‘A keen judge of women?’
‘Just a man too ugly he couldn’t find one for free.’
‘Janice?’
‘She was curious. She told me that Mary and her daughter were talking at the back of the house; Mary smoking a cigarette, the other woman standing nearby.’
‘And?’
‘According to Janice, the other woman’s telling Mary about her life; not in glowing terms, either. As to how it was good money, but that some of the men were dangerous individuals, secretive men, possessive, wanting her to always be there.’
‘She wanted out?’
‘She was frightened for her safety. No idea why.’
‘If she overheard something, the same way that Janice had, then who knows. Powerful people have powerful secrets, facts they would not want to be known.’
‘Janice would have told Cathy, who wasn’t always discreet.’
‘She could have told Analyn?’
‘It’s probable. As I said, a few weeks, and she was gone.’
***
Early the next day, Wendy picked up Mary Wilton from the former brothel. The women who had been plying their wares at the place on the day the police had first visited were long gone, some to a different brothel, others back to the street.
At the mortuary, the madam, duly charged with running a brothel, but out on bail on her own surety, and now dressed more fittingly for the solemnity of identifying the Jane Doe, looked away as the sheet was pulled back.
Wendy was the first to look, and even though it had been kept in a cooled environment, the effects of time were starting to show on the dead body. If a body had a soul at death, not that Wendy believed they did, then this one did not. An attempt to make the deceased more palatable in appearance for the next of kin to identify had not occurred this time. All that Wendy could see, as did Mary Wilton when she turned around, eyes glazed, to look at the body, was a slab of flesh and hair, the caricature of a person.
‘It’s Amanda,’ Mary Wilton said.
With that, the woman turned around and left the room, not once looking back.
Wendy found her outside on the street, a cigarette in her mouth, a handkerchief in her hand, a look of desperation on her face.
‘Difficult?’ Wendy said as she put her arm around the woman who had visibly shrunk.
‘I never wanted her to follow me into the business, that’s why I devoted my time to her, ensured she had the best opportunities. Not that it made any difference, only that she found a better quality of man, made more money, but it’s all the same, isn’t it?
‘A lecherous fornicating drunk on his way home from work, a labourer, a wife-beater, they’re all the same, and the bastard who did that to her, influential, one of those who goes home to his wife and children of a night, has a title or infinite wealth.’
Wendy found that she had little empathy with the woman, who showed a momentary humility but was, apart from her love for her daughter, cold-hearted, more interested in the bottom line, money in her bank account, and the protection afforded the girls at her brothel was more there to protect the assets.
However, the brothel was central to the investigation, in that of five women who had passed through its door, three had been murdered, another was attempting to put her past behind her, and the fourth, an Asian woman, was the consort of Ian Naughton, who was increasingly looking to be the “Mr Big” in whatever criminal venture they were dealing with.
The madam and the police officer sat down in a coffee shop, Wendy ordering a latte, the other woman preferring a cappuccino. Mary Wilton perused the menu, choosing a slice of cheesecake; Wendy, conscious that she shouldn’t, but knowing that she would, ordered a slice of chocolate cake that was in a glass-fronted cabinet on the shop counter.
‘We need to find the connection,’ Wendy said after she had taken the first bite of her cake, ‘and Mrs Wilton, it might be you.’
‘I’ll accept that I’ve broken the law, not the first time either, and there are other convictions against my name, but I can’t see how. I’ve always held that discretion is vital, and I’ve never spoken about the clientele, not to others. Sure, sometimes one of the girls would tell me about a client, even have a laugh amongst ourselves, but I chose my girls with some care. I know that a few had their problems, drugs usually, bad men more often than not, but they all had some education, the sense to know when they were on a good thing with me.’
‘Tell me about Janice,’ Wendy said.
‘There’s not much to say. She was rough around the edges, a working-class accent, not that I liked it much, but she didn’t swear and she was polite. And besides, she had an endearing quality about her, the sort of person you instinctively trusted. Without the drugs, she could have got on in life. Not achieving too much though as her education wasn’t the best.’
‘You didn’t try to discourage her from prostituting herself, to get herself sorted out?’
‘Don’t misjudge me. I’m still a cold-hearted businesswoman trying to make a decent living, and remember, it was prostitution that gave my daughter the opportunities, but then…’
‘Flat on her back,’ Wendy said, not sure if the woman was sanctimonious, giving a story for her benefit, or whether it was just an act. She felt the latter was the most likely, but at least the woman was talking.
‘It’s strange,’ Mary Wilton said, her voice barely audible, a tear in one eye. ‘I’ve been around prostitution all my life, my mother even, but you don’t want to think that your children are going to end up making the same mistakes.’
