

The Outcall

I thought of London spread out in the sun

Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat

Philip Larkin, The Whitsun Weddings

**1 Monday 3 July**

"May I ask you a personal question?"

They often say that at this stage. There's a catch in his throat as he says it. His mouth is in my hair and he's curled up around my back. From where we're lying on the bed, all I can see is the hotel room wall and desk, with my clutch bag, the roll of cash and his iphone on it. All I can feel is sheets against my bare skin, his chest against my back, a hint of sweat.

"Of course you can, babe." I do the husky voice that punters usually like, but despite the way he's curled round me, despite his face burrowed into my hair, I sense that it's not more sex he's interested in.

He's interested in me.

Difficult.

"We can chat in a second, I just need the bathroom." I drag myself out of his arms, out of the bed. There's something a bit odd about him, I say to myself. But I could say that about every punter: they're all strange in some way or other, I think, as I go into the hotel bathroom. It's the usual layout, bathroom next to the door onto the corridor. I've been in almost every hotel in Euston-Bloomsbury: here's where they all stay, the businessmen, the tourists, they pour off the trains at Euston, St Pancras and King's Cross, they sit in an empty hotel room, they think the girlfriend, the wife, the family is far away, somewhere up north or overseas. They can watch the porn channel... but London is all around them. Sex. Real sex.

Just as I'm closing the bathroom door, there's a knock on the hotel room door. That's odd too. I'm sitting on the loo, listening in that silence between a knock and its answering. I try to think what it is about this guy that rings alarm bells. He booked me through the escort website that I use, and we never spoke on the phone. I prefer to hear a guy's voice before we meet, but a hotel outcall is pretty safe, and I accept nearly half my new bookings without seeing, or hearing, the stranger that I'm going to meet. Earlier today, I got a notification text from my website: I checked the site, and he'd added the name of this hotel and the room number to the booking details. Then, moments before the booking time, 10pm, he texted me to say he was running late, could we make it 10.30pm? I texted back to say, fine, I could still do a one-hour outcall, starting at 10.30. Just before half-ten, I came into the hotel and up to this room. He was in here waiting for me, sitting on the bed – and I thought 'nice' – late middle-age, but tall, fit and lean: most of my punters, especially the hotel ones, are paunchy and balding. And they're often shorter than me. He was 6'2" at least, twinkly blue eyes, nice smile. Very clean, not just male perfume splashed over stale sweat, which is one of my pet hates... Late evening, but he was still wearing a suit and tie. A 'business gentleman' we'd call him in the trade. There was only one little surprise: how tidy the room was. Almost always, the hotel rooms I visit are scattered with the guy's clothes and possessions. And the toilet seat is always up.

Then, before we started, he wanted to photo me on his iphone. A simple girly face pic, in my bra. Pretty tame and nothing unusual, just a typical punter's trophy. He was British: a trace of a warm, regional accent, but educated. The sex didn't seem to satisfy him – he seemed distracted. Why do I get the sense that it was a sideshow for him, that he touched me in that half-hearted way because he was wanting, really, to talk?

"Hallo?" He's answering the knock at the door.

"Sir, I think you dropped something in the lobby, here it is." A man's voice.

I hear him half-open the door to reach out. And then a crash as the door is flung open, pushed against him, knocking him back against the bathroom door so it shakes.

There's a silence, three seconds maybe. All I hear is my heart start pounding. What the hell is this?

I hear the room door slam. So, my punter and the intruder are both in the room. I have only one thought: a drug dealer, wants his money. And then I notice the bathroom door has a lock. Thank fuck for that. I'm shaking as I twist the knob to lock it.

There's my £200 on the bedside table. I'm praying the stupid punter to give it to him so he'll go. Then I hear a hard crash, and another. It's like a brick being bashed on another brick. God, what's happening?

And then I think: I could run. Bathroom door next to corridor door. I could sneak out and go and get help. But I'm naked, I think madly. No, I don't dare open that door. There's a man being bashed up in there but I'm a coward, just a wet weepy girly little coward. I'm sat on the loo, looking at beads of sweat on my thighs. All my skin feels like ice.

There's another, massive crash. Why the fuck does no one else in this hotel hear this? And then it's quiet, really quiet. The frozen feeling on my skin seems to be coming inwards, around the middle of my chest. I'm more scared by this silence than by anything yet. Something please, please happen.

The corridor door clicks shut. Quietly. The intruder's gone? Yes. Why else would he shut it _quietly_?

I have to open the bathroom door. I have to see what I will see.

I'm still shaking, my fingers can't twist the knob at first, but then I get the door open. What do I see? Blood. Lots of blood: spatters on carpet, bedclothes, everywhere. I'm taking it in, like I'm watching it on a screen, because a logical autopilot bit of my mind has taken over, and I'm assessing the situation from some calm emotionless zone in my head. I see the punter, who told me he was called Jonathan, sprawled like a starfish on the floor in a white hotel-standard dressing-gown. First, I look at his face. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling. There's a raw gash across his forehead, where, I realise, his head's been banged down onto the hotel room desk. It's like my eyes are following my thought process, retracing what's happened: I'm now looking at the blood that's all over the corner of the desk. Then my eyes track back to the guy: his forehead is such a mess that it's a moment before I see that there's a slash across his throat, and a line of blood that looks too bright to be real. Like the red in a neon sign. My eyes trace the flow of blood down from that slice: yes, it's all over his neck and the collar of the gown. Then I notice a lot more blood, all across his chest and stomach. It all looks like it's come from his neck. His arms and legs, splayed out aimlessly, are also spotted with blood. His mouth, like his eyes, is open and not moving. That's bad, this logic bit of my brain says. The autopilot goes and gets my little clutch bag, that I use for standard outcalls, and takes out my dinky makeup mirror, like I've seen it done on the telly, hold it to his mouth. No mist. Then I remember my junior St John's Ambulance training (I was a good little girl, long ago) and feel his pulse. ABC. Airway, Breathing, Circulation. Well, there's none of them. Zero, zero, zero. I'm a naked prostitute, kneeling in blood next to a corpse in a hotel room.

The logic brain says: get out. I'm doing things in a rational order: stand up, go to the bathroom, wipe the blood off my knees with toilet paper and flush it away. I check each item of my clothing for blood – they're all perfectly clean – and get dressed. I pick up my clutch bag. I look over at the £200 and the iphone, lying on the desk. Like they'd say on the TV, This Is A Crime Scene. 'Don't touch anything'. But I'm a working girl. Then I see that the phone, too, is spattered with blood. It's the final straw: I'm one breath away from fainting. The room swirls around me, a merry-go-round of blurry colours: white walls and dressing-gown, red blood. My hand reaches out: somehow, it knows where I am, where to feel for: I grasp the handle of the hotel room door. Gradually, the blurs steady back into focus. Yes, I have to get out of here. Autopilot does a room-check: there's no evidence left that I was here. Except Forensics, who will no doubt find my fingerprints and DNA everywhere. But I'm a canny girl, never been in trouble with the police: not even a speeding ticket. So all the cops will know is that the white thing lying on the floor had sex with an unidentified woman just before he died.

I open the door onto the corridor, and as I do, the autopilot lapses for a moment, I feel a total terror. Is the killer waiting in the corridor for me, or am I going to faint and drop right here? I sway, stagger, but somehow I keep hold of that logic brain. Keep moving. Along the corridor, away from that room.

I'm at the lift door, and my fingers are not under control now, they shake and shake. It takes me eight tries of the buttons before I can operate the lift. I step in, and after a moment it slides down, floor by floor, away from that horror. I'm inside this humming cube of shiny metal... it's as if what happened, never happened. Then the lift doors open, and everything is real again. So far I've seen no-one, but now I have to cross the hotel lobby. Half the time, the snooty girls and guys at the desks at these places must guess what I am – and now, with bird's nest hair, messy makeup, and clothes thrown on, I look well fucked. Someone will see me and remember me. But my luck is in: the lift was empty, but the lobby is crowded. There must be a coach party arriving, Chinese or something, all with their suitcases, all talking, no one notices me. One youngish guy sitting at the reception desk seems for a moment to stare at me, but then I risk a glance at him and no, he's looking down at his desk again. Five, four seconds and I'm out through a revolving door into the darkness. Away from the floodlit hotel front, I take one side alley, then another. Past some bins, step over bags of rubbish in the dark, and I'm back out on a road. I see the familiar sign, red circle, blue line: Russell Square Underground station. That logic bit of my brain is still in control, because rather than using my Oyster, I buy a ticket for cash. No record that I was here. I wasn't here.

The lift in Russell Square station freaks me out suddenly, it's like I'm back in the hotel lift but rather than going down, it's taking me back up... to that. I feel like time is rewinding and I'm going to be walking back into that hotel room. I'm going to be opening that door again, seeing that blood, those dead eyes, that sliced neck. Everything is happening backwards. It's a mad feeling, I start hyperventilating and saliva dribbles out of my mouth. There are two people in the lift with me, a young man and a middle-aged woman. But it's London; neither says anything. First rule of society here: never speak to strangers, even when they're acting strange.

Thankfully, so thankfully, the tube train is quiet. When I've done an outcall that I'd rather forget, the Tube is my therapy. Each station... King's Cross, Caledonian Road, Arsenal... recalling being touched, the pushing of some stranger's cock inside me, his sweaty fingers on my skin, the smell and heat of his breath... it gets less. The memory is being erased. It's like at one station it gets put in the Recycle Bin, then at the next I Empty the Recycle Bin. Then at Finsbury Park I'm switching off the computer and it never happened. 100% gone. Except for the cash in my bag.

"Are you alright?" A guy sitting opposite me, nice-looking, young, Asian, is speaking. And I realise I'm shaking and there are tears running down my face.

"I'm fine. Just finished with the boyfriend. For the fiftieth time this month."

"You go carefully now." He's concerned. He gets off at the next station, waving to me through the window. Some guys see a girl crying on the tube and all they think is: I'll try chatting, offer to walk her home, might be an easy fuck. But probably that's a minority. It's just that I see that minority every day.

Hold it together. Home in a minute.

Finsbury Park, getting out of the tube station, the walk home, it's like I'm not there at all. The autopilot is moving my body along the street while I'm floating, like an angel, watching myself from about second-floor height, above and behind me. I see myself watch out for traffic as I cross the road, step round a large puddle – there was a thunderstorm mid-afternoon today. But even though it's now near midnight, the air has heated up again. A warm night. There's no-one else on the streets: just a few people inside the brightly-lit takeaway shops, Chinese, Indian, kebabs, fried chicken. Past the pub where I sometimes go with Jazz, closed for the night now: past a fox that silently, boldly crosses the street. Turn the corner into my road, where there are fewer street lights, and I'm glad of the darkness: at last, no passers-by can see my face, the death in my eyes. My angel seems to be able to think for me too, and is re-checking whether I left any trace in the hotel room. And reassures me: yes, in order to match what they find, the police have to have something, something about me, to match it against. Which they have not got. But there are scary voices in my head too, and they are saying only one thing: if the police can find you, they'll nail this on you, Holly Harlow.

I'm through the front door of the flats, I go upstairs and unlock the door of my own flat into my living-room. Up to now I've been holding myself together, looking to reach this haven. But now I'm here the walls seem to close in on me. My dim lighting, which is meant to be seductive for when punters visit, brings out all the shadows, and my own belongings all look strange, darkness looms out at me from every corner. As if a hand from somewhere else has reached in here, touched everything. I feel the killer has got ahead of me, got here already, his fingers have been over my furniture, he's opened my drawers, sniffed my clothes. He's here now, in the dark behind the bedroom door.

I wake in the night and all the lights are still on. I'm lying in bed, still clothed, my arms around the huge furry model tiger I bought at the Zoo. I remember reading the label when I bought him: Amur Tiger, status endangered. I haven't given him a name. I'm so used to hearing guys say their names – John, Harry, Jack. "Hi, I'm Jack..." So many names, so many all the same. Names are like masks that the punters hide behind. My tiger has no name. But as I fall asleep again I think "Tiger, you're like me, like Holly Harlow. Status: endangered."

**2 Thursday 6 July**

Customer care is very important in my business. The next morning I'm awake at ten: in between bouts in the bathroom, retching on an empty stomach, I'm checking all my bookings on the website that I use, phoning today's and tomorrow's punters. "Hi, it's Holly the GirlNextDoor here, from the GirlsDirect website, you've made a booking with me? Sorry, darling, touch of summer flu. Don't want to give you a bug, do I? Tell you what babe, I'll give you fifty quid off when we do meet. And here's the number of a friend of mine, she's new to escorting, a student on her summer break, she's lovely, really likes guys like you, she lives not too far away, and I know she's free today..."

My little story works a treat with every punter. Every john, even the weekly regulars, likes to try a new girl from time to time, and it's nice to put a bit of work over to Abby, who truly is quite new to all this – no student of course, but she's a webcam girl who needs a bit more cash and is moving into the skin-to-skin game full-time. She's put up a profile on GirlsDirect, some nice photos, but so far she's only had a couple of Client Comments, on which your rating depends – it takes time to build up a good rating, and I guess it's like Google: only when you've built up a high rating do you appear on the first page of a punter's search. You have to please a lot of guys, please them enough to make them leave good Comments, before you can hope for regular business, a steady income. But once you get that good rating, the money starts rolling in.

I finish the last call, and it's like my business brain switches off, its work done, and the reality of what happened fills me: I see blood, the dead eyes look into mine, my whole body right down to my fingers and toes fills with fear and I start shaking. I go into the kitchen, sit down, look around the room, concentrate on what I can see around me: mugs, teatowels, the washing-up, the hot morning sunshine through the window, glinting on a bottle of Fairy Liquid. The shaking gradually dies down, and the relief is like heaven. I go into a trance-like state, I stand up, I drift aimlessly back towards my bed, lie there, stare at the ceiling, but then my eyes close and I seem to be neither awake nor asleep; nothing seems real: I drift in and out of dreams, evil dreams – dark corridors, running, scared, nausea. There's darkness, then a sudden roomful of blaring light. And everything around me, stark in the glare, is covered in droplets of blood, like berries on a tree. Something in me forces me to stretch my arm out and touch the berries. I can't resist, I hold one between my thumb and forefinger and I see my hand redden. I pick the fruit, put it to my lips, between my teeth and I bite, I feel my lips and tongue turning to liquid blood and melting down my face. It gets to the following day, and then the day after, and I stop seeing the blood everywhere. I feel a bit better. I've just showered: I'm sitting in the kitchen in my pyjamas, eating some Weetabix, first thing for 3 days. At least I'll have something to be sick with when I next throw up.

The front doorbell rings. Can't be a punter: sure I cancelled them all. And then I remember. For eight years I've shared this flat with Jazz, my best friend; she too is an escort, London_Courtesan. She's away for the week. When she can't make a booking, I log into her account on the GirlsDirect website, tell them that I'm Jasmine, deal with the punter, cover the booking. And she does the same for me. Not an unusual arrangement, other girls I know do it too: all you need is a vague likeness and the same colour hair, plus of course, both your phone numbers listed on your GirlsDirect profile. Me and Jazz, figure-wise, we both look pretty much alike: tall, size 8, wavy blonde hair, pale English-Rose skin, C-cup. If you look at our faces in real life, they're totally different, but in my photos on GirlsDirect, my head is coyly turned away or in profile, and no-one making a booking through the website has ever realised. And would they care if they knew? In my experience, an escort – perhaps any woman – is a tick list to a guy: right price √, blonde √, slim √, young-looking √, big boobs √, etc etc. What might go in each box varies, and there are lots of minority tastes: right price, for some guys, might be £300 an hour – they think they're buying class. That's what Jazz charges for London_Courtesan outcalls, and she's not short of business. Some might be turned on by a schoolgirly flat chest, or a redhead, or a fatty, or an oldie, or by a black, Asian, Chinese or Latin girl. But whatever's in the tick boxes, it's still just a simple list. Score over five out of seven and you've got a booking.

The doorbell, I guess, is one of Jazz's. She had to cancel her bookings for this week, because her Mum fell and broke her ankle and ended up in Watford General: Jazz has gone away for a few days to see her, and to sort her Dad out. He can't cope on his own, he doesn't even know where Tescos is. But just before Jazz left, she told me she'd had a new booking and not had a chance to deal with it. And then I forgot to check Jazz's GirlsDirect account. Oh fuck. Can I face this booking, or shall I just let the doorbell ring? Well, there's got to be a first one, I suppose. Like a first day back at work after a long sickie. I decide to open the door to him: pretend to be London_Courtesan, let him in and get the job done. Good job I've just showered. I seem to recall Jazz saying he'd texted her as well, to say he was a lingerie man. As the doorbell rings again I'm getting out of my jimjams, into lacy bra and pants and nothing else.

I press the button to open the front door of the flats, wait a few seconds as I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, and then open the door of my flat. I peer round it in my underwear, smile seductively. I'm looking at a thirtysomething busty brunette. But unlike the one in my wardrobe, her policewoman's outfit isn't in PVC.

The police interview room is just like the ones on the TV: small, a bit shabby, with the most uncomfortable chair I've ever sat on. I glimpse under the table. Yup, the cops have got comfier chairs than me.

I can't remember coming here. It's a blank: the last two hours are just shock. I remember hastily getting dressed, that's all. I can't seem to hold facts together. My brain is shot: how can I defend myself against what they are going to throw at me? Is this how it's always been when the authorities catch up with you, whether you're guilty or not? I remember a telly documentary about witches; in England they weren't allowed to torture you, but in Scotland and in Europe they could do what they liked to you, break your legs, burn you with hot irons, anything. But just as many confessed to being fucked by the Devil and all the rest of that seventeenth-century shit in England as they did in the other countries. The confusion, the way being arrested and accused shakes you up, means you can't defend yourself. And you're a woman, and even though this is now the twenty-first century, you're still a sinner. Lamb to the slaughter.

Not that I am arrested, yet. I'm just 'helping them with their enquiries', and the brunette, who told me she was Police Officer Jackie Simmonds, had said that that was best done down at the station. Then, I vaguely realised, I was inside a police car. And now here. I'm not sure which station it is.

Simmonds is still with me, sitting smugly opposite me, well pleased with herself like she's a cat and I'm the mouse she's brought in. I guess she's been in the force a while, but still very junior, never progressed. A bit thick. Then two people come in and she goes out. One's a skinny guy in his thirties, cheap gray suit: a plain-clothes cop, I guess. The other is a dumpy Asian woman, older than the guy, very smartly dressed: deep-brown business suit, expensive shoes. Low heels, even though she's barely five feet tall. I can tell that she doesn't feel the need to look taller. I asked Simmonds if I could have a brief: hopefully, this woman is her.

