiltily. “To be honest, I know absolutely nothing.”
“Let me enlighten you, then,” she offered.
Inwardly, Steve Bull groaned. He didn’t care what they did. He just wanted their help to win over the sex workers so that he could get justice for Tracey Philips. “Please do,” he said, trying to sound interested.
“At the Sutton Mission, we firmly believe that everyone who comes through our doors deserves a second chance, regardless of their background or offending history,” Sarah Pritchard said with the pride and passion of a zealot.
Bull smiled diplomatically. Experience had taught him that some people were rotten to the core and really didn’t deserve a second chance, but, as he was trying to get her onboard, he refrained from saying so.
“We hold wellbeing classes and provide basic office skills training and career advice for those trying to re-enter the workforce. We’ve developed a specialist support scheme for individuals with complex needs, encouraging them to address the issues that caused their homelessness, prostitution or addiction. We’re helping them to acquire the skills and confidence necessary to make life-changing decisions and re-integrate into society.”
Bull gave an appreciative nod to demonstrate that he was paying attention, but in truth, he was only half listening. Tyler had certainly been right when he’d said it wasn’t a good idea to send Tony Dillon along.
“The Mission has several full-time members of staff and a wonderful team of volunteers who are all dedicated to eradicating the root cause of homelessness in Whitechapel. Our volunteers don’t just distribute clothing and other donated items; they work one-on-one with people who are homeless or trying to cope with addiction. Every morning we lay on a breakfast club for the homeless, and every evening we send out a mini-bus to round up those most in need of support and find overnight placements for them in local hostels.”
“You clearly do a lot of very good work,” Steve said,” hoping she had finished and they could get back on topic.
She hadn’t.
“This Mission is open three-hundred-sixty-five days a year,” Sarah continued. “It’s not unheard of for as many as one-hundred people to pass through our
