In Notting Hill and Holland Park, and up to Bayswater, she entered each shop that could have been of interest to Analyn. Gwen Pritchard was with her; she was being brought into the department on an as needs basis, which was most of the time, as was Kate Baxter, who would take some of Bridget’s workload.
Wendy focussed more on the area from the house towards Notting Hill; Gwen Pritchard up towards Bayswater.
Three hours later, the two women met for lunch; neither had had any success. Wendy chose chicken, Gwen kept to a salad. The restaurant on Holland Park Avenue had a good reputation, but neither of the women had been there before; it was also moderately priced, which came as a surprise. The two felt they were entitled to a brandy – purely medicinal, they joked.
The waitress, in her thirties, a pleasant smile, tattoos covered by a long-sleeved tunic, brought over the brandies, Wendy and Gwen thanking the woman who stayed transfixed to the spot.
‘What is it?’ Wendy asked.
‘The photo.’
An enlarged photo of Analyn was clearly visible where Gwen had put down her copy.
‘I know her,’ the waitress said.
‘You better take a seat. We’ve been trying to find this woman for some time. What do you know about her?’
‘I’m busy, and the manager is not an easy woman, fire me in an instant, what with my background.’
Wendy left the table, went over to where an ever-smiling red-haired woman stood next to the cash register and explained the situation.
‘We help where we can,’ the woman said, the smile waning. ‘Do our bit to bring in people who’ve fallen by the wayside, help them to regain their self-esteem.’
‘Do you own this place?’
‘I do.’
‘We need to talk to your waitress; she doesn’t want to neglect her duties.’
‘Tell her it’s fine.’
Wendy knew two things: employing the fallen, recently released felons, those deemed at risk, came with tax benefits and they were cheaper to hire, and secondly, the woman didn’t care for the waitress, probably for nobody.
‘It’s fine,’ Wendy said as she returned.
‘Not here, not in the restaurant. If you don’t mind eating elsewhere, I can tell you what I know.’
The food was good, so were the brandies, so much so that Wendy had a second one. The three sat off to one side of the kitchen in an area that could have been pleasant but was full of drums of cooking oil, racks of vegetables, and an industrial-sized freezer at one end. Neither Wendy nor Gwen were complaining, and the owner had made her presence known by popping in, touching the waitress, Meredith Temple, on the shoulder, telling her not to worry, and the meals were on the house, no cost, not to our excellent police.
A pretence, Wendy knew.
‘Meredith, your story?’ Gwen said.
‘I wouldn’t have told you, not if you had shown me the picture. It was just a reaction on my part, not that I have anything to be ashamed of.’
‘We’re sure you don’t,’ Wendy said. ‘Maybe it’s best if you start from the beginning.’
‘I went off the rails, drugs and bad men, a tale you’ve heard before.’
‘Too often.’
‘Anyway, a man who I thought cared for me, but didn’t, threw me out on to the street. This was four years ago, and I’ve never been a shrinking violet, no issues with men, lots of them, but I was willing to settle down.
‘He had been a good bet, financially sound, had his own business, a restaurant. That’s where I learnt about waitressing, although it doesn’t take much skill, just remember the orders, don’t spill the food and drink over the patrons, and make sure they’re in and out quick enough, so you get more in. That’s her creed, her out the front. All smiles when you’re paying, as miserable as sin if you work for her, not that she pays for the overtime either.’
‘You could register a complaint.’
‘Not worth the bother, and besides, I’m not staying. I’m three-quarters through a degree, a local council initiative. With my background, I’ll have no problem getting a job in social services, a homeless shelter, a woman’s refuge, helping women to stop selling themselves.’
‘You were one of them?’
‘Sort of, not that I need rehabilitating; I did that in prison. As I was saying, I was out on the street, nowhere to go. I had some money, but no skills, and nowadays everyone wants computer experts or at least someone handy enough with them.’
‘In prison?’ Gwen said, reminding the woman who clearly wanted to give her life story that the woman in the photo was all-important.
‘I had been an escort once or twice, so it didn’t concern me to enter the brothel. Neat and tidy, regular medical checks, condoms, a couple of men to deal with anyone who got out of control and started roughing up the woman, half-throttling them as if it was some sexual elixir, and then there were the perverts, the deviants, who wanted you to do things that’d make your hair curl.’
Not mine, Wendy thought. Hers was curly enough, and besides, she had heard similar stories before.
‘I stayed there for four months, saved up some money and went out on my own. Good money, decent men who paid well, and some of them even knew what they were doing.’
‘The photo?’ Gwen said.
‘There were other women there. One of them was the woman in the photo.’
‘Analyn?’
‘She didn’t use that name. She was there for a couple of weeks and disappeared, not that she ever fitted in.’
‘Why?’
‘She was clean, no drugs. She was popular, made decent money, but it was forced,
