‘How do you expect me to remember. I go there, they have what they want, and then they leave. I don’t get to study them, not even talk to them most of the time.’
‘According to the concierge, you took this man to the hotel two weeks ago on a Thursday. Can you remember back to that day?’
‘My memory’s not so good.’
‘What does it need to help it?’
‘Money would help.’
Wendy studied the woman: peroxide blonde, heavy on the make-up, bright-red lipstick, a drawn face.
‘There’s no money in here,’ Isaac said. ‘The best you could do is to give us your information and then you’re out of here.’
‘Okay, a Thursday two weeks ago. It was a busy night, made some good money.’
‘And what’s good money?’ Wendy asked.
‘Five hundred pounds at least.’
‘And then you spent it shooting up.’
‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.’
‘I’ll show you a photo,’ Isaac said. ‘If you recognise him, let me know.’ Isaac pushed the photo of James Holden across the desk. Daisy picked it up and studied it for a few seconds.
‘He always treated me well, paid more than the others.’
‘Why did he pay more?’
‘I don’t know, guilt maybe. Some of them regret what they’ve done afterwards. Some of them are in tears because they’ve cheated on their wives.’
‘Does that worry you?’
‘The tears or the cheating?’
‘The cheating.’
‘Why? Should it? I’m not their social worker. I’m a working woman trying to survive. If they want me, they pay. If they don’t, they can keep on walking by, but him, he doesn’t. He phones me up, we meet outside the hotel, sometimes inside. We go up to the room, and that’s it. Fifteen minutes later I’m back on the street looking for another man.’
‘Not much of a life, is it?’ Wendy said.
‘I was married once. He used to beat me. Out on the street is better than that, and anyway, I’m used to it.’
‘What can you tell us about the man in the picture?’ Isaac said.
‘He never gave me a name. He’s polite, a little on the old side, but he manages.’
‘With your help,’ Wendy said.
‘That’s what he pays for. Once it’s over, he gives me my money and leaves. He’s not much into conversation. It’s purely business. I’ve got the commodity, he’s got the money.’
‘Are there many like him?’
‘Not many. Most of them are rough, drunk from a night out at the pub, some are violent.’
‘Coming back to the man in question,’ Isaac said. ‘What else can you tell us about him.’
‘Nothing really. As I said, he didn’t talk much.’
‘Why do you think he paid you for sex?’
‘I’ve no idea. Most of them have an unhappy home life. Some want to tell me about it, but I’m not interested. But with him, nothing. I just assumed he wanted a bit of the rough.’
‘And you’re the rough?’
‘You know what I mean. There’s no baggage with me, no pretending it’s love. It’s into the room, strip down, a couple of minutes fumbling around, him on top of me, me on top of him, and that’s it.’
‘Clinical,’ Wendy said.
‘No doubt, but, as I said, I was married once. I don’t want to pretend to be in love only to be thrown across the room on another night.’
‘Do you watch the television, read the newspapers?’ Isaac said.
‘Not me. I’ve no time for television, and I’m not interested in the news.’
‘The man we are questioning you about was murdered. Did you know that?’
‘Not me.’
‘He was murdered in the hotel where you met Constable Greenock. It was the room you normally use.’
‘And you think I’m involved?’
‘He was with another woman.’
‘And I could have been murdered if I had been with him?’
‘We don’t think so. I suggest you read the newspaper in future. The man’s name was James Holden. Have you heard of him?’
‘Not me.’
‘He’s well known. A member of parliament, a moral campaigner.’
‘And he was with me. If I’d known, I would have charged him double.’
‘The woman’s name was Helen Mackay. Have you heard of her?’
‘Helen, sent to prison for murdering that old man?’
‘Yes, that’s her.’
‘Before she latched on to him, we used to work together in Soho.’
‘On the street?’
‘Not Helen. She was down on her luck, the same as me, and we’re in this club, strutting around with next to nothing on.’
‘Was it a strip club?’ Wendy asked.
‘They called it a gentlemen’s club, not that many of the customers were. All they wanted to do was to grab us, make us sit on their laps, and let them fondle our breasts.’
‘And you let them?’
‘Why not? They were generous with their tips.’
‘And Helen, was she into this?’
‘The men wanted her, more than me, more than any of the other girls.’
‘You’ve not answered my question.’
‘Helen kept her distance. She was a classy woman, and then, one day, she’s gone. We were all envious of her, but she never fitted in.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘As I said, she didn’t belong. She was a beautiful woman, not like us.’
‘You still look okay,’ Wendy said.
‘Sure, but Helen was in a league of her own. She could have made plenty of money, set herself up as a high-class escort. She always said she wanted to settle down, find a man who treated her well. She was intelligent, advising us on how to live our lives, where to invest our money.’
‘Were you and the other women resentful?’
‘Of Helen? No way. We all loved her.’
‘When she killed her husband?’
‘I wanted to be a character witness, but her lawyer wasn’t too keen. Anyway, in the end, her dead husband’s family said a few words for her.’
‘Were you at the trial?’
‘Every day. I couldn’t