But they both sit down opposite me. The woman checks the recording machine to see that it's working, and switches it on. She speaks.

"Witness interview at 11.30am on 6th July at Stoke Newington police station. Present are Detective Inspector Geeta Pawan, 92EO and Detective Sergeant Christopher Rainbow 35EO, and Miss Holly Harlow." Then she smiles at me. "Thanks for coming here. We're investigating a serious crime that took place a few days ago. When members of the public such as yourself are willing to give us information that might help us – well, we appreciate it."

The guy buts in. "Been treating you OK here? Did they get you a cup of tea? How was your journey here?"

"My journey – it was in the back of a police car. I didn't realise I had a choice."

The woman looks reassuringly at me. "I'm really sorry if you got that impression. We wanted to speak to you – to determine if you might be a relevant witness for a serious matter we're investigating. That's the purpose of this interview. The decision to co-operate was yours – that should have been made clear to you. So, thank you for coming here, anyway."

I wish they'd get on with it. Maybe they're trying to put me at ease, but I feel like that mouse again. Being played with by a cat. Two cats.

"Well, I'm here now. So how can I help you?" I try not to sound sulky, but all the same it comes out like that.

The woman says "Police Officer Simmonds will have explained to you that you're entitled to a solicitor, even at this stage, if you want one."

"I'm fine, thanks." Although I did ask Simmonds about a brief, I now realise that refusing to talk to them unless I've got a lawyer might raise their suspicions more. Try to keep calm, see how it goes. "I asked her about a solicitor, because I was surprised, this all came out of the blue. I've never been inside a police car in my life. She said she'd see about a lawyer for me. But I might not need that, because I have no idea at all why I'm here. So I can answer your questions now, if you like."

The man shuffles in his chair. "I'll come straight to the point, Miss Harlow. We have reason to believe that you met a Jonathan Wycherley, at a hotel in Bloomsbury on the night of Monday 3 July. Did you?"

"No."

It's all I can bring myself to say. Now that the question that I dreaded has finally been asked, I feel that hard, pushing pressure in my chest again. The feeling of fear. The woman's eyes are like an X-ray, seeing straight through me. I try to breathe evenly, then I look at the man. Hard-working, ambitious, lean. Hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes. Hungry. Wants a kill. Me.

There's a silence, and my nerves make me fill it in. "Why do you ask me about this?"

He speaks. "Let me put it another way. We have reason to believe that you met someone – a man you may or may not know as Jonathan Wycherley – in a room at the Excel Hotel on Brunswick Street, on 3 July, at around 10pm. We believe you may have been with him for about one hour."

All I can do is look at the desk and try to keep control of my breathing. I speak, with effort. "I wasn't there. But what do you think – I was doing with this man – who I've never heard of – for that hour?"

The woman speaks again. "I'll be direct. We believe that you and he met for sex." She's clear, calm, measured. She's making judgements, assessing me – but what she really thinks of me, I can't tell. But I glance up from the desk to the man, and I can tell by his gray eyes and his straight lips what his opinion of me is. Slag, slapper, body for sale cos I've got no brains.

Again, the effort to speak. "I'm sorry – I don't know what you're talking about."

The woman is, I can tell, trying to be gentle. But of course, she has to ask this next question. "You do – we believe – work as a prostitute. A sex worker. Is that correct?"

I get the words out. "It's – yes, that's correct."

Rainbow takes over. He catches my scared look, holds me in his gaze. "We believe that a man named Jonathan Wycherley met a woman for sex at the Excel Hotel. We're investigating this matter because we believe that – while he and the woman were together – he was murdered. Were you that woman?"

This time, I really struggle to speak at all. "Why do you think this – woman – who was maybe, you think – with this man, could be me?"

The woman takes over again. I can tell, she thinks he's too – harsh? or just direct? Yes, I can see it in her eyes. Tired, creased eyelids, but her eyes are alert, aware of everything. She'd like to get to the same place as him, with a suspect on a murder charge under her belt. The only difference: she's using a different satnav, she thinks that a more roundabout route might be more successful for getting me there. I can tell, she's clever, or at least she thinks she's clever. "We're only asking for your help, Miss Harlow, that's all. If you were not the woman who met Jonathan Wycherley for sex on 3rd July, then of course you can't help and you're free to go on your way. On the other hand, being deliberately unhelpful to a police enquiry is a serious offence. A court would take a dim view of someone obstructing a murder enquiry by giving incorrect information."

Hold it together, Holly. I take a deep breath; amid a flurry of feelings, I try to hold on to what I actually know, and what I can tell from what they've said. I tell myself: they're asking me if I was there – so, they need me to admit to being there.

Therefore, they've not got anything that proves I was there.

The woman goes on. "Let's take it step by step, start at the beginning. Do you meet men, who..."

"Pay me for my time and companionship..."

"Prostitution." Rainbow cuts in again. And I sense that she's annoyed with him.

"I don't know the legal technicalities. I do what I do. I know that what I do is not a crime."

"How do you know that?" he asks. And I'm guessing, but I'm sure of it now. The slight twitch in the woman's lip, her look as he muscles in on her questioning, is not just annoyance at his crude directness. It's also an act. It's part of her showing – to me – that she's different from him. Each of them has a different game plan. He wants to intimidate me, get me to make a slip. She wants to pretend to be my friend.

"What I do for a living... I know it's legal, because I take advice from a legitimate organisation, call Sexwork Helpline. They're a registered charity. A close friend of mine, my flatmate in fact, is actually one of the trustees. Because she has seen over the years that people in my line of work maybe need people helping us and advising us, rather than judging us. Sexwork Helpline advise on health matters and legal matters."

He looks on, unimpressed, scornful.

"And Sexwork Helpline knows that there's a difference between girls like me who work independently and legally, and poor cows from Thailand or Eastern Europe who work for pimps and gangmasters. I'm a self-employed taxpayer: those girls are victims. And those pimps are the sort of people that you should be going after."

I've shocked myself with my boldness. Shocked them too.

"Keep to the point, please." I've put him off his stroke, I can tell. He's angry – it's the first time he's said 'please'. And she looks like the cat that got the cream. 'I told you so' her glance towards him says. And that tells me something more. Their good cop / bad cop routine is not pre-planned. _He's_ not acting.

"Sorry about the rant." I don't want to piss them off. But I'm glad to find that I can still speak clearly, put my point across. And maybe it does me no harm, in Pawan's eyes at least, to stick up for myself. "I just feel – that what I do for a living is neither here nor there in relation to your investigation. Me being a hooker doesn't mean that I was there, at this hotel place, when I wasn't."

He's about to speak, but this time she's the one to hold him back, she holds her hand up to him, as if she's telling him 'This isn't some simpleton you can frame up easily. Let's play it my way.'

What she does is show me a photo. "Have you ever met this man?"

I look at it. And rather than a half-hearted 'I meet lots of men' – which is the first phrase that floats into my mind – I answer clearly, confidently – "No". Because this is a game, and winning the game is nothing to do with the truth. The truth is always blended shades, half-light blurring into half-shadows, and the truth won't help me walk out of this cop shop, or a courtroom. "No" I lie. "Never seen him before, ever."

Rainbow can't resist. "How can you be so sure?"

I ignore the smirk that I think I see. "I meet a lot of men, obviously, in my work. But I've not seen that man in the photo before. I'm completely sure. I've a friend who's a teacher: she remembers every kid she's ever taught. It's just a mental trick that goes with a job. So no, I have definitely never seen him before." And I think: Pawan is swallowing this. And whether Rainbow believes me or not, he's fuming too much to be a competent questioner right now.

Pawan's speaking again. "Have you ever taken a booking at the Excel hotel in Bloomsbury?"

"No. I'm totally sure about that. I take almost all my bookings at home." Another lie – in fact it's probably 50/50 – but this time it might just be working, even on Bad Cop.

"So if we had a witness who said he'd seen you at that hotel? ..."

So, they have a witness: a _he_. A man. "Well, he – could be mistaken? I'm not unique looking, in my line of work, you know... Isn't it more likely that someone makes a mistake, identifies a woman at the hotel wrongly, than that I would completely misremember both a hotel I am supposed to have been in, and a guy that you claim that I've slept with?"

The woman, at least, looks like she's taken that point on board. But my heart's still in my mouth with fear. Because I know that me winning a verbal battle with them is not going to decide the outcome. And as for the facts of what truly happened... that's irrelevant. It's a game of poker here, and at best I've got a pair of twos. There's a power balance, and however clever I am about it, it's weighted 100% in their favour. Like a casino: the house always wins.

A game of poker. And Rainbow shows their hand, a bit more. "We checked your Oyster Card records. They show that you travelled on the London Underground from Finsbury Park to Russell Square at 9pm on the night of the murder. And Russell Square tube station is just round the corner from the Excel hotel. Can you explain that to us?"

"Can I ask – what time was this – murder?"

"It happened, we think, between 11.00 and 11.15pm. And the witness we have, he claims to have seen you leaving the hotel at 11.20pm. So, you do need to explain to us: why were you in the Russell Square area that evening?"

"I went there to meet a guy. For a coffee, nothing more. To see if he fancied me, if he wanted to book me."

"Is that usual?"

"No, it's not. The most usual, maybe two thirds of my new clients, it's phone: the guy looks at the escort website, he likes my profile and my photos, sees my number on the profile, phones me and we take it from there. Next most usual is for the guy to make a booking online, through the website, so I never speak to him until I meet him. But every so often you get a guy who wants to meet first for a chat, and I'm happy to work that way if the guy wants to. I arrived at Russell Square, I went to Caffe Brucciani. I bought a coffee from the counter. The guy who served me was aged about twenty, very slim, Italian, dark eyes but with blond hair. Which is unusual, which is why I remember him. You can ask him if I went in there for a coffee and sat by myself for nearly an hour. The guy who had called me and asked to meet, he didn't turn up. So I got a lift home to Finsbury Park with a friend, who was driving back from the centre to Walthamstow, at around 10.20pm. Then I got a tummy bug, don't know why, nothing to do with Brucciani's Latte Special. Just a summer bug. Last two days, I've been in bed. You can ask the young guy at Brucciani's, you can ask my friend who gave me a lift home, and I can even give you the number of the guy who phoned me and asked me to share a coffee with him, but never turned up."

But it's funny, my mouth is talking, telling them all that, but I'm thinking about something else. About a strange little moment that happened half an hour before my life fell apart. When Wycherley took the photo of me in my bra, I asked him to show it to me. When he passed me the phone, I happened to swipe the screen and I saw another photo. Another girl. Maybe ten years younger than me – seventeen, eighteen. Long, dark hair, pale skin, innocence. Unlike my photo, fully dressed. Her eyes caught and held mine, like a connection, like she was sharing something with me. Then Wycherley asked what I was staring at, and I swiped back to my photo. It was over in ten seconds, but amid all that horror, what I saw on his phone comes back to me now, as the one thing from that evening that I'll remember for the rest of my life. Her face, as if she were looking into mine.

These things roll around in my mind while I'm telling the cops all about the time I spent at Caffe Brucciani. Then I say, so it's totally clear, and recorded on their interview machine – "So, I was in that area of London, for a while, on the same evening. But not at that hotel, and not at the time of the murder."

"So you say." Rainbow looks at me like I'm a liar. Which I am, of course – but even so, his look hurts. Like he's judging my worth as a human being. Then he seems to come to a decision. Something in his face has changed, and I recognise his new expression all too well: brighter eyes, mouth slightly open, taking a deeper breath. It's the expression my punters get when they know it's time for the foreplay to be over and for them to fuck me, or for me to suck their dick. Because, with 80% of punters, foreplay is just the wrapping-paper on a present: they enjoy it well enough, but then it comes to what they're really after. I'd say 40% prefer oral, 40% fucking, but one or other of those is almost always the real deal, the thing they're paying me for. And when the suck or the fuck is about to happen, they get that expression – the slight smile, the eyes open a shade wider. And that's Rainbow's face at this moment. He's anticipating satisfaction, right here, right now. What's coming?

"You're telling us that you never went near the hotel, and you were away from the area before the murder happened. But – our witness who saw you at 11.20 – he knew you. He told us your name. He claims to know you – intimately."

"You mean, he's one of my clients."

He's silent for a moment: a silence that says 'Yes'. And then he says "So you see, it's not merely a passing, random identification. It's enough to justify me asking you to give your fingerprints and a DNA swab. You don't have to agree, at this stage. But I'd advise you to."

I'm sunk. I'm fucking sunk.

"Aren't I allowed to know who this person, my accuser, is?"

"Witness protection. We will check his story carefully. But right now, it's enough of a positive identification for us to need to eliminate you from our enquiries. So the prints and so on – well, it would make sense for you to agree."

"What if I refuse?"

"Why should you? It's routine, that's all, and then you're in the clear. Shouldn't be a problem for _you_. In your line of work you're hardly a stranger to sharing what's personal to you."

Cops United scored first, but I've just equalised. Own goal: scorer Rainbow.

"So you think that I should give you my prints and DNA – because of what I do? Because my privacy is worth less than other people's?"

Pawan looks _so_ pissed off with him. Because the net was about to drop on me, and now he's snagged it.

I'm fighting for my life here: I push the one little advantage I've got. "I think, if I'm to help your investigation by giving you these samples, then I'm entitled to legal advice first. Because of what you've said, Mr Rainbow, I do want that solicitor after all. You shouldn't, and you can't, push me around as if I'm different from anyone else."

"So you won't give us your prints?"

"I'm not refusing. All I'm doing is saying, because of the way you've treated me, that I need to consider my position. My legal position, with a legal adviser. And – can I ask one more question? To help me decide about this so-called co-operation."

"Fire away."

"The witness. He claims to have met me. Was it an incall or an outcall? I explain my jargon, to be totally clear. "Did he see me at my home, or somewhere else?"

He looks through some papers. "He claims to have visited you at your home."

"OK. Because, like I said, I don't meet many guys outside my home. So if he told you that he met me at his home, or a hotel, that would make his story unlikely."

Pawan cuts in. "Look, we're not disbelieving you. We don't need a witness statement at the moment, because you say you're not a witness. But we need to be sure, we need you to decide about those prints. If your story is true, then you have nothing to fear. You might as well have the prints done right now."

"I'm not refusing. I just need time to think about it, and talk it over with a brief."

Rainbow's response comes straight back at me. "This is a murder enquiry. We need to move fast, and to do that, we need to eliminate you from the investigation. So – those prints please. Tomorrow."

"What about my legal advice?"

"Your solicitor can see you this afternoon. Police Officer Simmonds contacted a duty solicitor for you, as you requested. The solicitor has just now texted you, and copied me in."

" _What_? I thought a solicitor was supposed to be on _my_ side?"

"Read the text." He hands the phone to me. "Miss Harlow. I am duty police station solicitor at Thames Solicitors. I can attend you this afternoon at 4pm Stoke Newington police station, or more conveniently at our offices at 145 Seven Sisters Road. Please let me know location. Julian Caunce."

Rainbow smiles a broad, evil grin. "So we'll see you tomorrow. You're free to go." And he can't help adding "For now."

Harlow Town 1, Cops United 2.

So I can leave. Before I go, I get my phone out and read out some numbers to them. But, wherever there is a 5 in the numbers, I say 6. So they'll dial the wrong numbers. Which gives me time, as I wait for a taxi outside the police station, to call Gary and Aftab, the two guys in my story, and ask them to say to the police what I need them to say – before the police get to them first. Gary's a longstanding client who'll happily say anything, and Aftab, an engineer who works shifts for London Underground, is an old friend who used to live in the ground-floor flat below me and Jazz until he got married. He's a good mate, and since moving out he's often gone a little out of his way home to Walthamstow to give me lifts back to my flat, when I've done a late-nighter at a central London hotel. Then, I phone the police station, say sorry, sorry, my fingers are a bit clumsy on my phone screen, I often type the wrong digits, so I'm calling them to check that I did give them exactly the right numbers.

And of course, the bit about the café is true. I went there that night, as I often do for Bloomsbury bookings, to put myself in the frame of mind for my booking. Just something I do, sitting there sipping a coffee, running through in my mind how I'll react to the guy's touch, how I will appear genuinely aroused when I don't fancy the punter. Because most Bloomsbury hotel bookings are old, fat businessmen. So I'm quite a regular at Brucciani's. The Italian guy was new there, but he'll remember me. Because all he could do when I ordered that latte was stare at my cleavage. And because Wycherley was running late, I ended up sitting in that café for nearly an hour.

And only then, once I've shown how co-operative I am with the police, to get into my taxi and allow myself the relief of tears, of crying and crying into my hanky. Police interrogation. Even when you come out of it OK, and you've lied successfully, you feel you've been tortured into confession. The whole process leaves you feeling defiled – even when you're a whore.

When I get home, I'm going to have the longest, bubbliest bath ever.

But first, the taxi takes me to the solicitor's office. What a waste of time. He's maybe the same age as me, not long out of some nice university, and completely out of his depth, I can tell, with most of the clients that he must represent. His Mum and Dad must be gutted that he's advising lowlife above a shop in Seven Sisters rather than raking down hundreds of grand in the City. I tell him the same line I've told the police, of course. He notes it all down and says that he can be with me at the station if I have to go in again. He talks a bit about the cost of his work if I need his help and advice as a witness, and about legal aid, which seems to kick in only if I'm charged with the murder and he has to defend me in court, although if I'm lucky enough to end up as just a witness, I might get something for loss of earnings. But until I'm charged, he's not going to be of much use to me.

**3 Friday 7 July**

I'm lying in bed. It's mid-afternoon on a warm summer day, but I've got the quilt up over my head. I want nothing: to see nothing, know nothing, think nothing, feel nothing. I can hear cheerful sounds from outside, people sitting in their yards and gardens chatting, songs on the radio, distant hum of traffic. Even a bird cheeping. I listen, and stare into the darkness.

Who am I?

If you grow up, I guess, with a family, there is so much that's given to you – so much that you know belongs to yourself. Your parents, always there. The family home that you know as the place where you began, and where you can go back to when things get rough. A bricks-and-mortar womb. Familiar streets, shops, school. Brothers, sisters, friends.

