Regaining her senses, Janice lifted herself from the bed, adjusted her bra strap; no need to overdress for what the man wanted. She opened the door, saw the man was dressed better than most; not overalls straight from work, smelling of manual labour and sweat, covered in grime. This man was dressed in a neatly creased pair of trousers, a blue open-necked shirt, a jacket. Even his shoes were leather and polished.
Janice, if she cared, would have said that he was a better class of man than those that pulled up alongside her on the street, asked her how much, indulged in friendly banter, called her a hag as they drove off, not willing to pay her price.
But this man hadn’t argued about the price, more than on the street, because of the cost of the bedsit, owned by a grubby immigrant who spoke poor English and took part of the rent in services rendered by Janice.
The cost of the bedsit was only one factor in her higher prices. Having to service the landlord who was foul in his demands, aggressive in his lovemaking, was a payment that she did not make willingly, but did.
‘Janice,’ the man said.
‘Come in.’
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said as he sat on a chair by the side of the bed.
Janice, accustomed to the procedure, removed her underwear. ‘This is what you’ve come for, isn’t it?’
‘In time. We can talk first.’ He made no attempt to move closer to her, to touch her.
Janice, unused to such behaviour, sat up and pulled the sheet across her.
‘I prefer you naked,’ he said.
‘Are you one of those who like to watch?’ she asked. She didn’t care either way, only that they paid. The idea of sex no longer appealed to her; it was purely mechanical, the groaning on cue, pretending that the man on top or under her was satisfying her, whereas all he was doing was filling her with disgust. She felt nothing for any of the previous men, hundreds of them, nothing for this one.
‘How long have you been doing this?’
Not another one trying to reform her, she thought. Not someone about to spout on about Sodom and Gomorrah, fallen women. She’d had enough of them, some even praying, but all of them taking her, and then crying afterwards, blaming her, hitting her for tempting them with the pleasures of the flesh, but this man appeared different. He didn’t look at her with wanton eyes, wanting her but incapable.
There had been one, she remembered, who had been impotent, but it had been his wife belittling him that had been the problem. That had been in the past, when she had been prettier, when her face had been fuller, her lips rosier, not that she ever let them kiss her, her body firmer, her breasts rounder.
Now, at the age of twenty-one, her skin was sallow and pitted, the colour of alabaster. It had been eight months since she had been to a doctor, as she knew what would be said. The lecture about her killing herself, the diseases she might have, the damage to her vital organs. It wasn’t what she wanted, but what did she care. Her life had run its full course, the only joy in her life was Brad.
‘I’ve another appointment,’ Janice said, which wasn’t true. The room was cold, not enough money to pay for heating, only for drugs and the occasional bite to eat.
‘I won’t need long,’ the man said as he sat on the bed. She arched her body in anticipation. Men liked that, she knew, believing that somehow paying for a woman was pleasurable for her, not understanding that it wasn’t, would never be.
He ran his hand lightly over her body, his expression emotionless.
‘It’s a shame,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you capable?’
‘Once so pretty, but now, look at you lying there, waiting for me to take you.’
‘That’s what you paid for.’
The man opened a small case that he had been carrying. He withdrew a towel.
‘You don’t need to shower first,’ Janice said. The man was clean enough as he was, even if his manner was unusual. But some were slow starters, while others were ready, barely in the door, and yet others had sulked away without doing anything, racked with guilt at impure thoughts, looking for a priest to confess to.
‘It’s not a towel. It’s what’s inside it that’s important.’
Sensing that something was amiss, Janice drew herself up further. ‘I think you better go,’ she said. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he said. ‘It’s quite painless.’
The bed was up against the wall, the only way out was over the man or the bottom of the bed. Janice Robinson, sister of Brad, sister of Jim, chose the latter.
The man grabbed her as she attempted to get away, thrusting her down onto her back, the sheet falling away.
‘You would have been attractive once,’ he said. ‘Now you’re just a whore.’
With one hand holding her down, he unwrapped the towel with the other. He picked up the knife inside and thrust it into Janice’s body four times in rapid succession, holding the towel over the knife and the body.
He then took a shower before walking out of the room.
***
Six possibilities remained to identify the woman in the cemetery, assuming that a card had been used to buy her sandals. If not, then Larry and Wendy knew that they were in for a wasted day.
Larry understood Isaac’s predicament, the reason for the late-night phone call, the coffee keeping him awake, the two glasses of whisky dealing with the problem.
The plan was for them to fan out from Kensal Green Cemetery, focussing on the nearest addresses first, discounting the two they had dealt with the previous evening, and then widening
