‘If we tread on too many toes, we could find ourselves back on the street directing traffic.’
‘If we don’t tread a little harder, we may as well let a murderer get away free and easy. Is that what you want?’ Isaac asked.
‘Okay, I’ll talk to the commissioner, ask him to coordinate.’ The detective superintendent could see his career plateauing, just as he started on the ladder to the commissioner’s office. He wanted the top job in the Met, although it was still ten years away at least. He had no great wish to broach the subject with the commissioner, and he certainly did not relish confronting the father of the illegitimate child.
***
Marion Robertson had been on the phone to Farhan. The other escort was ready to meet him. He scheduled the meeting for the next day at four in the afternoon. Marion said that would be suitable, and that Olivia would meet him out in Richmond, close to the park. He allowed himself forty minutes to get there.
The next day he was late. She was angry. ‘I agreed to give you ten minutes of my time, and you arrive late,’ she said. Farhan remembered Samantha and how pleasant she had been. He could not say the same about Olivia. She was plainly dressed, her hair pulled back tight. She wore an old raincoat, and clothes that looked neither fashionable nor modern.
‘My apologies, traffic.’
‘I don’t have much time,’ she replied brusquely.
‘This is a murder investigation. You must appreciate that I may need longer.’
‘That may be, but I’m the designated mother. I’m picking up my two children as well as next door’s.’
‘If we can’t conclude today, then maybe another time,’ Farhan said.
‘Secrecy is paramount. You do understand?’
‘Yes,’ he said. She gave a weak smile, the first sign of friendship. The smile changed her whole persona, so much so that the dowdy clothes and the severe hairstyle faded into the distance.
‘You’re not going to ask me why I prostitute myself, are you?’
‘I’m not here to offer an opinion. I’m here because a man was murdered. A man you were intimate with.’
‘I would hardly call screwing a man for money “intimate”.’
‘What would you call it?’
‘A financial necessity.’ She kept looking at her watch.
‘How long have you got?’
‘Twenty minutes maximum. I’ve been working all day, explains the clothes.’
‘What type of work?’
‘I work in a factory, manual work. It’s dusty and not very pleasant.’
‘Why do that if you can work as an escort and make decent money?’
‘There you go, the same as the rest, aiming to reform me. Mind you, most want to tell me to work in an office, find a decent husband. At least you’re original.’
‘Believe me. I have no intention of reform. I need to find out what I can about the death of Charles Sutherland. Your background is relevant if it removes you from suspicion.’
‘Or makes me more likely to be the murderer of that horrible man.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right.’
‘Then maybe you can answer the question why you work in a factory.’
‘You’ll need to know something about my life story.’ They both sat on a bench by the side of the road.
‘I led a troubled existence up until I was about eighteen. No abuse, good family environment, but I was wild. Something in my genetic makeup, I suppose. I moved out of the home and into a small apartment with a couple of other girls. We always had men over, more like boys on reflection. Anyway, the two girls moved in with their boyfriends, and I was left with the rent to pay. I was too proud to go home and ask for money, and jobs were hard to come by. I saw an ad in the paper, women wanted. I assumed it was prostitution.’
‘Did you have a problem with that?’
‘Some, but it wasn’t that much of an issue. The woman I met, upmarket part of the city, took one look at me and told me I was a lot better than the usual women that came through the door. She took me under her wing and soon I was working as an escort. Great money and the men were invariably kind and gentle. A few were a little kinky, wanted me to tie them up, that sort of thing. I worked like that for about eight years.
‘One day, I’m out walking through a park, idly minding my own business, when a man comes up to me. He just wanted to say hello. He meant nothing by it, and he certainly was not attempting to seduce me. We started meeting on a regular basis. He had no idea what I did to earn a living.
‘Anyway, I realised that I loved him, and I wanted a life similar to my parents. We married, and all was fine, two healthy children and a mortgage. A few years ago, the economy tightened, and my husband was unable to make the payments on the house and the schooling. I said I would go out to work, so I took the job at the factory. It was purely a cover.
‘Each day I would go off to the factory, bring some money in, but it wasn’t much. I saw no problem with going back into escorting. Most men like an older, more experienced woman anyway, and I knew I was still attractive, even if a little rounder. I found Marion Robertson through an ad. She’s been a godsend, and she always pays promptly.’
‘Your husband doesn’t know?’
‘He must never know. I do this for him and my children. Not for any other reason.’
‘I will give you the promise that I gave Samantha. I will maintain your confidentiality. I cannot guarantee that I will be able to indefinitely, but I will try. What can you