I grew up in ten different children's homes. Officially, I was brought up in just two, but moves of premises, reorganisations, restructurings of the Social Services maze meant that I was never living in the same place for more than eighteen months at a time. And different schools too. Maybe I was lucky: I was never physically abused. But there was never any one person that was always there, that I knew I could always turn to. Every few months another nice social-worker/carer lady would arrive, meet me, 'gain my trust'. And then she'd be promoted or moved, or become pregnant with her own child, and leave. After a while it got easier. The constant change became business-as-usual. I realised that when I talked to some new, well-meaning, middle-class face about my feelings, my fears, my hopes, it was in the certain knowledge that in six months' time she would go away to do something else, something more important. And my own face would be erased from her memory, like I'd never been. I realised that I was saying the things I did to these so-called carers not genuinely, but in order to play the part: to act out what was expected of me. I was invisible, as they say, and after a while, I realised that I wanted to be invisible. Not because I didn't believe in myself, but because I was like a chick in an egg, alive but not yet alive. Waiting for my life to start.

They wanted what was best for me, they really did. But during all that time only one thing came along that gave me any sense of purpose: doing that St John's Ambulance course. The instructors didn't pity me, they didn't look down on me, they gave me clear tasks which I did successfully, and I actually had the same instructor for three years. Kenneth Cropper. I'll always remember him. I think back, how much I enjoyed that course, I actually felt like a part of something, a member of the group with the other kids. A weird, one-off feeling for the child that was me. Maybe I had a talent, maybe if I'd had a proper home background I'd have gone into nursing as a career. But nothing like that even crossed my mind. After some attempts at GCSEs – again, doing what I was told, what they expected of me – I tried to keep up with the catering college course they felt was right for me, which is where I met Amrit. He was a lot older than me, and at first it seemed like he had dreams, hopes of something better. We were both rubbish at the college course, cookery is what I'm worst at in the whole world, but he said that wasn't important. If he finished the course, his uncle would give him a job in his restaurant. "Front of house, that's what's important. Losers cook. I want to be the guy who takes the money from the customer."

I walked out of the children's home aged seventeen without telling anyone where I was going. I walked round the corner and seven minutes later I knocked on Amrit's door. I knew that they would never find me, that the efforts to trace me would not even lead them two blocks away from the home.

Amrit's flat was a dump, but living with him was OK at first. His family were not against him seeing a white girl, nor did they try to disown him for what was obviously a fully sexual relationship. On which subject: the sex was pretty crap. Amrit was the original goldfish-attention-span male in bed. Once we were at it, he was desperate to stick it in me straight away. Then 2 minutes of unvaried, rhythmic heaving. If there was music on, he would shag to the beat. Then a brief cry, a groan, and he would roll over and sleep and I would reach for my vibrator.

The problems came when his family found out I had only just turned seventeen – Amrit was twenty-four. This they did criticise him for, and I recall his father coming round, shutting me in the kitchen in order to talk to his son 'man to man' in the sitting room of the flat. I sat in that room for ages, listening at the door, but at first hearing only the pattering of winter rain on the window. But then, raised voices. Angry shouting. And then, a slammed front door. When I opened the kitchen door I was surprised to see his father still there.

"Cup of tea?"

"Thank you, my daughter." He was always a gentleman, Amrit's father.

Amrit came back two hours later, after his dad had gone. He'd clearly been thinking and had decided which side his bread was buttered. He gathered all my stuff, loaded it into his car and drove me round to the street where the children's home was. He left me on the pavement, with all my belongings in the world in three cardboard boxes. I remember looking up and down the street, the avenues of trees like black skeletons against the January sky.

I hear a noise, and the memory is gone. The sound is the most welcome I've heard for days: Jazz's key in the door of our flat.

"How's your Mum?" I ask, hoping she'll tell me quickly and then I can tell her my story.

"Much better. Much better than Dad, that is. He's the one not coping. God, it's hot. The temperature goes up ten degrees when you come back into London."

"It's been a bloody sauna, the last few days. And you know how I hate being too hot. Jazz – "

She looks at me. I see her classy, English face, still so clear-skinned even though she's just turned thirty; her straight narrow nose, high cheeks: they all say to me – clever, privileged. Well, she is privileged, compared to me: Mum, Dad, home, college. And she used to have a proper job too, at Haringey Council, taking calls, dealing with housing enquiries. Responsible work – but promotion opportunities were zero, so she packed it in. The game was only meant to tide her over until she found a better job. Now it's eight years later.

I tell her my story.

"Think of the positive, Hol. You didn't do it: they've had you inside the police station, and they've not charged you. Someone violent, strong, almost certainly male did this. They won't have a case that would stack up in court against you, they don't want to see their prosecution case collapse... everything points to them not seeing you as a real suspect. They see you as a witness. They're sometimes rough on witnesses – and especially, our sort of people. A girl who's on the game – it's Us and Them. They don't trust us to tell them what they want. They want to shake us up. They think we're like a tree: rattle the branches and everything will drop out."

"No. You weren't there in that police interview, Jazz. They've got it in for me. They want to take my prints and my DNA. It will prove that I was there. If they're being tough with me now, how will they treat me once they know that I was with this Wycherley bloke, and that I've lied to them?" As I'm speaking, I can feel all the fears of my nightmares creeping back into me. I see the blood again.

Jazz jolts me back to reality. "How did they get onto you in the first place?"

"A witness. Claims he saw me, and that he recognised me because he was an old booking."

"Who? Who could possibly be a witness?"

"Well... the only place, I guess, where someone might have seen me, was the hotel lobby."

"At the hotel... mmm. Did you recognise any old punters there? I guess you would have noticed, if you were on the alert for being spotted by people anyway."

"Would I have noticed?" I look into her face, and then I check my memory, and my autopilot brain who guided me out of that hotel. And the autopilot is crystal clear, confident. "You're right, Jazz. I'd have recognised anyone that I've ever met before, in that lobby. I'd know, if I saw anyone familiar there. And it must have been the lobby; I saw no-one in the hotel corridor, no-one in the lift, and no-one outside the hotel entrance."

"Is it possible that this guy, whoever he is, saw you, but you didn't see him?"

I'm definite, sure again. "No. I was like radar that night, like spider-senses. I was watching everything that was there, all the way out from the room through the hotel to the tube."

"So, your witness..."

"There's a guy who looked at me – at the hotel reception desk. A total stranger, but I'm sure that it was him who saw me leaving. He was the only person who met my eyes. It was him alright."

"And what – he saw you leave the hotel, and then the murder is reported in one of the hotel's rooms, and he puts two and two together? But in that case, how did he know who you were?"

"Yes, how? But I know something."

"What?"

"I know he's lying. I've never been with him, never seen him before. He's telling a deliberate lie about having seen me before, about knowing who I am."

"But that's... not going to be much use... if they get your prints and match them to that room..."

"No. Like I said Jazz, I'm done for."

"No. You're not." She smiles at me. Those deep soulful eyes in her pale oh-so-British face, like an actress in an old black-and-white movie.

"Because, Hol, if this witness is lying, and it went to court, then the prosecution would pick up on that, and he'll end up in trouble. It's not worth it for him. He'll lose his job, he'll get a police record..."

"And meanwhile, I'll be serving life."

"No. Don't you see? Get to him _now_. Find him. Tell him that you don't know how he got onto you, but what he told them is a lie, it's not worth his while to go on with it. Find out how he really knew who you were."

"And get him to change his evidence, now?"

"Exactly. So you never need to give any prints, any DNA. All you'll get is a police apology."

I feel her arm round me, her fingers stroking my shoulder. What she's saying, my logic brain tells me, makes sense. Yes, a witness could be in serious trouble for lying to incriminate someone in a murder case. Yes, a decent brief could, I guess, use that in court, or probably even before it got to court, to unravel a prosecution case. Stick and carrot. That's the stick to beat this hotel guy with, and maybe I could throw in some cash for the carrot. Knowing the salaries of London hotel desk staff, I'd guess that my witness could be bribed to change a story to the police, for say, £500?

"You're right Jazz. Thank you, you're right." I give her a bear-hug. A gleam of hope. But I feel, somehow, that I know that man at the desk already. It was only a two-second glance at him, but I feel in my guts that more than a threat from me will be needed. There was a hardness in his eyes. £500 might be only the start.

"Let's go now." Jazz is always decisive.

"Really? Right now?"

"After we've showered and changed. Smart clothes. We need to put on our battle dress. But yes, we're going back to that hotel – we get in there, we speak to him, ASAP."

Jazz and I are going up in the lift at Russell Square tube station. We're scrubbed-up, professional looking. Business suits and classy heels, like women candidates off _The Apprentice_. A crush of people: it's six o'clock. The tube journey was hot, stuffy, and it's even more intense in this lift. As if all the air's been sucked out and someone's got a hot hair dryer turned on us. I'm tall for a woman, but I'm standing right behind two six-foot guys. I can see sweat on their necks, while I feel the moisture in the breath of people behind me. Suddenly we're out into the air, July heat and light bouncing off the pavement. It feels so daunting, going back to the hotel where it happened. But I can do it: with Jazz with me, somehow I know I'll be OK.

We cross the road, turn a corner – and there it is, in front of me. I'd dreaded seeing it, but it's nothing: a bog-standard London hotel, a couple of taxis pulled up outside, someone paying a fare, suitcases on the pavement, fake pot-plants next to fake marble pillars, people standing having a fag outside the revolving doors. We go in, and I'm still feeling OK. The lobby is empty. And we see him, straight away, at the desk. A little shrew-like man, black wiry hair, thin, pale face. Maybe thirty. He's looking at a screen and tapping a keyboard. I nudge Jazz. She heads straight towards him. I see his name badge – Enver Krasniqi.

"Mr Krasniqi – I'm Jasmine Cairns, this is my friend Holly Harlow. And we have some private business to discuss with you." She speaks boldly, directly, without fear. I want to run away, but at the same time I'm admiring her directness, her head-on tackling of the problem.

He sees me standing half-hidden behind her. He doesn't look into our faces, but he scans up and down our bodies. 'Undressing you with his eyes' is definitely going on here.

"Private business? Your friend – she is... the, ah, reason for this business?" East European accent. Patronising manner.

"We'll discuss everything when you're able to speak to us."

Another desk clerk, a woman, is looking at him. I know that glance. It means "Mister, you're supposed to be working, but here's a piece of your private life you're dealing with at your desk." And a porter standing near the lift is looking at him too, with a glare that could kill. This guy is not popular with the other staff. But he seems like he couldn't care less. "Well, we can speak now. Wait for me in the pub across the road. Five minutes and I'll be with you. My shift is just ending, so you are – lucky, lucky to catch me. Very lucky."

We both go back out into the searing heat. It's the peak of summer, the weekend is beginning, and the pub is bursting with bodies. It seems like every Londoner and every tourist is needing a cold beer, right now. But outside the door there's a free table on the pavement, in the glare of the sun, and Jazz offers to dive into the sweaty scrum inside and get us some drinks. Amazingly, she's back in two minutes, with two long glasses of something decadent.

"Thanks Jazz. A cheeky cocktail?"

"Dutch courage. And speaking of cheeky cocks, there's Mr Slime crossing the road to us right now. Definitely, definitely bribeable."

"No drink for me, ladies?"

"You're welcome to get your own."

"I see. You two ladies and me – I thought, maybe, we could be a team, we could help each other? ..." He sits down without buying a drink, looks at us expectantly. For me, looking into someone's eyes makes me feel sympathy: here is another human being, needy, hurtable. All any of us have in this world is a few years in a frame of flesh. But sitting here in the sun, looking into those cold blue eyes framed in chalky skin, I feel nothing of that fellow warmth. And there's now been thirty seconds silence, thirty seconds stand-off. Jazz, as usual, breaks the ice.

"Mr Krasniqi, we think that you witnessed something and reported it to the police. We believe that you told them that you witnessed my friend in your hotel. We're not here to dispute that you saw someone leaving the Excel hotel. What we do dispute is your claim to the police that you have known my friend in the past."

"Known? You mean, fucked."

"That never happened." I but in, angrily. "You're making it up. I never met you before in my life, you liar."

He speaks to Jazz, not to me. "She is very angry, I see that. But this problem is easily solved. I know it concerns a murder, and the police will be very focused on Miss Harlow. So the police may not be interested in whether I am lying or telling the truth about that one little thing, because I have some important evidence. With that evidence, Miss Harlow is – to say it again – fucked."

His boldness make my heart sink into my stilettos. I'm roasting in this business suit, but the icy feeling from that hotel bathroom comes back to me. And Jazz – she was calm, until now. But I can see her neck is reddening, face flushing with fury. He's noticed it too. He waves his hand, as if dismissing our feelings, our fears.

"Ladies, ladies, there is a way forward. Good for me, and good for you, too. We may be able to do a deal. But here, with both of you and only one of me... a threesome, you would call it in your line of work? Ha ha. Two on one, that is not fair. I want to see you" – he wags a finger at me – "alone."

"OK." Maybe I shouldn't give in to his demands straight away like that, but I'm desperate, and if he is offering a deal... and yes, I was right, some kind of bribery is going to be needed here. That bribe, maybe a share of my earnings for a while, is probably what he's been angling for all along, ever since he spoke to the police. I've got the £500 cash with me, for starters. Jazz looks at me with warning in her eyes, but yes, I need that deal, it's my only lifeline. "OK."

"You" he speaks to Jazz "very attractive, very chic. A true English lady. A shame we can't meet for longer. Maybe sometime?"

"In your fucking dreams, sleazeball."

"Nice manners to go with your fine clothes, Miss Cairns. I will look you up, on the Internet. It will be interesting to read your profile. I'm sure I can find you on EscortNet or GirlsDirect. I'll take a look at what you're wearing in your profile photos. Or not wearing. If your profile includes a phone number, then expect a call from me. But you, Miss Harlow, you come with me, right now."

Jazz looks at me. Does she feel she's fucked it up for me, by being rude to him? I smile back as if to say "No problem, we all know that there's no friendliness here. But there is the chance of a deal. That's all this guy is after. You've not let me down. Thank you, thank you."

He stands up. I gulp down the rest of my drink: in this heat I need the liquid, but all I feel is the alcohol in my throat, a hit at the back of my skull. I stand up too, and follow him without a word from either of us. We go back to the tube station, back into the squeeze of the lift. It's even busier now, and the press of bodies, on this hottest day of the year so far, is suffocating. The lift descends and opens into the passageways of the Underground, hundreds of people all striding along, feet pounding almost in rhythm as we descend a few steps to the platform. My heels ring on the iron grips of the steps and I'm teetering in this crowd. There's droves of people on the northbound platform, a train glides in and "Mind the Gap" rings out over the tannoy, it's unbelievable that we might all fit into this tiny sliding tube, but everyone squeezes up, I keep Krasniqi in sight, he pushes his way on, elbowing and shoving, and I do too. The crush in the train is worse than in the lift, and as it starts to move I hold onto a rail above the door to keep steady. I hope the armpits of my jacket aren't soaked in sweat: I know that my blouse is. I'm looking into the eyes of a middle eastern guy who's standing next to me, he's a gentleman, he's trying to stand back from me, giving me as much room as he can. Dark eyes, deep like pools. Forlorn, sad eyes. I can see the pores in his nose and cheeks, the individual bristles of his beard. A young, fake blond girl is five inches from my face on the other side of me, her skin plastered crudely with make-up, and I can see where it's cracked and uneven after a day of work and sweat. My nose is filled with a horrible, sharp smell: it's from the armpit of an old man who's reaching up to hold an overhead handle, his shirt stained, crumpled, pulled out of his trousers at the waist, I see an inch of the pasty skin of his belly. London.

The train rumbles on through the darkness. Then King's Cross, and even more people squash onto this travelling tube of hot humanity, breathe in, rattle on. Pressed up against bodies for two, three stations. We come to Finsbury Park, my home stop, and a lot of people get off, at last I can breathe freely again and I look through the other faces, across the carriage, Krasniqi is still there, still sweaty, still sneering. And the train moves off towards the outer suburbs. Where are we going?

Wood Green. We leave the train, a long escalator ride up to the surface. We're out in Zone 3 here, and the outside air is a relief as we leave the tube station, but it's still sweltering, and the lowering sun blazes onto every surface of metal and glass. I smell hot tar, bad drains, cigarette smoke, car fumes. Traffic streams northbound along Wood Green High Road, out of the city. We're on the edge of a great divide: to the west, Ally Pally, Muswell Hill, Highgate, Hampstead, open green hillsides looking down on London, parkland, leafy streets, sweet suburbia. To the east, scuzzy twilight bedsit-land. We turn east. We need to cross another busy road. Krasniqi just steps off the kerb, dodges the cars. It's now past seven o'clock but still manically busy, frantic traffic, drivers hurrying home from a ten-hour day at the office, tired, overheated, end-of-tether.

Krasniqi walks fast, like a machine: I trip along in my heels, trying to keep up with him. Under my jacket, I feel my skin squeezing out sweat with the exertion. Headache: I should have asked Jazz to get me a glass of water rather than that cocktail. More rubbish on the pavements here, and now we turn down a sidestreet, and another. Crumbling houses with shoddy repairs. Finsbury Park seems like Knightsbridge now. On the next street there's a guy sitting on the pavement, back against a wall, doing – what? Begging? Resting? Krasniqi steps over the man's legs as if he's a piece of dogshit. I do the same, I don't even glance to check if the guy is OK. Another sidestreet. Halfway along, we turn into what was once a postage-stamp front garden, now piled high with empty cardboard boxes, like the ones that office paper supplies come in. I can see labels "Excel Hotel Bloomsbury" on some of the boxes. And then Krasniqi's fiddling with a Yale, the door clunks open, and we're going upstairs in the dark.

The room is dirty and messy beyond belief. Papers everywhere, piled anyhow on the floor, on the sofa, on shelving up to the ceiling. But the papers all look like A4 office paper, and I realise, once I get over how crowded and nasty it is, that despite dust and muck – many of the papers have blackened fingerprints on them – that these papers are not random: they're in deliberate stacks, and there might even be some kind of system. Everything in here is white, but ingrained with grime: the walls, the papers, the MDF furniture, the bare floorboards painted white gloss, but stained in overlapping patches where drinks, maybe food, has been spilt over months, years. Filthy. I'm not sure whether he's a hoarder or an OCD. There's a cramped desk topped by two large out-of-date computer screens and a printer.

