‘We’ll need a statement,’ Hopwood said to him.
‘I can’t.’
‘If you and the others could make yourselves comfortable, we won’t take long.’
Two more police officers came in through the front door, showed the madam the search warrant. They climbed the stairs; a search for drugs was underway.
‘Your name?’ Wendy asked.
‘Gwendoline.’
‘Your real name.’
‘Mary Wilton.’
‘Now Mrs Wilton, or is it Ms?’
‘Mrs will do.’
‘You had two women working here, one of them was Janice Robinson, the other was Meredith Temple.’
‘There’s not much point in denying it, is there?’
‘None. Drugs here?’
‘It’s clean.’
Wendy thought it probably was. Apart from the house being used illegally, it was in good condition.
‘We know of another English woman. Any more?’
‘Not these days, and besides, they’re bad news. Drugs, they can’t keep off them. Janice and Meredith couldn’t.’
‘Nationalities here?’ Hopwood asked.
‘Eastern European, one Thai, two Vietnamese.’
‘Financial refugees?’
‘I don’t check. All I know is that they give me less trouble than the locals. And believe me, that’s the last thing we need. Enough with some of the men who come through the door.’
‘You’ve a couple of men here if there’s any trouble?’
‘You’re remarkably well-informed. Who was it? Janice? Meredith?’
‘Neither. Meredith’s straightened herself out, no longer selling herself, and Janice is dead.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Murdered, and don’t pretend that you don’t know. It’s been plastered on the radio and television, and social media was full of it for a while.’
Detective Inspector Waverton entered through the front door. Any more weight, Wendy thought, and he would have had to come in like a crab, sideways.
Mary Wilton looked at Waverton, feigned a smile, changing it to a scowl. Waverton wouldn’t be getting special treatment that night, nor could he avoid arresting the woman.
The four retreated to the back of the house, a small bar in one corner, two sofas where the women would wait, scantily dressed, while the men made their choice.
Waverton took the most comfortable of the sofas, Wendy sitting alongside him. Hopwood remained standing, and Mary Wilton leaned against the wall, her arms folded.
‘Mrs Wilton,’ Wendy said, ‘you employed a woman from the Philippines, Analyn.’
‘The name is not familiar.’ She knew the situation was tenuous, having been there before. Denying what was obvious wouldn’t assist her case, and the maximum sentence was between six months and seven years. She would be truthful.
One of the uniforms came into the room. ‘No drugs, not that we can find.’
A sniffer dog would have had more success, Wendy knew, but that was up to Waverton and the Brent Police. It wasn’t going to happen, and the woman would be charged with running a brothel, the women working there would be checked for their right to be in the country, their age, and cautioned. Yet again, Waverton’s decision.
Wendy passed over a photo of Analyn, a blow-up from William Townsend’s phone. The definition had been lost in enlarging it, but it was clear enough for the purpose.
‘Not the name she used. She wasn’t here for long, no idea where she is now.’
‘I don’t have an issue with you on that,’ Wendy said. ‘The woman’s elusive, but we need to find her. Any idea where?’
‘Sorry, pointless asking. I just don’t know. Some of them breeze in, entertain a few men, and leave. Easy money, no references needed, just an ability to turn a few tricks, make a few lonely men happy for a while. Does no harm.’
‘As you say, but the law’s the law. The women haven’t committed a chargeable offence, you have.’
‘I know the drill. If I could help, I would. Assistance in a murder enquiry can only go in my favour.’
Wendy could well imagine that in the dock at her trial, Mary Wilton would not be bedecked with her hair piled high, a shade of blue, and the blouse and the skirt, along with the stilettos, would be gone; all replaced by a sombre outfit more befitting the woman’s age.
‘What name did she use?’
‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth. She said she had been in the country for some time, had a British passport.’
‘Did you check it?’ Garry Hopwood asked.
‘I took her word for it.’
‘Which means,’ Waverton said, obviously feeling out of it and confident that Mary Wilton wasn’t going to spill the beans, ‘that she could have been underage, illegal.’
‘I trust my girls.’
‘Hopefully, the women in the house are all legal,’ Wendy said. ‘Are they?’
‘They are’
‘I’ve another photo, a woman who’s been in this house, not a prostitute from what we know. You must study it carefully and answer truthfully. People have died, continue to die. Why they do, we don’t know, but if we’re correct, you could be at risk and so could Meredith Temple and your girls.’
Wendy handed the second photo to Mary Wilton.
‘Her name is Amanda Upton,’ the woman said.
Wendy was so excited that she felt as though she wanted to kiss the woman, absolve her of all crimes. A name at last. She texted her DCI, ending the message with ‘more to come’.
‘What can you tell us about her?’
‘A shrewd woman, she made her money as a high-class escort. No drugs, worked out at the gym daily, financially sound after three years. She used to travel overseas, paid for by wealthy and secretive men who wanted absolute discretion, no two-bit hooker with a big mouth and genital herpes.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Is she dead? Is that why you’re here? Not for the other woman, but for Amanda?’
‘For both. The woman we know as Analyn, is, we believe, alive, although for how long we can’t be certain.’
‘Amanda?’
‘You obviously don’t keep abreast of the news.’
‘Never watch television or look at the internet. A Luddite, I suppose I am, but what about Amanda?’
‘Why