"Sit there." There are two cheap, hard chairs; I take the one he gestures to. God, this room is even hotter than out in the sun. The one small window is shut: stale air. He goes through a door but doesn't close it, and after a moment I hear the tinkle of his piss. I look at the nearest pile of papers. Printed out from a website, that's obvious enough. I recognise the layout of the top page, it's a page from GirlsDirect, someone's profile "Elite Call Girl and Pornstar. Size 10 36G. Body built for sin – and a kinky mind that thinks only of your pleasure! Always in sexy lingerie, stockings & heels. For rates see below. Discounts available for Regulars." Pages and pages of profiles, printed out. And photos printed from websites, literally hundreds, no thousands of them, every one a pink mass of naked skin. 'Must get through his colour cartridges, does he nick those from work too?' I think to myself as I leaf through a slew of paper. The tinkling noise goes on. Every page is covered with grainy blow-up photos of female body parts. Medical-level detail. And he's scribbled stuff on every photo – names, dates. Every one has the web address printed out on it too. Like someone who enjoys porn, but prefers classifying it to masturbating over it.

The tinkling stops. I put the papers down, and sit with my arms folded, like butter wouldn't melt.

He comes back in the room, hands unwashed. I see again the whites of his hard eyes, his pale face, the grayness of his hotel-chain suit, the white of the walls and the piles of paper. His tie, man-made fibre with the Excel hotel logo on it, is crimson: the only splash of colour in this room except for the flashes of skintone on every bit of exposed paper.

I don't want to spend one second more than I have to in this place. I come straight to the point.

"We can do a deal."

"You're good at stating the obvious, Holly. Holly – is that what you'd like me to call you? What your friends call you. Your clients. Lucky guys." The hint of a smirk.

"Holly will do. And yes, let's do a deal. I can prove to the police that your story is not correct. You've never met me before, and you certainly never incalled me. That's provable, because you don't know where I live. So you can go back to the police, please, and tell them –"

"The truth, Holly?"

"Forget the fucking truth, Mr Krasniqi, that doesn't matter either way. I guess neither you or I is the sort of person who fusses about the truth. Just tell the cops that you've never seen me before, that you made a mistake, that the girl you saw leaving the Excel Hotel could have been anyone."

"And how would you make that worthwhile to me?"

"I can give you money."

He sneers "I have money." Suddenly, like a magic trick, he produces a roll of cash and waggles it in front of my nose. It's in a clear plastic bag, maybe a sandwich or a freezer bag. A hot wave rolls over me: the airlessness, the oven heat of this tiny room: my head reels. Because the £200 in the bag in front of me is a roll of crisp new £20 notes, bound with a blue elastic band. I've seen the roll, the elastic band, before. It's what Wycherley put down in the hotel room.

I grab at it and it's the magic trick again: the money has gone.

"How the fuck did you get that?"

"Holly, Holly. You were the last person to see Mr Wycherley alive, the cops already know that. They just need to prove it. So if I give them this little packet – let's face it, you're as good as in jail. You will have counted these notes, checked them, put this little elastic band back on them. The police will find that they are covered with your prints. And not with mine."

He sits back, like he's giving me time for the shock to sink in. Above his head, I see for the first time, he's printed a photo of me out from the GirlsDirect website – but with this one photo, he's gone to the trouble to sellotape it to the wall. Like the others, he's scribbled something under it.

The nasty smile again. "But I'll give you all this money, and then you can get rid of it, and the police will – maybe – forget my story..."

"Yes. Yes."

"As you say. Yes. Nice that you and I now have that deal that you talked about. And because we have a deal, I'll give you the first twenty pounds right now. Take your jacket and blouse off."

I don't know about every girl on the trade. But everyone I know has no-nos. Guys who give us the creeps. Guys you wouldn't screw if they gave you a thousand quid. Or more.

Krasniqi is one of those guys.

But I take the jacket and blouse off just the same.

I can see him eying every inch of my skin and I feel like I was seventeen again, I feel sick to my core. He doesn't, of course, hand me any of the money. He simply says, in a flat tone "Now the skirt."

I slide it down over my hips and it's on the floor, and it's like my mind is focusing on something that I can cope with, I'm thinking of the material of my best skirt on that horrible, sticky, painted floor. "The bra."

I reach back and unclip the bra. I'm really trembling now; it's making my nipples shake and I can see him half greedy, half-laughing at my wobbling boobs.

"Pants."

"No. I can't do this, not like this. Listen, give me a day or so and I promise, promise, you can have the lot. You can shag me for free. But not now. I'm shaken up."

And only then it occurs to me: how did he get the money? And two pieces of a jigsaw fit together. No, three pieces. He saw me leave, he went up to the room, he took the cash. Before the police or anyone else got to that room. Bastard, bastard.

There's a fourth piece. I'm just too scared, and too ashamed of my naked body in front of his bulging, greedy eyes, to be able to think what it is.

"Pants. I'm not asking, I'm telling."

I start to pull at them but I fumble, this is too horrible. Suddenly he holds something up. It's an iphone. It must be Wycherley's iphone. "You see, the money is nothing, really. But this – well, it has the man's blood on it. And a photo of you, with the time and date, taken by him, minutes before he died. So you are – like I said back at that pub – fucked. Now be a good girl. Pants. I want to see a nice pink pussy, in under five seconds."

I'm like a rag doll now. I just obey. And I keep thinking: I'm going to throw up on you in a second, you shit, you shit. How much of a turn-on will that be for you? But it doesn't happen. And then he hands me the iphone.

"Frig yourself. With the phone."

"No."

"You really should. Put some of your DNA on it. It's sure to help your case if the police think that poor man dildoed you with it."

"No."

Suddenly his eyes narrow. It's like something has snapped in him. The muscles in his throat move, the veins in his neck stand out. His hands clench, and it's an instant shock, like lightning: there's a punch, a blow on the side of my head. I'm seeing stars, literally. Blackness, and I'm falling sideways. But my muscles tense, strengthen. I don't fall. I can see his face, like a white mask, and I watch through the stars, I see my own fist rising and catching his chin and I feel his jawbone rocking back against my knuckles, like his neck is a spring, and I can see the whites of his eyes below the irises, as his eyeballs swing back in his head.

And there's a voice saying "I'm getting dressed. I am onto your stupid little scam. It's a criminal offence. You can find yourself out of a job and out of this country in 24 hours. So – you listen to me."

The fourth piece of the jigsaw.

"If you saw nothing more than a woman walking out of the hotel, you could not have known which room I'd come from. You could never have found that money and that phone. So you already knew which room Wycherley and me were in.

You knew the room, because you _arranged_ that room for Wycherley, knowing it was in order that he could meet me for sex. I've heard some of the girls on the game talk about hotel employees who operate your sort of racket. You'll do this for lots of punters, checking the hotel database, find out about unused rooms, making last-minute room bookings, overcharging the punters, making money on the side. The hotel won't like you running your own little scam of using their place as a knocking-shop. If I tell them, you're out of a job, added onto that there's attempting to lie to the police. In a murder case. So that's prison for you, or you'll be sent back to Bosnia or wherever you've come from."

He doesn't answer, and my clothes are back on, and I know I've beaten him.

"There's something else. You knew who Wycherley had booked. Somehow, you had my contact details, and that's how the police found me so quickly. You gave them my contact details. How did you get hold of them?"

He mumbles. "Louder."

"OK, I saw you arrive, I guessed you were the girl who was going up to Wycherley's room. Then, when I saw you leave early, looking a mess – I wanted to know what was going on. I went up to the room, like you said. The door was not locked and I went in, I saw him lying there dead. Yes, I took the money and the phone. Later, I looked at his phone, at who he'd phoned. He texted someone just before 10pm – "Can we postpone booking until 10.30pm? Apologies Jonathan." And he got a text back "OK no problem. See you at 10.30 Holly." So I knew that that number must be the girl he was meeting. I typed it into Google – the phone number that the text came from. Google came up with a result, a profile called GirlNextDoor, on the GirlsDirect website."

Is he lying? I look into his face, trusting nothing. "A website that you just happen, by sheer fucking coincidence, to have printed out every page from."

He makes no reply. I attack again. "So did the police ask you, or did you volunteer it, this lie about you being one of my old clients, about how you claimed to know me? Did you tell them some story about how you made a connection between the girl you saw leaving the hotel and that girl there?" I point at my photo on the wall.

"I just told them I'd met you before. I told them it was a coincidence."

"And they swallowed that?" Somehow, their lack of thought and care doesn't surprise me. Never mind Holly, you're in control now girl. Tell him what he's got to do.

"Ok. Well, you go back to the cops. You say you made a mistake, right? That you got it wrong, you thought it was some girl you'd met, cos she looked a bit like the girl you saw leaving the hotel room, but when you think about it, it wasn't. OK?"

"How much is this worth?"

"Don't fucking try to bargain with me. I set the deal. What it's worth is: your job at the hotel, for starters. Me not reporting you to the police, for taking money for booking Wycherley a room that you knew he planned to use for sexual services. Which is an old-fashioned English phrase called Living Off Immoral Earnings. And another old-fashioned phase, which is something much worse, called Perverting the Course of Justice."

"But... you're maybe going down for murder."

"No, you fucker, _you_ are maybe going down for murder." I try to frighten him more by throwing in a bit more legal jargon, although of course I haven't a clue what any of it means. "Or at the very least an accessory. Conspiracy to murder. You knew that Wycherley would be in that room, at that time. You know that I didn't kill him. But you might know who did."

I walk out with the £200 and Wycherley's iphone. Krasniqi ended up telling me – and I could see he was shit-scared that I'd tumbled him – that he knew which room we'd been in because Wycherley had come down into the lobby and asked him if he could get him any "extras" for Room 412. I knew that story was bollocks, but I just wanted to get Krasniqi out of my sight. When I'm stronger, I'll face him and get the full truth out of him. And then, I say to myself, I'll tell the hotel anyway, the bastard. Or could I? How can one human being enjoy harming another? I think about all those so-called witches, questioned and tortured by the authorities. He enjoyed humiliating me, he relished it like it was champagne. The little shit. And yet... I can't hurt him in cold blood, just to get my own back on him. I'm not capable of causing harm for the fun of it. Even to him.

I leave his house, I don't even bother to shut the front door. And then I'm out on the street again and I realise: I haven't got a clue where I am. I walk back the way I think I've come. Yes, I remember this corner, and this one.

The heat is still fierce, the evening sun blazes in my eyes. I must be walking back west, towards the tube station. Suddenly I recognise the really busy road ahead of me. I see a cheap café and realise that my mouth and tongue are like sandpaper. I've got to rest, drink, right now. I go into the café, sit down, ask the boy at the counter for a large bottle of mineral water. I feel like I've run a marathon, and my legs start to shake. Plus, I keep seeing that thin, chalky face staring at my bare boobs, and I feel vomit, like acid, rising in my throat. Right now, I can't face the tube journey back, the jostling, the people. I can afford to stop for a moment. I know I've scared Krasniqi off completely. I've won.

Someone hands me the bottle of water. A familiar voice says to the kid at the counter "I'll pay."

"Jazz! How did you get here?"

"I wasn't going to leave you with that creep, was I? I was terrified for you. I've never, in all my time on the game, seen a guy I'd trust less. I followed you on the tube up to Wood Green. Of course, I didn't want him to see me and bugger up your deal with him. But I didn't want to leave you alone up here in the middle of nowhere with an obvious pervert either. So I kept well back, and he didn't see me. But then just after leaving the tube station, I lost you, back on the other side of that busy road. There was suddenly a ton of traffic, and by the time I could cross the road, you'd gone. I didn't know whether you'd gone left, right or straight ahead. So I waited here, this little café has a good view of the streets, I hoped to see you coming back. It was awful, waiting, wondering how you'd got on."

"Thanks." I reach out and hold her hand. I notice that my own hand, my own arm, is red and blotchy.

"Do I look a mess?"

"You look hot, very red. Maybe dehydrated. Perhaps being really scared does that to you?"

"Well, you're right about one thing. He really did give me the creeps. His flat – like a serial killer or something."

"And?"

"He got me to strip off."

"Fuck."

"He'd been in that hotel room, you see. The room of the murder. He took the £200 and the guy's phone. He told me that if I didn't strip, he was going to give them to the police and they'd find my prints on them, of course. But then I thought, he must have known the room – "

"Arranged it? For the punter?"

"Exactly. One of those rackets that some hotel staff run. Backhanders of cash, so a punter can have an vacant room for the night at short notice for sex. Wycherley booked that room with Krasniqi directly, and he was staying at that hotel that night, for the purpose of meeting me. So I told Mr Krasniqi that he was liable to go down for misleading the police, and maybe even being in on the murder. After all, he knew the room Wycherley was in, so he could be linked with whoever broke in there and did the murder. When I told him that, he looked scared. He handed over the money and Wycherley's phone."

"Would he have raped you?"

"I'm sure of it, Jazz. I'll drink this, then I need to get home."

"I'm already dialling the taxi."

**4 Monday 10 July**

It's my first booking since Wycherley. It's an incall, a new guy. I've spoken to him briefly on the phone. I've got to move beyond last week's horrors, start living my life again. I'm nervous, I feel like a virgin. I pace around the flat, tidying, moving things. I've changed my underwear twice. Satin dressing gown? No, I'll just open the door in bra and pants, and try not to think about how Krasniqi made me feel. I sniff my underarms, pop to the bathroom to splash them with soap and water – again. Then I decide to put the satin gown on after all. Just stop fussing. I wish he was here now. It's four minutes to the hour of the booking, which is the exact time that the majority of punters ring the front doorbell. The doorbell rings.

"Uh, are you Holly?" He's about thirty-five, mid-height, solid build. Plain t-shirt, short cropped hair, pocked cheeks, glasses. I always look at their lips, because I know that will usually be the first close physical contact. They're nice, well-shaped, slightly fleshy. They don't match his unappealing face.

"I'm Holly all right. You're Martin? Can I get you a cup of tea or anything?"

"No thanks. Hundred and eighty for the hour?"

"That's right. Come inside. There's a shower if you'd like it."

"No thanks." I take his hand and lead him through the flat into the third bedroom, the one Jazz and I use for incalls. It's a place for incall sex only: we don't use it for anything else, and it always seems a bit blank, a bit no-personality, to me. There's a bed with no duvet, a small bedside table with a selection of condoms on it, some baby wipes, and an ipod and speakers for if the punter wants some music. On the walls there's nothing personal, only a couple of large framed prints of bland soft-focus nudes that Jazz picked up cheap in Camden. He silently doles out the notes on the bedside table. "Good journey here, Martin?"

"Tube." Well this is hard work, which is typical of so many punters. I can tell it's not shyness, it's not the first time he's paid for a shag. I saw that as soon as I opened the flat door to him – the way his eyes checked over my face, my body, as if he was looking over a car he was thinking of buying. No, he's not shy, just one of those one-word types who are the bane of my work. If I had a mug with a slogan on it, it would say "Sex is so much nicer if you can chat". We're standing between the door and the bedside table. I take his hand again and hold it over my breast. I can smell his breath, he's a smoker, although maybe only 10 a day or so. But he's taken the trouble to clean his teeth to try to reduce the stink. I stop my brain processing the nasty bits, ignore them, and I turn my face and kiss him. Deliberately, I tongue inside his mouth, I concentrate on the feeling, his tongue, the insides of his lips, and it's like a windscreen wiper in my brain, wiping away my knowledge of his fag-smoking, his lack of personality, his pricing me up like a piece of meat. At the same time I touch his trouser crotch, stroking up the line of the zip. Get the punter excited, and the lack of conversation gets that teeny bit less embarrassing.

I sense something I hadn't expected: his whole body is tense, like a spring at breaking point. I realise that he's holding his breath. Krasniqi flashes into my mind, but I try hard, blank that thought. I step back, take off my gown. He stares at me in my underwear, pupils dilated, lips gaping. Finally, he breathes out. I pull him over to the bed. He's so eager that he pushes me slightly, we get on the bed too high up; as I lean back, I bang my head on the headboard.

Knock! Knock!

"Who the fuck is that?" A gruff whisper from him. Scared, almost.

The knocking at the door of my flat continues. Whoever it is, they've already got through the street door somehow, and come up the stairs to the first floor and my flat door. And they're not going to go away. Then I hear a shout "Miss Harlow?". It's the very last voice I want to hear: that cop Rainbow. I'll have to go and answer the front door. "Martin, please, please keep quiet, please wait, stay in this room. Thanks." I pull my gown back on, shut the bedroom door, try to re-focus my mind as I cross the living room.

I open the door.

I'd forgotten, he's quite tall. Skinny rather than athletic. But the grayness that gives the lie to his name is still there, in his eyes, his stony manner, his cheap suit. "Miss Harlow. I've got some news for you. I've come to tell you, that witness who claims to have seen you, he's changed his story."

"Thank God for that."

"But, I'm afraid, you're not out of the frame." I sense satisfaction in his voice, I feel I'm back in that bloody police interview room. I realise: this is not going to be a short conversation. He comes in and sits down. I'd offer him a coffee but I'm so tense, and I want him out of here before the punter makes a noise. I sit on the sofa opposite him, pull the gown round me. Rainbow avoids looking at my body, keeps his eyes on my face, and tells me his news.

"The witness now says that he never met you as a client of yours. So far, so good for you. But he's changed his statement in another way, too. He says that originally, he thought you were someone he once knew – but now he's realised that he recognised you leaving the hotel because he'd seen you before – earlier that evening, when you arrived. In other words, he claims to have seen you twice on the evening Wycherley died – once when you went into the hotel and up in the lift, and once when you came down. The timings fit exactly with you being in a room in the hotel for about thirty-five minutes – and, during exactly the same timeframe in which Wycherley died."

"Oh." I'm trying to guess how bad this is for me. And whether Rainbow – or a court – would see Krasniqi as a reliable witness now.

"So, you see, the evidence is – strong. Strong enough that we at least need to eliminate you from enquiries. We're going to have to take those prints."

"Even though your witness is clearly unreliable? Is clearly a liar?"

"He's changed his statement, slightly. But the point is, he still identified you."

"But if he says he never met me before – how did he know that the woman he saw was me, Holly Harlow?"

"He says that he recognised you off a website. He says – we asked him about it – that he looks at sexual services websites a lot. He says he has a good memory for faces."

I can't resist a snigger. "People don't usually look at those websites for the _faces_."

And Rainbow actually cracks a smile.

"He says he remembers your face, and your profile on an escort website. He says he was considering making a booking with you, but he didn't. Then he sees you, or someone who looks very much like you, in the hotel. Sees you arriving, and then leaving, at times that fit with the murder. It's coincidence, OK – but in that case, what are you afraid of? Give us those prints and you can forget this whole thing, you're out of the picture."

"But I won't be."

"You won't be – what?"

I'm caving in. It's all too much. The hotel, the blood, the nightmares, the police interview, Krasniqi. And that little smile from Rainbow a moment ago, like he's on my side, like if I tell him the truth then these feelings of terror, of everything pressing in on me, will stop. All I want now is this feeling to stop. Like a seventeenth-century woman with the Witch Finder General. I've just got nothing left to fight with.

"I lied to you at the police station." I put my hands over my face: I start speaking.

"Because I was scared. I lied because I'd just seen a dead body, I'd seen blood everywhere, I was terrified, I was confused. But yes, your thinking was right all along. I was there. I was in room 412, when that man was killed."

"Where's your kitchen? I'll make you a cup of tea. Milk?"

I look at him like I'm grateful. And right at this moment, I feel grateful. I gabble.

"I was booked by Mr Wycherley – that's the poor sod's name, isn't it? I'm a member of a website called GirlsDirect, like your witness said. GirlsDirect is a shop-window, punters look at the profiles and the photos on the website. They can phone me, of course, my number is on there, the majority of punters do that. But the website also allows them to make a booking by filling in a form for an escort that they like the look of. The website sends a text notification to my phone when a punter fills in a form for a booking with me."

I pause. Telling the story, it's like going back into it, remembering everything that led up to that horror. But at the same time, just to be telling him what actually happened to me, not to hold it in any more, comes as a relief.

"I got a notification text, I logged into GirlsDirect. There was a new booking form for me. It said someone wanted an outcall booking for one hour, 10pm on Monday 3rd July, no location given. I confirmed on the form that I would meet him for the booking, 10pm was OK as requested, could he let me know location?"

"So were you suspicious? A new, unknown client, who hadn't given you a location?"

"Not at all. That's nothing out of the ordinary – it's quite usual for outcall punters to make the booking first, and then confirm the location later by updating the form, or by phoning me."

"And did he phone you?"

"No. But that wasn't a problem. I had his phone number – every punter who signs up with the GirlsDirect site has to provide a contact phone number, which becomes his ID number on the website. And of course my own phone number is there on my profile for all punters to see – but I never actually spoke to him on the phone. Well, I tried calling his number once, a couple of days before the booking, but there was no reply. I only phoned him to ask him what he might like, how he'd like me to dress and so on. You see, the GirlsDirect booking form, is very basic, it doesn't have any text boxes for punters to state preferences or anything like that."

"Preferences?"

"You know, like if he wanted me to wear a uniform or something."

He rolls his eyes in contempt.

"Well, if that's a guy's fantasy... you may think it's funny, but it means a lot to them. These days we respect cross-dressers – so why not blokes who have a clothing fetish? It's harmless." Stop, stop, Holly. If he's prejudiced, then don't wind him up.

"Sorry, Mr Rainbow. I'll keep to the point. If the guy has any – requirements – then we deal with those over the phone. If a guy doesn't phone, I assume it's a standard booking – straight sex, no outfits or massage or anything.

So with Wycherley, when I got no reply, I left a text for him, just to say hello, I'm Holly, and to let him know he could call me on that number if he wanted to. But he never did."

"Wasn't that unusual? If he was keen on a booking with you – wouldn't he call back?"

"Most punters would find the opportunity to call me, yes – but not all. You've got to remember, an awful lot of my clients spend all their lives in just two places: at work, or with their wives. So I never think it's odd if someone doesn't phone back. I always treat it as if the booking is still on, and usually I'm right."

"So what happened then?"

"The day before the booking, I texted his number, to remind him to confirm location to me. Then I got another text notification on my phone from GirlsDirect. The notifications are always the same: all they say is that the booking form has been updated. So I logged onto GirlsDirect, looked at the booking form, and yes, it had been updated. It said 10pm, July 3rd, Room 412, Excel Hotel, Bloomsbury."

"Did you want that tea?"

"Yes, thanks. It's kind of you. But – I'll finish this bit first. Now that I'm not lying to you, I want to speak – to get the telling of it over with, if you understand."

"Go on."

"The location details were totally bog-standard typical. I'd say half or more of my outcalls are at hotels within a few blocks of Euston. I confirmed that I would make that booking, at that location. Then, on the Monday evening, I went to Bloomsbury, I went to that café I told you about, but not to meet Gary, the guy I told you about when you interviewed me. I made that up. No, I went to the café to have half an hour chill time before the booking. I sometimes do that. I still get a bit nervous sometimes, even now."

"Nervous as in – scared?"

"Of violence? Oh no. Just – you know – a new encounter –"

I can tell by his face that he doesn't know the feelings I'm talking about. Why should he, I suppose. Like most people, he's never had sex with a stranger. Now for the difficult bit. I start speaking again.

"Then the punter – Wycherley – texted me, just before 10pm, and said could I do 10.30pm instead, but still for 1 hour? I texted back to say OK. I stayed on at the café, then I went into the hotel at 10.25, I went to room 412. We had sex. About half an hour into the booking, I went to the loo."

Rainbow leans forward, eager to hear the story he's been wanting to hear since this case began.

"And while I was in the loo, someone came to the door, Wycherley opened it, and someone barged their way in. And I heard a lot of banging, and I locked the bathroom door. I was scared to death. And then when it went quiet, I came out of the loo and found him there, dead. And I ran away."

There. I've said it. I've spoken it in words, I feel all my muscles relax, I breathe. I feel a tiny bit better, and for a moment I forget that I'm a suspect. In fact, more of a suspect, now that I've changed my story.

"Did Wycherley pay you?"

I try a smile. "Well, that is how it generally works, you know. Yes, £200. My standard outcall charge for one hour. Incalls are cheaper of course, £180."

I've still got enough of a grip on things not to give him the whole story. Because I'm thinking, if I say I've been to see Krasniqi, I'm going to look more guilty. Approaching a witness, asking him to change his story...

And Rainbow says nothing. So maybe I've got away with that bit. Although he must be wondering: who took the money? But then he asks me about something else.

"That booking form – on the website – does it still exist?"

"Yes. Afterwards, the punter can add comments to it, if he wants. He can even give me a rating out of 10."

"Can I see it?" I'll make you that tea while you switch your computer on." I hear him pottering in the kitchen, filling the kettle, opening the wrong cupboards. I have a mad notion of letting Martin the punter sneak out of the flat while Rainbow's busy – but no, not a good idea. I get my ipad out as Rainbow asked. And now he's back from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. He's not put enough milk in mine, and I can taste the tannin just a shade too strong, but he's trying.

"Thanks for the tea. Get some biscuits as well if you like, there's a packet of Hobnobs in the kitchen. This is the website. And here's my profile – GirlNextDoor."

"9.33 out of 10. So is that your average rating from the punters?" He's trying to lighten the mood, but I can tell that my profile, the whole website, leaves a nasty taste in his mouth. Does he have a wife, girlfriend, daughter, does he hate the thought of women selling themselves like this? Or, is there something about this that turns him on? I track the movement of his eyeballs as he's reading.

"Hi, I'm Holly. Sex is the best thing in the world, isn't it? But are you getting enough?

Or, do you have a fantasy about the GirlNextDoor? The girl with the sexy eyes, the inviting smile. The girl who enjoys it _so_ much. The girl with time for you. The girl you'll never forget.

Chances are, you've passed me in the street, at the supermarket, on the Underground... and turned to give me a second glance. Imagined what it would be like to get closer to me...

Now's your chance. You _can_ get closer to me... a whole lot closer. I can be your pay-as-you-go girlfriend... for an hour, two hours, or feel free to book me for a whole night. You'll never forget it, never regret it. Call me on 07945 588 256 or, if that's busy, 07826 567 672, or make a booking using this website. Read my Client Comments, check out my GirlsDirect rating..."

"Yes, 9.33. My average rating. The punters read this, they look at the photos and they can read other punters' Comments. Then the guy clicks on "Book Now!" if he wants to book me, and a form comes up." I click the link. "Here's Wycherley's form."

"Request for booking with: GirlNextDoor

Request by: 07413293983

Confirmed by: GirlNextDoor, 02/07 12.34

Booking date: 3 July

Booking time: 22.00

Booking duration: 1 hour

Booking location: Room 412, Excel Hotel, Brunswick Street, Bloomsbury, London

Satisfied? Comment on your booking: __________________________________

__________________________________

Rating out of 10: __"

"It looks pretty basic."

"It is, but because it's simple, it works. Any dimwit can use it. Punters log into GirlsDirect with their phone numbers, escorts with their escort name and a password. Once a booking has been made, the punter and the escort are both able to change anything on the form at any time. You get a text notification when anything on the form is changed, like if the punter wants a different location, or changes the time. Or, you can alter the arrangements yourself if you need to, and the punter will get a text notification. Anything that's not covered by the GirlsDirect form can be arranged over the phone or by text. The website makes it all very easy, for both sides."

"You tell me that Wycherley filled in the details of this form – room 412 and so on. But you could have done it, couldn't you?"

"Yes, but I didn't. Honestly, I'm showing you to be helpful. I had nothing to do with the selection of the Excel Hotel. You must have investigated that hotel, you must know how he came to choose that room. Someone else – someone who knew Wycherley – knew he was in that room at that time." I hesitate. I can't let on to him that I know about Krasniqi, that I spoke to him, went to his place. Or can I?

I sip my tea again, and bite into a Hobnob. Rainbow's checking my GirlsDirect profile again. He's reading the boring bit.

"Health and Safety. My body is my own. I reserve the right to say No. And I will say No if you ask for bareback, or oral sex without a condom – for the sake of protecting my health, and yours.

Also, like the sign in the park says - keep off the grass! I don't smoke, I don't do drugs of any kind, and I don't allow them in my flat. Also I reserve the right to turn away any booking who appears to be under the influence of drugs or alcohol. I'm not ungrateful if you want to give me a gift, and your gift is a bottle of something – but sorry, I don't drink with clients. But I'm always happy to share a cuppa and a chat."

"Makes you sound like the Mother Superior."

"It sounds a bit stroppy, but that's actually deliberate. It puts off the bad punters. The tossers, basically. Almost all my clients are decent blokes. They've read my ground rules, and they respect me. Some escorts may get pissed or stoned with clients, or take stupid risks of getting STDs, but that's a world away from me, or any of my friends. Would you get pissed while you're at work?"

"So all your rules don't bring down your 'average rating'?"

"Not at all. Jazz, my flatmate, she has even more ground rules, and she's more expensive than me, but her rating is 9.85 – you should read her Comments. She's amazing, she can act the part, all the time: the knack of convincing guys that she really wants to be with them. I try my best, I'm not bad at it, but sometimes the mask slips..."

Maybe he's thinking: Holly's mask slipped half an hour ago, when she confessed to being in Room 412. He gets out a voice recorder and puts it on the coffee table between us. I re-tell the story of that night, in detail 'for the benefit of the tape' and I make sure to emphasise that the people working in the hotel would, of course, be the ones who knew that Wycherley was in Room 412. As I spin out my line to Rainbow, I think: yes, Wycherley and Krasniqi are connected. Krasniqi was the one who arranged that room for Wycherley. I wish I could name him to Rainbow, but I can't take the risk. I go as far as I dare.

"In your investigations... do you – do the police – consider your witness, the man who saw me at the hotel, as a suspect?"

Rainbow's smile, his slight venture into friendliness, fades. He looks coldly at me. "Police investigation is my business. It's not yours. I'm not discussing our witness with you. Whether he is reliable or not, we now know a lot more about _you_. We now know you were in the room, you had sex with the victim, there was money involved, and now that man is dead. You look physically fit – strong and tall for a woman, about 5'10" I'd say. Which is the estimated height of the assailant."

"You mean – you still suspect me? You think I did it? But why? I'd never hurt someone. I've never hurt a fly, in my life. I rescue spiders out of the bath rather than flush them down the plughole. And I hate spiders. I've no police record, not for anything. So...?"

While I'm making this speech, he's looking at me. I guess you've seen it all before, DS Christopher Rainbow. In a way, you're like me. I'm used to pretending to enjoy being with a guy – when sometimes, I don't. You're used to people telling you they're innocent, when often, you know they're not. Both our jobs are about working with lies. Do I believe you, that I'm totally in the frame here? If so, my only hope might be to tell you the whole truth, everything. Should I tell you that there is only one person who could have arranged that room for Wycherley's booking, one person who knew exactly where Wycherley would be at 11pm that night? And that that person also took the money and the iphone from the room? Shall I say what Krasniqi did to me, at his house? The game of cards again, and all I've got is the same old pair of twos. I look back at Rainbow, and detect the tiniest trace of that look on his face that I saw before at the station. The look of a man who is about to get exactly what he wants. No, Mr Rainbow, I don't trust you.

"We'll need all your clothes from that night."

"You can take them now. Just bra, pants, stockings and suspenders, and a dress. It was a warm evening, I didn't take a coat with me. When I got back here, I went to sleep in my clothes, took them all off the following morning. I couldn't face washing them, I stuffed them all in a supermarket bag, it's over there in the corner. And you can have my shoes, and my clutch bag too, that I used that night."

"Thank you. Good that you've not washed the clothes. And, Miss Harlow, where's the money? And the victim's mobile phone, which we believe he had with him, but has also disappeared?"

"I have no idea about the money or a phone. I was in a panic – like I said earlier, I didn't pick anything up at all except my own clothes. I got out of there as fast as I could."

"Really? You left £200, which you must have regarded as yours?"

"I don't know if it was even there in the room when I got out of that bathroom. Probably, the killer took it."

Does he suspect that I'm not telling all? The gray eyes betray nothing of his thinking now. And I think: I don't like you, but you're good at what you do. You gave me just enough softness at exactly the right time to make me give in to you. A seduction. Then, like a tap, you turned it off again. Now you're giving me no signals at all. I'm unsettled, which is exactly what you intend. The silence goes on, another ten seconds. Then he seems to come to a decision. "OK. I've got everything I need for the moment. I've got your statement here on the recorder. Come down to the station later today and you can check over a printed copy of it. And we'll take your prints and a DNA swab. And – don't travel. Not without letting us know."

"Do you believe I did it?"

He stands up, without answering my question. "Thanks for your co-operation, Miss Harlow."

He's gone. God, how much shit am I in here? But I can't think it over right now. Because I'm not yet alone in the flat: I have someone else to deal with. I open the bedroom door. Martin is sitting on the bed, his back against the headrest, fully clothed. Is he pissed off or just curious?

"What the hell was all that?"

He can see something I can't see. The next moment, I feel what he's looking at: hot tears running down my cheeks. I'm the Sugar Mouse in the rain: I'm melting. He puts an arm round me, then another, and pulls me up against him on the bed. "Shhh, shhh it's ok, it's ok." Holds me while I shake as the tears come.

All I can feel is the shaking, and the warmth of his arms around me, his breath in my hair. Maybe half an hour passes until my sobs subside.

"Thank you, Martin."

"I'm only too glad to be here – to be someone you can talk to. I wasn't meaning to snoop. But I must admit that out of curiosity, I listened at the door for the first couple of minutes. I was wondering what the bloody hell was going on, was it maybe even some kind of police raid. I was worried – about the cops finding me here. But once I could tell it was just the one guy, talking to you, I stopped listening, I lay on the bed and waited, I heard nothing more. But you're obviously in some sort of trouble with the police. A lady in distress – well, if there's anything I can do to help... But it's funny, before I came here, I'd always wondered..."

"Wondered what?"

"Whether women – women who do what you do – are like, always getting in dodgy situations, police keep an eye on you, all that? Or? ..."

"Your 'Or' is right. I've never been in any trouble before, ever. It's been a quiet life, in legal terms anyway. I pay taxes you know. I'm a self employed business woman."

"So why?..."

I tell him it all. Including the bit about Krasniqi and the money. Punctuated by apologies for giving him an hour's waiting and half an hour's tears.

"It's OK, it's OK. To be honest, I had no idea what this would be like."

"You've not... before?"

"Never. I'm sorry, I came up the stairs to your flat and when you opened the door – I looked you up and down like a piece of meat. No conversation, just staring. Rude, nasty. I didn't mean it to come across like that, but it probably did. Like, it's been a long time since I've seen a woman – like that. I was nervous, that's all. Never done it – not in this type of situation – before."

"Well we've still not done it... of course, you can have your money back now – or your next booking for free. Tell me whenever suits you. I look forward to it, I really do. But as you can probably guess, I'm not ready to get back in the sack right this minute."

"Of course. Neither am I. And thanks for the rain-check. To be honest, just meeting you – knowing you weren't going to push me away – it was exactly what I needed. I feel so – unattractive. I can't imagine a woman wanting me. I haven't had sex for five years."

"Well, when we next meet, we can sort that out all right. So you're?..."

"Married. But she doesn't fancy me. Probably never did. She's got someone else."

"OK... so... you're all right with that? You don't mind?"

"We've got two kids. I can't help it: I love her. She has this other guy, like, he was her boyfriend before me, then she came to me on the rebound. And I'm like, a steady guy, you know. I've always thought he was an arrogant tosser, no steady job, bit of a chancer – but guys like that, women love them, don't they?"

"Not all women. For instance, I don't, Martin." But it's his turn to talk now: I let him carry on.

"Ever since we've been married she's been back with him, in secret it was at first, but now she's completely open about it. She stays at his place, most nights. And when she's at our place, separate bed. She's not even kissed me since getting back with him."

"The kids are ? ..."

"Twin boys, aged six. Proof that she and I used to have sex occasionally. But not any more."

"Martin's your real name, isn't it?"

"Of course. Martin Jacobs."

"So why did you decide to come to me?"

"Well, for the last five years, our evenings follow a set pattern, except when I'm working nights. We'll get the kids to bed. Once they're settled, she heads off to Lover Boy's place. I watch telly for an hour, go to bed. A couple of times a week, I go to bed with the computer, watch a porn video. Then one night, a couple of months ago, I noticed that my mind was wandering, I wasn't really looking at the screen at all, in fact I was thinking about the Hammers match at the weekend."

"Whatever turns you on, Martin." He smiles at my little joke.

"Last thing to turn me on, the way West Ham played last season."

I don't follow football, but of course I smile sympathetically back at him.

"Anyway, I realised that all the groaning and pounding on the computer screen – it turned me off more. I was glad to switch it off, it was a relief not to be trying to feel something that wasn't there. I thought: is this what I am? Is this my life? So I thought it over for a few weeks, and I decided to try it."

"Good for you."

"I work at the Savoy Hotel. I'm a porter. I work nights a lot, and weekends, sometimes – Jayne looks after the kids when I'm at work – in most ways we're a typical two-parent family."

There's a pause, then he says –

"Funny, that detective guy. Two minutes in, I thought – this is a plain-clothes visit, a detective who wants to ask you questions, so it must be something serious. Because, before portering, I was a security guard for several years. I worked with a lot of ex-cops during that time. They told me a lot about their work – both uniformed and CID. Really interesting, although a lot of it was way too clever for me. I even thought of applying to the police, at one time. But I've not got the brains for it."

"Maybe you underestimate yourself, Martin."

"No. I know my limits. Security was boring – but I enjoy what I do now. I work at one of the world's great hotels. I work to high standards. That gives me pride, every day. But it reminded me, hearing your detective bloke talk, hearing the patter. Takes me back to those late-night coffees with those guys."

"Perhaps you can tell me something."

"Go ahead, ask. I probably don't know."

"This guy, the one who died. He's called Jonathan Wycherley. I've googled the news, looked and looked. To try to find out any information about him that I could look into, to defend myself. Because the real killer is someone who knew him – I know, for sure, that there's something in his life that's nothing to do with me, but which led to him being murdered. So even seeing a news article might give me a clue. But there's no news of him, it's like a blackout."

"They like to inform the next of kin first. That's usually what causes a delay."

"But it's been several days now."

"In which case, it's probably taking them time to track down the next of kin."

"I don't think he was a loner. I think he was a settled, professional man, probably with a family. And these days, you can get in touch pretty much with anyone."

"But if there's one known next of kin – she – or he – might be somewhere, out of touch. Perhaps she's abroad, left nothing but a mobile number and she's out of signal? Or, there's no known address for the next-of-kin, and only the victim knew his or her mobile number. There could be lots of reasons. Wycherley will be in the news, soon enough."

"Could they not be releasing the details because it's something to do with a gang? Or something big, something that connects to some kind of racket? Something that the cops don't want to be general knowledge at the moment?"

"Possible. But it's much more likely to be what I said, an ordinary problem with contacting next-of-kin. The ex-coppers I worked with, they told me that most of the things CID spend their time looking into are totally routine – simple facts about people's daily lives, their domestic bills, their mobile phone records. And they spend a hell of a lot of time just trying to get in touch with people."

He's one of the good guys. I suspect he'll become a regular. I also guess that he doesn't earn a lot, so after a couple more meets I'll probably offer to drop the price, maybe to £150 for a hour's incall, as a favour to him. So he can feel he's not breaking the bank. So my conscience is half-clear, at least in respect of their family finances. I muse over scenarios while I'm wrapped in his arms; I picture years from now, me and him sitting in a café chatting over coffee, old friends. Right now, held in his arms, eyes closed, I'm living in this moment, in my head, pretending to myself that I'm not going to a police station this afternoon.

And, that I might not come back home from there. That Martin might be my last ever booking.

**5 Tuesday 11 July**

I'm dreaming of my mother.

I hear her laughing. I feel happy, and I'm seeing everything sideways, like I'm lying with my head on the ground, on the warm grass. A bright spring day. Children playing, happy noises. I see pretty shoes, dainty feet, the hem of a summer dress. Bending knees as she crouches down to my level. Sunlight across her face, her smile, all sideways in my view of the park.

_Coram's Fields_.

I was too young to give it a name, this golden place she and I used to share. A place for children to be happy in. Even now, it's still the case that adults can't enter Coram's Fields unless they're accompanying a child.

But I guess it must have been there that she used to take me, when she was OK, before the dark days began. We lived in a flat above a shop, maybe somewhere near Gray's Inn Road, and I think she used to take me to Bloomsbury, to Coram's Fields and to Russell Square Gardens: I remember the freshness, the spring warmth, the leaves of the trees, a glowing green roof against the sky. I look up, her face shades me, hovering above me, and I feel loved. But in my dream, her lips turn cold and white, like a marble tomb in a church. I struggle, try to cry out for her but she's turned to stone. I sit up suddenly in bed, in the dark. I want to call out for Jazz, and I know she'd come, but I tell myself: get through this yourself, Holly. Jazz is your friend, not your crutch.

The previous day replays in my head like a video. Well, I got home from the police station, at least. They didn't charge me. The humiliation of the fingerprinting and swabbing was all supervised by Rainbow, of course. The female officer who did it clearly thought he was God's Gift to Policing. I wonder what his sex life is like, I think for the fiftieth time.

I got home and fell into bed, tired, hot, maybe around 8pm. Needing to lie down, to close my eyes, to see nothing, feel nothing. Now I look at the clock: it's 1.15am, I've spent the last five hours sliding round on my mattress, half-waking, squirming about feeling for the cool places in the bed. I move my fingers over my skin. God, how hot am I? Sweaty armpits, sweaty crotch. I feel my thighs could chafe. Turn my hot pillow over. About midnight, sleep came at last, and then my dream, my mother, that happy place. But now sleep, and happiness, have gone for good. I feel tired-beyond-tired, but everything is racing round and round in my mind: I'm running in circles in my head. And the place I keep coming back to is this: I'm their main suspect, they know I've already lied to them, they're assembling all the information now. Rainbow has already made up his mind that I killed Wycherley: now he's just got to gather enough evidence to justify charging me.

I snap the light on. I've got to stop this cycle of negative thoughts. One cure would be action. Krasniqi again? First thing tomorrow, I could go back there, and – what? Have more contact with the cops' key witness, make myself look even more guilty?

I sit up in bed, restless, like an animal in a cage. What else have I got to go on?

Then I think: Wycherley's iphone. What calls did he make? Maybe there's a clue there, something that would tell me more. My imagination runs ahead; before I've even got the thing and switched it on, I'm seeing Krasniqi listed among his contacts, a trail of texts showing that Krasniqi arranged Room 412 for him.

I switch it on. It's not passworded. I look at Messages – nothing. Contacts – nothing. Photos – the photo of me in my bra is still there, but the other one I saw, that young girl – is gone. Krasniqi must have wiped every fucking thing from it – except the one photo which he knew would incriminate me. I frantically open app after app, I look at Facebook, at Twitter, at any bloody thing, my fingers punching the screen. Fuck, fuck. I throw it down, and I wish I could cry again like I did this morning in Martin's arms. It's useless; I put the light out again, stare into nothing.

But somehow, I'm not beaten yet. There is really no hope left now, but like a condemned man on his last night alive, in the dark of the prison cell, I go systematically through my brain, looking down every alley, thinking hard about every last little thing that could offer some way out.

I lie there in the blackness. What is it, on the edges of my mind? I'm going back to that booking, and anything that was odd about it, anything out of place that might offer a clue. Start at the beginning. I remember waiting at Brucciani's, finishing my latte. It was a few minutes to ten, I was just about to leave and walk to the hotel, and I got Wycherley's text. And yes, that's the first odd thing: Wycherley texting me because he was half an hour late.

Outcalls are never late. Incalls – they're late, very occasionally. They might have traffic problems, delays on the bus or the tube. Even that's rare, because they want to make sure they get their full hour. But outcalls – never, ever have I had a text before telling me to arrive a bit later. So what caused the delay?

Maybe there was a problem with the hotel room which Wycherley had to ask them to sort out – a bad smell, a leak, an uncomfortable bed. No. I can't imagine that kind of thing making any punter want to delay for half an hour: blokes don't even notice stuff like that. What problem could there be with Room 412? It's horrible to do, I don't want those pictures in my head, but I recall the room, in as much detail as I can. Tidy, a totally standard room – until it was sprayed with blood. In my mind I see red-on-white, red-on-white. I start to feel the familiar sick feeling, but suddenly, a different picture appears in my brain. Something that I ignored at the time. Not in the room, but just outside it. When I went up to Room 412 – yes, and they were still there when I ran away! – I saw odd things in the corridor. Leaning against the corridor wall were large boards, their surfaces covered with gray paper.

I picture the boards in my head. The sort of things that builders use? I think of Aleksander, a half-regular who's a builder, he sees me when he's got lots of cash in hand. Well he's never talked to me about building materials, his bedroom chat is a tad better than that, but he did once mention that he was going on from my place to a depot, he'd ordered stuff online, then it was ready for him to pick up at a set time, a really good place he said. So, I get my ipad and google ReadyBuild, the name that I think he said. Here's their website. Yes it seems logically laid out, even to a dimbo like me. I browse the website menus, and after five minutes I see a picture, and a word. Plasterboard.

_Yes_. I do a google image search for 'plasterboard'. That's definitely what I saw. I wiki 'plasterboard': 'forms the body of an interior wall, provides a surface for plaster'. Anything to do with Wycherley being late? An alteration, a repair, to Room 412? God this seems pointless.

So tired. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool. But through the fuzz I see something vague, some connection, but I can't quite grasp it. I cover my eyes with my hands and try to clear my brain. I try to picture the room minus the blood, but then I hear in my head the sounds of what happened. That awful banging, where some mate of Krasniqi's, probably, smashed Wycherley's head down on the desk, again and again. It's loud in my ears.

"Why the fuck does no one in this hotel hear this?"

And the answer comes: _there was no-one to hear it_.

No-one on that floor, anyway, or at least that wing of that floor. Replacing plasterboards, working on interior walls – that's not a running repair to a room being used by a guest: it's major work. Probably several rooms closed off for repairs. The rooms around Room 412 were deserted.

And I'm thinking it through now. Yes: because Krasniqi works at the hotel, he knew that Room 412 – which, I guess, had not yet been refurbed, perhaps was next on the workmen's list – would be free. And he told Wycherley that he can use it for sex. Officially, the room was not in use at all: Wycherley's 'room booking' will not be on their system: Krasniqi pockets all the money that Wycherley pays for the room. Of course. And that's why workmen felt that they could leave materials in the corridor – no guests would be coming that way.

But in itself, that fact tells me nothing. And the cops will know it already.

I remember the Lego at the nursery. Sometimes I'd arrange the pieces on the table in front of me, look at their shapes, look at them all together, before deciding what I could make with them. Playing through in my mind the different ways they would fit together.

Suddenly the Lego clicks firmly. If the room was fixed up by Krasniqi – and that part of the hotel was being refurbed – then, Wycherley was not staying overnight in that room. That's why the room was so tidy, without any of his possessions or clothes lying around. He was not staying at the Excel hotel at all: he just travelled there for the time of the booking, exactly as I did, to use that room for one thing only: meeting me.

And if that's true, then the half-hour change to the booking time was not caused by a delay with the room at all. The half-hour delay was caused by a problem with Wycherley's journey to the hotel.

I picture Wycherley travelling, running late. Maybe he texted me as soon as he could... if he was on the tube, the moment he came up from the Underground, and got signal on his phone? – before he even arrived at the hotel? Yes, that makes sense.

2.30am. I get up, I make a coffee, sit up in bed, pull the sheet up round me, drink by the light of the bedside lamp.

My Lego pieces. OK, let's say Wycherley travelled to Bloomsbury that evening. He was delayed. He maybe travelled on the tube. Any other pieces? I got the phone off Krasniqi, but the phone has told me nothing.

I got the cash off Krasniqi.

I pick up the freezer bag holding the roll of notes. Like the phone, I've not looked at it since I got it. I wonder, idly, if the money's all there. My prints are on it anyway, so I might as well count it again, just in case Krasniqi kept any of it. I roll the elastic band off it. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty... it's all there. And then, like it's magic, like a rabbit from a hat, there's something else in the roll of notes. It pops up, a tiny gray-white square between my fingers as I riffle through the bills. Stuck between the last two £20s. A scrappy little till receipt. Maybe it's from the bank machine. No. It's tiny, and the poorest quality paper. The print is too faint to read. Oh no, maybe it says an amount? – £1.80, perhaps? And maybe a name – Manzoor. Probably a newsagent or grocer. So was it Krasniqi's, buying a sandwich before his shift at the hotel? No, I don't think he's touched these notes. He was too careful to keep his prints off them. So the receipt was Wycherley's.

I fall asleep, and like it happens sometimes, I'm back into my dream, the same dream. My mother. But this time I don't see her face, and I'm an adult, everything is like it is in real life, but I've been to the Social Services, I've made enquiries, I've traced her after all these years, I'm about to meet her. I've gone to the address they gave me, somewhere like Hampstead, big, quiet houses set well back amongst hedges and trees. It's a beautiful, fresh early summer day, leaves and flowers are bursting out everywhere. The green, like Coram's Fields, is vivid, totally alive, and the sky is a blue dome, but instead of joy, I feel worry, butterflies in my tummy, almost a feeling of fear. I'm about to knock on the door and disturb the peace of someone who's not seen me for twenty-two years. I'm going to see her face. My mother's face. The door opens and it's an Asian woman: the face of Geeta Pawan. Her brown eyes look deep into mine.

She says "I'm Mrs Manzoor."

I look at the clock again, it's 3.30am. And then I realise, Aftab, my mate from Walthamstow who drives me sometimes, will just be getting home from his shift. He works for Transport for London, he's an engineer on the Underground. I pick up my phone, and he answers immediately. And yes, he can help.

"Yeah, you're right. There was some urgent repair work on the evening of 3 July, from about 8.30pm, at Holborn tube station. It affected both the Central and the Piccadilly lines, coming into the station from the west. Maybe twenty minutes to half an hour's delay, on either line."

I can't thank Aftab enough. It's still hopeless, but there's no way I can sleep, and worrying at the problem, like a dog with a bone, is preferable to letting my mind wander, to thoughts of gloom, doom, prison, my life going down the fucking toilet. Let's go through it in my head again. Wycherley's delay might have been due to the problem Aftab described, which means he'd be coming from the west. Brilliant. I've narrowed my search to somewhere/anywhere, most likely perhaps West London, and it could be a house, a flat, a hotel. Which might be near a shop, which might be called Manzoor. Satellite tracking this is not.

4am. The air in my room is still hot, and there's no breeze or coolness from the open window, even though it must be the coldest part of the night: the sky's a bit lighter outside, dawn is maybe only an hour or so away. Shall I try to sleep again? I've got only one john tomorrow, and that's at 3pm, so I could have a big lie-in. I'll sleep when sleep happens to me: right now, this thing about Wycherley's journey keeps twirling in my brain. OK. Let's start at the other end. Let's picture Wycherley, think about him. I can see him, he's sitting there on the bed, blue eyes shining but serious, as I walk into Room 412. "Sorry about the half-hour rescheduling." What was that accent? A slight West Country burr?

I realise that I know nothing about Wycherley: no clues about his life, his personality, anything. That's what rang those alarm bells for me when I met him. Like he was thinking through what he was doing, defences up, every single moment. Giving nothing away about himself. That's why the sex was like it was. Of course you get punters who are cagey, nervous, over-sensitive – but there was something – _controlled_ , with him. Strange.

Well, whatever made him so guarded, it worked. I'm totally in the dark. There's really only one thing I know for sure about Wycherley – he was a punter. Even if he was, as I suspect, a first-timer. So, let's go with that really basic fact – a punter: is there anything in that to help me? I think about my other johns, my regulars; how they act, how their minds work. I have one, Robert, he visits me regular as clockwork, every three months. He's a rep for some trade union, he lives and works in the West Country, but he comes to London four times a year, for the national union meetings, and that's when – well away from his wife, kids, and work colleagues – he visits me. He's a sensible guy, careful not to be naughty where anyone might know him. And he told me that the union can't pay central London hotel rates as expenses, so he drives in, stays in the suburbs at a fraction of central London rates, and then gets the tube into the centre. What if Wycherley did the same kind of thing?

I look at the google map of the major roads leading into London from the west. Just off the main road is Alperton tube station, and nearby are suburban streets, a quiet place to leave a car. I look at every StreetView of Alperton on google. Photos of shops, houses, pavements, bits of brightly coloured litter. Slate-gray skies, flat dull lighting, every one of these photos seems to be taken on a crappy mobile phone late afternoon in November. Who uploads all this useless rubbish? I'm wading through shit, visual shit. Screen after screen of shit. And then, a little run-down newsagent's appears on the screen. 'Manzoor Super Stores.'

Sleep at last, sleep without dreams. I wake at 12, saunter down in the hot sunshine to Stroud Green Road, lunch at my usual café, stroll in the park, back home, snack, shower, dress. Ready. Incall: showtime. The john is new, he's really nice – aged forty maybe, black. Polite, clean, slim – but my mind is not there. I'm on a journey. What can Manzoor Super Stores tell me? Although I like him, the new punter isn't the chatty type, he doesn't hang about, he's gone. Quick shower, pull some jeans and a t-shirt on and here I go.

6pm. Alperton tube station is just typical suburban London, bland to the point of forgetting it even as you're looking at it. In the photos, it looked cold, tired, unloved and gray. Now, it looks hot, tired, unloved and gray. Faceless commuter crowds hurrying out of the station, desperate to get home after long working days of sweat, stress and boredom: I'm jostled as I look around, get my bearings. Manzoor Super Stores is five doors away from the station. I walk in, and there's a very polite young Asian man behind the till, serving a customer, an old duffer buying a Lottery ticket. There's some slow confused kerfuffle over the change, it seems to take for ever. At last the young man turns to me. I try a demure, ditzy manner, and my best effort at a middle-class accent.

"I'm wondering if there is any temporary accommodation in the area? Do you know of a hotel or a guest house nearby, as close as possible?"

"I'm very sorry, I don't know, I'm afraid. Do you need somewhere for tonight? You can use my phone if you like, search on the Internet? Or there is a Premier Inn about two miles away, down near the A40, if you have a car."

"Thanks, no. Thank you anyway. I was looking for somewhere very close to here."

He looks hard at me. "Is it just for tonight? Or, were you looking for accommodation more long term?" Despite my Miss Ditzy act – or maybe because of it – he's guessed my job. What are his beliefs, his values, his scruples?

He repeats. "Not accommodation for tonight, but later this week? – are you looking for that?"

"I could be, yes."

"Well, we do have a flat. Above the shop. It's taken right now, a gentleman paid for it a few days ago, he took it for ten days. After tomorrow, it will be free."

"Could I see it?"

"Well – he's got his things in there. But he's not in the room right now. In fact, we've not seen him at all for a few days. So yes – of course. I have a key. The steps are outside, so you would have your own way in and out. No need to go through the shop."

I can tell he's thinking of the visitors I might get. He's kind, but mainly he wants the money. I look him in the eyes and I can see: he'd like a little share of my takings. He's already considering how he'll propose a deal to me, the embarrassment, the fumbling towards the awkward, naked truth.

We go up the steps, like a little fire escape, to the flat door. He tinkers with a key. "Sorry, wrong key. These Yales, all alike. Ah, here we are."

It's frowsy, stale-smelling. Thin curtains don't quite reach the sill. Single bed in one corner, no headboard. Beige carpet, fraying. MDF bedside cabinet and wardrobe. There are a few A4 sheets of paper on the bedside cabinet. I casually open the wardrobe, like a vague bimbo who might forget another person's privacy, that someone lives here already. There's a few mismatched hangers, holding a jacket and a pair of trousers. Nothing else.

"Where's the bathroom? Is it through that door?"

"I'm sorry, that's just a toilet and washbasin in there. There's a separate room with a bath – it's back down the stairs that we came up. Not ideal, I know."

"Look, I'm afraid I'm really desperate. May I use the toilet?"

"No problem – feel free."

I go through the door. "Excuse me, it doesn't seem to lock. In fact, I can't quite get the door shut."

"It's the carpet, it's frayed a bit there, the door sticks on it. I'll pull it shut." And then, of course, he feels embarrassed. "Actually, I'm just going to pop back down and check the shop. I may have a customer. I'll be back in one minute."

I have one minute. He's careful, this young man; he'll notice if those papers on the bedside cabinet are taken. I leaf through them frantically. A few sheets of blank paper. Underneath the papers, a couple of used tube tickets; so he had no Oyster card. If this was Wycherley's room, he was no Londoner. Well, I'd guessed that already. So I've come all this way for nothing at all. The cabinet doesn't have drawers: just one shelf, totally empty.

Think, think.

I open the wardrobe again. Nothing in the jacket pockets, nothing. The trousers are actually a pair of jeans. I pull something out of one pocket of the jeans – ugh, a used hanky. The other pocket's empty. But as I feel through that last pocket, knowing it's the end of the track, I register a tiny noise that happened a few seconds before, when I pulled the hanky out. Like something else might have fallen out the pocket. I look in the bottom of the wardrobe. And there, in the dust, a glint of gold. At this moment, it's the most welcome sight in the whole world that I could possibly see.

A SIM card.

It's in my pocket as I hear footsteps on the stairs.

**6 Wednesday 12 July**

"Holly, I have to say, you look like shit."

"I feel like shit. Can you make me a coffee?"

Jazz's voice takes me by surprise: I've just got up, and I thought she was still asleep. I'm staring out of the kitchen window. It's going to be another searing day, and though it's only 9.30am, the heat and glare of the sunlight makes me want to turn away from the window. But I keep looking out; our first floor flat has a view across the backyards of the neighbouring houses. Most in this street are still used as family homes, which is maybe rare for a place so close to a Zone 2 tube station; every property owner in London who can do it has divided their house into flats like mine, to exploit the rental market. I hear voices, music, traffic outside: I see brickwork, leaves, glimpses of gardens. London is spread out in the sun. Spread out in the sun, too, is a middle-aged lady who, I guess, thinks no one can see her, and on hot summer mornings when the light is on her corner of the yard, strips to her pants and lies on a lounger, topping up her tan. Shadows of her erect nipples run across her chest.

My trail, which I kidded myself that I'd followed so cleverly, led to nothing. Pretty much nothing. I tried the SIM in Wycherley's iphone. There was one, just one number on it: I called it late yesterday evening: number unobtainable.

"There we go Hol, one coffee. Spying on Barbara Boobs again? You fancy her, don't you, don't deny it. Sure you won't have an orange juice as well? – it's going to be another scorcher."

"Coffee might jerk my brain out of this stupor."

"What's wrong?"

"Well – I thought that I'd found a clue that might tell me something about Mr Wycherley. Something that could help me prove to the cops that I wasn't involved. A SIM card. The original SIM from his phone. You see, that's why there was nothing on the phone. He must have swapped SIMs so that he'd got a separate one for contacting escorts, or whatever else he was doing, and one for –"

"His normal family life."

"Exactly. One from his real life. And that's where, I'm sure, the killer is from."

"So... you found a SIM – and..."

"I tried it in the phone today. There's nothing on it, except one number. Which I've tried, of course, and I get the number unobtainable message. I thought I'd been very clever, but I'm still nowhere."

"How do you know it was Wycherley's SIM?"

I tell her about my trip to Alperton. "The thing is, I felt kind of – proud of myself. For doing a bit of detective work, I guess. For working out where Wycherley was staying, and..."

"But you've got nothing to actually show that it was him staying in that room, Hol. It could be complete coincidence."

Even as Jazz is speaking, I realise how chancy my supposed chain of discoveries is. A till receipt, which might have come from that shop, or from a dozen other Manzoors in London. Someone staying above that shop, who left behind a pair of jeans with a SIM in the pocket. A bookie would say: odds a million to one against. It only occurs to me right now: I should have bought something at the shop and got a till receipt; that would at least confirm, or not, one part of my shaky little house of cards. All I've done is build one unlikely coincidence on top of another. Added two and two and made fifty.

Jazz interrupts my gloomy thoughts. "You could check that, of course. Call that Manzoor shop, they probably won't think twice about telling you the name of the guy staying there. But also, what about Krasniqi?"

"I daren't go back there. He might have done it, he might be a killer –"

"Well, you needn't go back there. Because I have. I did my own bit of investigating for you, yesterday. Sherlock Jazz has been waiting to tell you. I have some news, I've found out something important."

"Really? You spoke to Krasniqi?"

"No. I've not seen him. But I put on my deer-stalker and went to his house. I followed your description of your route, and I actually found the house. Number 52, you told me?"

"OMG. Thank you Jazz. You must have nerves of steel, going anywhere near that weirdo. What the hell happened?"

"Ready for a surprise?"

"Just get on and tell me."

"Look". She shows me a photo on her phone. It's his street, his home, undoubtedly. But at the same time, almost unrecognisable. I'm looking at a blackened, burnt-out skeleton of a house. Bright blue sky shows through holes where windows, roof tiles once were. The charred front door lies askew in the doorway. The wheelie bin is a melted black shape, puddled out across the pavement and even down the kerb into the gutter, like a flow of tar. There must have been an inferno there.

"Dead?"

"Apparently not. I asked a woman across the road. I noticed her first at her window, then I saw her peering out of her front door once she saw me looking at the wreckage. A right Mrs Nosey Neighbour, what would we do without them? So I said hello to her. I think she thought I was a newspaper reporter. She said it has been a big job, two fire engines, the works. But no-one was in the house."

"All those papers he had..."

"Yes, she said it went up like –"

"– a house on fire. Did you ask her? ..."

"About Krasniqi? Of course. She said she'd hardly ever seen him coming and going. Very quiet. She said she sometimes saw him carrying cardboard boxes to the house, then he'd dump the empty boxes in his front garden. She didn't like him doing that, she thought rats were living there. That's the beginning and the end of her knowledge of him. And she was such a snoop, if there had been more to tell about him, she'd have noticed it. But it's clear, isn't it? Krasniqi must have been part of a gang. Whatever services he sorted out for Wycherley and no doubt many others at that hotel, he was in the pay of someone else –"

"And he messed up. Either the Wycherley business, or something else."

"Exactly. And they torched him. Or at least, torched his place, to teach him a lesson."

"Makes sense."

"Which means, the police will be onto them soon enough. There was blue police tape, of course, all round the front of the house. There, you can see it in the photo. You'll be safe, Holly, I'm sure you will. The cops will make a connection between this and the murder."

"If there is a connection."

"It's one hell of a coincidence if there's not."

"You're right, Jazz. Thank you, you've been brilliant. What would I do without you? The cops have been useless, but even they've got to see that there's some kind of link here. Someone else other than Holly Harlow to focus their investigation on. Maybe it doesn't matter that I found nothing yesterday. Well, I have all my fingers crossed."

"Like you said, Hol, the problem is: the cops stereotype our profession. They're no better than the Daily Mail readers who see all escorts as desperate junkies or victims of pimps. Some human trafficking gang gets done over and it's on the TV, you see girls like slaves being rescued from some basement. That's how they see all sex workers. As if no woman can ever actually look after herself and make her own decisions. So fucking patronising."

I smile. "Jazz, you're doing that stereotype thing yourself. Some of my nicest regulars read the Daily Mail. I quite enjoy reading it myself sometimes, especially the Women's Page."

She ignores me and carries on ranting. "It just makes me angry, that's all. Especially when society doesn't actually help the vulnerable girls. You and me, we end up looking after our own."

" _You_ look after them. I don't do a lot." At least once a month, Jazz brings some homeless girl who's ended up at Sexwork Helpline back to the flat, she sleeps on the sofa for a few nights, she can get cleaned up, new clothes maybe, we feed her up while the Helpline finds her a place to stay. Some don't have a home: others are on the run from their pimps.

"I do wonder, sometimes, what will it take for us to break out of it, Hol?"

"I don't think there's anything to break out of. Not for successful independents like us. Just good days and bad days, like most jobs probably."

"You'd say we're successful? What's funny is, Hol: people in general despise us – or rather, they despise a false image of us. But we _are_ respected by one group of people – our punters – yet people think that those are the very guys who don't respect women..."

"But we're small businesses, Jazz. Like the politicians say, the heart of the economy." I grin at her. "We're even environmentally friendly."

She smiles back. "Self-starters, entrepreneurs. And we cater for diversity. And we're sustainable." But she seems to lose her smile on that last word, looks thoughtfully into the distance.

My phone rings. I go over to it. It's an unknown number, not a Contact. I keep all my regular clients as Contacts. Because so many punter first names are the same, I give each guy a contact nickname on my phone, for instance Jack Gray, Jack Posh, Jack Croydon, Jack Young. So, unknown number can only mean one thing: a new booking.

"Hi, I'm Holly, the Girl Next Door. Who's calling?"

"Geeta Pawan. Detective Inspector Geeta Pawan."

"Oh."

"I'd like to meet you. Unofficially, away from the station."

We're in a cheap diner round the corner from me, on Stroud Green Road. We both arrived at the same time, and she opened the café door for me, her manner almost friendly. She's wearing a scarlet and green sari and I have to admit, even though she's probably twenty years older than me and nearly a foot shorter, she looks fucking gorgeous.

We sit down: she's careful with the sari, ensuring not to snag the material on the chairs, which like the tables are screwed to the floor. Although cheap, this place is run by Lebanese, and their salad is delicious. I'm enjoying my instant coffee less. She's gone for a fruit juice: sensible.

"I'm not sucking up to you, but I do want to say, your – outfit. Fantastic."

"That's nearly a chat-up line. Do you say that to all Asian women?"

A smile. I could kiss her, for that smile.

"Very nice of you to say so. But down to business, Miss Harlow. Our witness. Mr Krasniqi. You'll have to know his name now – and anyway, it's appearing in the newspapers. The house where he rented rooms has been burnt down. And he's disappeared."

"Oh My God". I pretend surprise: deliberately open my eyes wide. It's the usual escort's question: can she tell that I'm faking it?

"I'd like to ask you some questions – informally, at this stage – about that house."

I keep my look of fake surprise. What's coming?

"Have you ever visited that house?"

"No. I have no idea where it is."

"Well, there is a witness who..."

"Sorry, Miss Pawan, but this is like a broken record. First this Mr Krasniqi, now there's another witness spying on me?"

And I think: Nosey Neighbour.

"The witness – the new witness, that is – saw you enter that house at about 7.30pm, last Friday. And leave, about half an hour later."

"Does this witness actually remember me?"

"She gave us details. We made up this sketch." She shows me a picture on her phone. "Do you own a gray business suit like that?"

"Can I ask a question, before I answer? Could you tell me: why are you asking me all this here, rather than down at the station, all the works, like before?"

"Because I wanted you to give me your side of the story now, freely and openly. Before our questioning of you gets more – serious. You see, one conclusion that the police could draw would be witness interference. Knowing your line of work – sorry, I don't mean any offence – but as police, we might conclude that you visited Mr Krasniqi, knowing he was our witness, and bribed him with sex to change his story."

"But he didn't change his story. Well, he did change it, but not in a way that helped me."

"So you did go to that house."

"Yes. It's hard to say, because when I first lied to you and Mr Rainbow down at the station, and Rainbow came out with that stuff about a witness at the hotel, and I thought..." I trail off. She knows, she's already worked out what happened. This woman has me sussed. It's like every time I work out an escape route, I go that way, but then I see her already standing there in my path, smiling that knowing smile at me, saying Holly, don't lie to me. Then I picture Rainbow, his greedy face so keen to nail me. Between her cleverness and his drive, I've got no chance. It's that moment in the game where you realise you're going to lose, and there's nothing you can do about it.

"You think I tried to burn this man's house down?"

"There's no 'try' about it. Someone succeeded. It was arson. One conclusion could even be that it was attempted murder. On that reading of the situation, you're in the frame, badly. Witness has disappeared, house was completely gutted. One interpretation of what's happened would be: you killed Wycherley – then, when bribing Krasniqi with sex or money failed, you tried to kill him, as the only witness."

"It's not true. I did go there, but only to talk to him, to plead with him. Isn't it more likely that Krasniqi was in on the killing, and that he torched his own place to destroy evidence? Unlike your version of events, it would explain why he's disappeared. Perhaps he's with a gang, a gang who –

"Who do what?"

"I don't know, what they do, or whether they exist. All I know is: you need to investigate Krasniqi, not me. He's clearly mixed up in two bits of dodgy business. Isn't that enough?"

I look at her. Those superserious brown eyes, calm, logical. She's just sitting there, waiting for me to talk. You know what you're doing, DI Pawan. If Rainbow hadn't been in on that first interview, if he'd not overplayed his hand, if she'd done it all her own slow calculating way, maybe she'd have caught me there and then. Like before, I see her as the cat, me as the mouse. Play, play. Then kill.

She's still quiet. I stir my coffee, just to make a noise, to break this silence. As I stir, it hits me like a surprise: I've not actually done anything wrong. Fuck, I'm innocent, after all.

Of course, the fact that I'm innocent won't save me. But she's brainy, and as she looks at me again I think: that story about me cutting a man's throat and then burning another man's house down, it's like a cop fantasy. Hooker turned crazy killer. Too fucking clichéd, surely, for her to buy it. I look again into those eyes, and they no longer look deadpan to me, but instead clearsighted, shrewd. Maybe not the sort of eyes to see life as a cops-and-robbers TV drama. And as I look, I think: you're meeting me here, dressed like this, acting like this, to show me: Geeta Pawan is not just a cop. She's a woman.

Chancing my arm again.

"You don't think I did it, do you?"

"Miss Harlow, I'm not paid to have hunches. My job is to go on evidence, pure and simple. There's evidence which is not in your favour, to put it mildly."

She says this while looking into my eyes. And despite the words she's spoken, I somehow trust that look.

"But – you don't believe that evidence stacks up, Mrs Pawan? You believe that if you charge me, between now and the courtroom, your case is going to fall apart?"

"Because you didn't do it."

A statement? or a question?

"That's a question, by the way, Miss Harlow. Not a statement of what I believe. I look at you and I ask: cold-blooded murderer? Or a down-to-earth girl who reckons her best chance of a decent living is to sell sex, and who was in the wrong place at the wrong time? I don't guess the answer to that question: I simply gather and evaluate the evidence. Until I've got enough information to know how to proceed."

"And how far are you from that point? From 'proceeding'?"

Now she's paused. It's not like a few minutes ago, when she was watching and waiting for what I'd say. This time, she's the hesitant one. Eventually she speaks, slow and careful, like she's telling me something she shouldn't. Does she have a hunch about Krasniqi?

"We've got – quite a few pieces of information. Not only about you. About others. But you could do yourself a big favour, by telling me more."

So I go through my whole story again. But this time I tell everything – minus Wycherley's cash and the iphone, of course. Except for that, I tell her everything, even my half-assed plan to bribe Krasniqi. I tell her about me going to his place, what happened there, although of course I can't tell her the real reason he was able to force me to strip off. But my story seems to shock her. Yes, Geeta Pawan, you're a woman, you understand that whatever I do for a living, it doesn't lessen the horror of what I went through with Krasniqi. I start to talk more freely: words are forming, I'm speaking, and for the first time I can actually give a full account of everything that I saw on the night Wycherley died. For instance, I mention the plasterboard I saw in the corridor. I say that it looked like that part of the fourth floor was being refurbished; that it would be an ideal location for someone at the hotel, someone like Krasniqi, to provide a punter with a room for an hour on the quiet, without the hotel knowing. But all the time it's like there's another bit of my brain that is doing the real thinking, watching her, looking into those eyes to see a glint of – belief? understanding? sympathy even?...

I'm right. I've not imagined it. She believes me. Inwardly I want to breathe the biggest sigh of relief of my life, but I hold back from allowing myself to feel it. Because I know I've got a long way to go yet. Let's test the waters.

"The other cops, they think I did it, don't they?"

"Like I said..."

"Come off it, Mrs Pawan. You might have the ability to coolly weigh up the facts, but your chum Rainbow doesn't. He sees his job as finding clues to prosecute me for something he already knows I did. Knows wrongly, I hasten to add."

She's silent again, and she looks almost embarrassed. Embarrassed by her colleagues' jumping to conclusions? I push my luck.

"You can't tell me that he's as unbiased as you."

Her silence is an answer. And I thank my lucky stars that she's the DI and he's the DS. But judging by everything I've ever heard about how the cops work, I've got a long way to go before I'm safe.

I speak my thoughts. "Guilty until proved innocent."

"No."

"It seems true from where I sit."

I can tell by the ways she shrugs that I've guessed right. The other cops think I did it. If it weren't for her, I'd be in a police cell right now. I hang by a thread. The thread is her.

"It's not for me say, Holly, as to whether I believe you or not. I didn't come here to accuse you. No-one's charging you – yet. You're free to go from here. But if you think of anything else – please, call me. Phone my mobile."

With that she gets up, gathers that red-and-green swirl around her, and in a moment she's gone. She's left a business card on the table, with her number on it. She stops briefly on the pavement outside the café, makes a call on her mobile, keeps talking as she walks away. I know she's speaking to Rainbow right now – and of course, although they have a different style, even different ideas, in the end they are both on the same team. I trace round the rim of my coffee cup with my spoon and think: she's played me like a fucking violin. Every bit of what she did, everything she said to me, was to get me to feel exactly how I do feel now. Feeling that I've got a ray of hope, but that I need to work with the cops – more that that, I've got to work with _her_ – if I'm to survive this God-awful business.

But despite knowing all that, I do feel like I've got that ray of hope.

I take another sip of my crap coffee. Funny, it tastes a bit better now it's gone cold.

I suppose I could try that number from Wycherley's SIM again. Perhaps I misdialled it. I wrote it on a Post-It note. I pull the note out of my purse, I look at it. No, I dialled it correctly: that's definitely the number I called. I stare at it. Krasniqi. How did he find my GirlsDirect profile? He knows that website like the back of his hand, he was almost certainly lying when he told me that he found my GirlNextDoor page out of the blue, in that unlikely random way, by typing a phone number into Google.

But it's worth a try. So, I do the same. I type the phone number on the Post-It note into Google.

And something comes up. One single result. I click on the link, it's a web page headed with a picture of a building, surrounded by gardens and flowers. It looks like a stately home. "The Soames Hotel, Kingston-upon-Thames. Exclusive. Discreet. Unique."

I sip my cold coffee, I hear the radio, I stare out through the café window into the glare of the street, the car windscreens reflecting the sun, people on the pavements, a woman with a push-chair, a young guy in sunglasses talking on his mobile, another woman holding a child's hand, two old ladies in hijabs, chatting as they pull along their shopping trolleys. People all going about their daily business. For the last few days, ordinary life has seemed like the other side of a screen, of a pane of one-way glass. I've felt apart, unreal, like I was dead, and I've been watching my live body go through the motions of living. Moving around like a remote-controlled zombie: no feelings: no _hope_. Not even daring to hope. Now, as I look out into the sunshine, I realise that I feel just a tiny bit alive again.

**7 Thursday 13 July**

Posh, up-its-own-arse Kingston is not my usual haunt. But although it's the other side of London, and takes forever to get to, I did have one outcall here once: a midday booking at a huge house, two Porsches in the drive. And there were tracks of a third car in the gravel; I guessed that was the punter's wife, gone out of the house. The punter was fiftysomething, smelt of an expensive men's fragrance, exquisitely manicured, wearing clothes thirty years too young for him. Designer shirt tight over his stomach. 'Tosser' was my first thought. He offered me a glass of something fizzy, the remains of a bottle which he was drinking, but he was OK about it when I said I'd prefer water. But at the first touch of his lips, I could tell that he was a heavy smoker – cigars, which always turns my stomach – and too much French kissing with him breathing down my throat made me feel like retching. Then he put his hand up my skirt, and at the same time he breathed in my ear and whispered that his fantasy was to shag without a condom. I asked him if he'd read the safe sex information on my GirlsDirect profile, he said he had, but then he just offered me £500: threw it down on his fancy coffee-table like it was small change. And I politely said no thanks, I'm not risking my health for any money. He looked at me, all surprised, and told me that as he was willing to pay so much, I should do whatever he wanted. When I said no again, he called me a fucking tart, which was funny, because of course that's exactly what I am. A bit like shouting "Cop" at a policeman. Anyway, it ended with him paying me nothing and telling me to leave. I remember the crunch of my shoes on that gravel drive as I stomped away: pretty much a whole day wasted. Plus, he took the time to go onto GirlsDirect to give me a 0 out of 10 rating, which took my average figure down a bit. I still remember the words of his nasty Client Comments about me – 'disappointing in the flesh compared to her profile photos, and definitely at least 10 years older than she claims'.

I think about that guy, as the suburbs blur past the train window: Vauxhall, Clapham Junction, Earlsfield, Wimbledon, Raynes Park. The gradual change from South London grotty to Surrey snotty. Nearly there. What will I find at this place? I realise that I'm scared. Not of risks, no. I picture Krasniqi and perhaps other guys as nasty, nastier: threats, gangsters, knives, guns, I try to make myself feel some fear – but that's not what scares me. What scares me is: I'll probably find nothing. I'm terrified of one thing: that this latest attempt to find out about Mr Jonathan Wycherley will be just another dead-end. I picture myself taking the train back home, realising all my options are gone, that I'm like an animal in a trap, waiting for the cops to come and pick me up and put me away for good. That's what scares me.

And here I am: Norbiton station, Kingston. Sun hits me as the train doors open; beyond the platform, a car park of blinding windscreens: BMW, Mercedes, Jaguar. A twenty-minute walk in the heat to the hotel address: clack, clack, clack of my heels along a long, straight road; fortunately I'm in the shadow of big trees almost the whole way. But despite the shade, I'm tired and thirsty as I reach a gateway with the one word 'Soames' carved into one of the stone pillars. Even that word is half-covered in moss, not picked out in paint, not advertising itself in any way. Not like any hotel I've ever been in.

There's a gravel drive, and at the sight of it my brain flashes back yet again to Mr Two Porsches. He thought, with me, perhaps with every woman, that anything he wanted, he could just pay for it, and it would happen. Like we're all slot machines, ha ha, and if you put the right amount of cash into any of us, the legs will open up. I guess what I do for a living encourages that attitude. But I'm not going to give it up for the sake of a minimum wage and stacking shelves or cleaning floors.

I walk down the drive, heels into the gravel, just like Two Porsches' place. Why would anyone make a driveway out of this stuff? The hotel looks pretty much like in the website photo: lots of big leafy bushes around it. Although there's no signage, it's clear where I should go; there's one obvious doorway, but small for a hotel. Can this place possibly by operating? I turn a corner past the bushes, and my hopes are lifted by the sight of cars off to the right: lots of cars, even more up-market than at Norbiton station, a scattering of Aston-Martins, Ferraris. But nothing else about the place says Hotel. My guess is that this was once a big private house in the old days, with servants and all that. And now it is... what?

The hotel lobby is dark and small, brightened only by a large wall mirror ahead of me, reflecting the front door I've just come through and the outdoor light beyond. In the mirror I see my reflection in silhouette: rays of sunlight from behind me glow through my hair, like a halo: for a moment I'm confused, because it looks like I'm standing behind a desk. I step forward but my mirror image stands still, as if she's my ghost. Then I realise it's not a mirror, it's a window. A blonde like me, wearing a thin summer dress like me, stands at a reception desk in front of me, backlit by the window behind her. She's nearly the spitting image of me – except for the pursed lips, the bored stare.

"I've come here about a job."

"Sorry?" She doesn't look sorry. She looks like she thinks I'm wasting her precious time.

"The agency told me..."

"We don't use agencies. All our staff are employed by us, and we haven't advertised recently." A look, like she's waiting for me to leave. I feel like a fly that she'd like to swat, but she can't be bothered, so she's waiting for it to find its way out of the window instead.

"Well, it's more of a personal recommendation..."

The look is becoming a glare: I'm losing this one, and as I cast around for how on earth I can avoid getting thrown out in under one minute, I notice something unusual through the window behind her. Beyond it is a swimming pool, and I can see it's an infinity pool, going out onto a balcony, looking over a small lake with a fountain. But it's what's in the pool that surprises me. Several young women in bikinis, swimming or sitting on sun-loungers around it.

"A guest here – he told me that a job was available."

It's such a hopeless and obvious lie: she looks at me like I'm a bit of rubbish that's blown in off the street. And guess what, I feel like a bit of rubbish from the street. There's a one-second pause as I curse to myself, realise that I have to turn away, give up, face the walk back to the station, the train journey back home to the cops, the police cell, the courtroom, the jail. But in that one second, something happens. A guy comes out of the office that's on the right-hand side of the desk. He's one of those people who could be any age between thirty-five and fifty: a lined, tired face. He's tall, but in a kind of stooping, long-limbed, gangly way. Perhaps he spends a lot of time cramped over that computer I see in his office. That pale grayness on his suit jacket shoulders might even be dust. Mr Spider. He starts speaking "Ruby – oh, I see you've got a guest."

Cheek is the best approach. The only approach left, in fact. I speak directly to him. "I'm Holly Harlow. I'm not a guest: I'm here about the job?"

He doesn't answer me, but he looks me up and down. Ten seconds. Then he whispers something to the woman, and walks off. She tells me "Wait over there." Even thought it's gloomy in this hallway, I can see the sulk in her eyes and the curve of her mouth. Spider thinks I'm worth talking to, and she's cross about it. I make her even more grumpy by asking her for a glass of water: she brings it for me, flouncing as she comes.

I sit and wait in the lobby. It's warm here, the light is dim, and it's so bloody quiet. Half an hour passes. I see nothing, no-one comes in or out of the hotel. If it weren't for the glimpses of all those cars, and all those girls, I'd think that there are no guests at this hotel at all. The warm, still air in here feels like someone has put a thick blanket over me. If they've got the money to put in a fucking infinity pool, why don't they get some aircon? I could almost go to sleep is this dull fug, I feel my head slouching down...

"Miss Harlow?"

Spider has come back. "I'm Michael Potter. Pleased to meet you." He asks me into his office. I can now see that the lines on his face are worry, not age: he's maybe mid-thirties. But acts older. I sidle past snotty Ruby's desk, and he shuts his office door behind him. I know I have just one chance here, but the way he told her that I should stay shows that it's a real chance. I dive in. Headfirst Holly.

"I'd like to work here. I saw your website."

"We don't really use that website much. Hardly anyone looks at it. We've not even kept the phone number on it up to date. So you want to work here. Doing – what?"

"Well, you tell me." I run my hand through my hair, blink cluelessly like a bimbo, smile at him like I'm in love with him.

"Could you – ah – show me your CV?"

I pass him my iphone. It's open at my GirlsDirect profile.

He's not shocked, I can tell. Good: I wasn't mistaken when I saw those girls around the pool. He reads, and reads. Everything I've seen tells me that this place is not just a hotel: that it offers what I offer, but on a grander scale. Otherwise, nothing here makes sense: every hotel I've ever heard of employs agency staff, and you see very few groups of stunningly beautiful twenty-year old girls who can afford a spa break at a place like this. And the ones who can – they'd rather be surfing.

"You have... talent."

"Read what my clients have said."

He goes onto my Client Comments section. I can tell he's checking everything really carefully. 9.33 out of 10 is a pretty damned good rating, and I've got loads of positive Comments. There's also my photos. My escort friends – apart from Jazz, who understands – all say they are too tame: a shadowy glimpse of a nipple, lots of lingerie, even fully-clothed shots: they were all done at a studio by a professional photographer, a truly nice guy who is one of my regulars. My photos are a tease, a taster, deliberately aimed at guys who are looking for something more than the cheapest fuck possible. I quickly learnt that a tarty legs-akimbo profile on GirlsDirect does only one thing for you: ensures that nearly every punter who turns up on your doorstep is a complete tosser. I put the price up, took the naked selfie pictures off there, and the class of punters improved. And good punters become regulars, and they write good Comments and attract more good punters; it's an upward spiral. Potter seems to approve: I can tell that he's reading every Comment, clicking on every thumbnail, viewing every single photo.

"Do you like it?"

"What you've got here looks, um, very desirable. But – you've been doing this a few years. I'd guess, if you don't mind me saying, that you're nearer thirty than twenty? So – "

At that point, there's a knock on his office door, Sulky puts her head round. Through the gap, in the lobby, I can see what looks like the first guests I've seen in this place; a paunchy middle-aged man, with the confident air of the rich, and a young woman, Thai or Vietnamese maybe. Ruby speaks. "Michael. It's Mr Cheriton." The way she says that name sounds like it's an important guest. And Spider is a Michael, not a Mike. That seems to say a lot about him. He nods, gets up, leaves the office. He doesn't quite shut the door, and I can see through the gap, and can hear a little too: the guest seems to be arguing with the Thai girl. He's cross, but he's keeping his voice down. Like there's something he's not happy about, like he's disappointed with her or something she's done, but he doesn't want to make too much of a fuss. Then Spider slides into my view: he and the guest are now speaking, and the Thai girl has gone. I can also see that the second guy, the hotel guest, despite his podgy middle-aged air, might well be no older than Potter. He's got that blond floppy hair like a Hooray Henry, and he's wearing linen trousers and a navy-blue blazer. It even has gold buttons, like he's a captain of a boat.

They talk on and on: maybe ten minutes. Then Spider comes back in. I know what he's going to say: sorry, at twenty-seven I'm too old to be on their books, blah blah. But what he does say surprises me. "We have someone, here at the hotel, who would like to meet you."

"Mmm?"

"Meet you now, I mean. If you understand me."

Oh yes, I understand all right. The guy with the blazer is a punter at this brothel: doesn't like the dish they've just served him. He's sent his plate back to the kitchen. But he's still hungry.

This is my chance to prove myself.

Five minutes later, and I'm waiting in a chintzy little lounge, and Ruby acts the waitress and brings in a tray. She forces a smile at me; she's still in a bad mood, but not at me, I think... something else has rattled her cage today. Turns on her heel and goes. I realise I'm hungry, and wolf down a scone: it's delicious. And then the blazer guy comes in. I brush a crumb off my lips. His first words are "Shall I be mother?" The coffee at the Soames is better than that at greasy spoon in Finsbury Park, but the company and conversation isn't. This guy, who introduces himself as Giles Cheriton, is exactly what I saw in that first glance: a privileged thirtysomething fatass who's never had to struggle for a single thing in his life. Self-satisfaction all over his pink public-school face. He chats about himself: his holidays, mostly – Caribbean, Australia. I picture him in a flowery shirt and Bermuda shorts, knowing that I'm very soon going to see a lot more of Mr Cheriton's flesh revealed than that.

"St Lucia is my favourite. Speaking of which, did you know that each bedroom in this place is named after a West Indian island?"

"So when you say favourite, do you mean the island, or the bedroom?"

"Well, that's for you to find out. Let's go up and take a look at St Lucia."

You think you're fucking irresistible, don't you, Mr Young Fogey. Well, to the hookers in this place, I guess you are, cos it's their job to be nice to you. And right now, that's my job too. I smile at him, look into his eyes, try hard to look like I fancy him. Which is something I'm good at. We go upstairs. As soon as the bedroom door closes, his mouth is on mine. Slightly clammy breath: no cigarette-taste, but I can sense not just coffee, but something alcoholic: he's had a morning drink or two. Vodka or gin. As the kiss goes on, I run over in my mind what Geeta Pawan said. From the cops' point of view, with the witness sighting of me at Krasniqi's place, I can see them thinking I'm practically nailed. And they're so keen to have Krasniqi as star witness that it's not occurred to them to put him, or anyone else, in the frame for the murder. Why the fuck didn't I simply tell the truth from the beginning? By getting to them first, Krasniqi's created the impression he's a witness not a suspect. Bastard, bastard. I have only two lifelines: – first, that Pawan's in on the case, and she's got more than two brain cells to rub together. My second lifeline is: whatever I might find out at this place. Clear in my brain is: I need this job here. This guy's a creep – but it's like that moment when you have to clean the loo out and realise that there are no Marigold gloves in the house. You just have to do it.

Half an hour later. We're in the bed, he's curled around my naked back. I flash back to Wycherley, but I hear Cheriton's voice.

"I run this place."

"Sorry?" Trying to understand what he's just said.

"I'm not a guest, I'm the manager. This is your interview, babe. Guess what, you got the job."

Fucking hell. I feel take for a ride. Literally. One hell of a way to learn good news – I'm speechless, while he carries on regardless in his smug tone, same as when he was telling me about his worldwide holidays. "You see, this is the best way. I can personally vouch for every girl here at the Soames."

"You mean, that we're all... willing...?" I try to keep any edge of sarcasm out of my voice. I could still lose it all, right now.

"You're impressive. You came here on a hot day. Fresh as a daisy."

"I'm very adaptable, too. My clients have a range of tastes. I hope I can please any of your guests. In fact, I'm very confident that I can."

"I agree. You're older than we'd usually consider, but some of our guests may prefer that. They've liked the odd older girl we've had here in the past. What's good is that you can anticipate a client's needs. And you like doing it, you're genuinely turned on. Granted, I'm an attractive man – but as soon as I saw you, I could tell that you were ready for some action today. With me."

I think: I should have been a fucking actress.

"Just a couple of formalities to go now, and then you'll be a Soames employee." He gets up, pulls his clothes on. "Don't get dressed yet" he says. I suddenly notice that there's a camera on the bedside table, and he picks it up. I do as he tells me, get out of bed and stand there starkers, and he snaps away. After what seems like an age of flashes and clicks, he says "OK. Face shots." The lens blinks away at me, then he says "Turn round." More clicks. I face the wall and, unseen by him, mouth my disgust at him. It's the opposite of the photo shoot for my GirlsDirect profile that I did with Paolo, which I enjoyed. This feels more disrespectful than any punter I can remember. As the camera keeps snapping away, I try to tell myself that it's a good sign, feeling like this in front of this guy, I'm still not hardened to everything, I still have feelings of modesty. Because he makes me feel like a frigging virgin. I wonder why? Yes, I've got it: because this guy doesn't like women – but it thrills him, running a sort of harem. He gets off on his role as a tester of the new goods; he gets off on how desirable his wares are, how glamorous. He gets off on knowing that, whoever comes here to sample the delights of the Soames Hotel, he's tried them all first. I guess he also gets off on the fact that all the clients here are probably very rich. Some of them, maybe, are famous.

"Potter got all your personal details, didn't he? Including any website or advertising that you're currently using?"

"Yes." I'd noticed Spider entering my name and age onto a computer, and also he asked if I've got a driver's licence. He'd seemed impressed that I had.

"I'll ask him to add these photos – and then our records are complete. You may be able to start – properly – quite soon. I know that one of our most loyal guests has already asked for someone like you. He's diverse in his preferences, and normally he does like the younger girls, but this time he did ask for an older woman."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Exactly. I'm guessing that you'll have good conversation skills; Potter told me you've got comments from former clients about dinner dates, escorting to social occasions etc, and have some excellent feedback on them. That's your key selling point. Because you do understand, don't you, that those who visit us here at the Soames are sophisticated people."

"I'm sure they are. I won't disappoint them." (What you're telling me, you snob, is that you think my usual clients are animals.)

"Of course, you must understand that everything that happens here is completely consensual. This is not some knocking-shop. It's a place where girls such as yourself are here to meet and chat to our guests, and that if a guest wishes to take that chatting further, then no money has to change hands. All our guests are in fact members of our hotel."

"Like a gentleman's club? The old-fashioned sort, I mean, not the strip clubs."

"Yes – a gentleman's club, in the traditional sense of the word. Except that in fact many of our members are women. Or couples. We even have a same-sex female couple." As if that makes this place a politically correct brothel, I think to myself.

"And, they all pay a single – very high – annual membership fee, which entitles them to visit and use all our facilities as often as they like. We have a Michelin-starred restaurant – they do pay extra for meals, of course – and a state of the art gym."

"So I'll be – a facility?"

He ignores my little jest, and carries on. "A guest arrives here. He – or she – sees someone he likes, chat follows, often dinner. If our guest and you choose to go to one of our bedrooms, or our dungeon, or our nude swimming pool and jacuzzi, then what happens is entirely between you. I must stress this: no money changes hands at any point. Our guests do not pay for any individual service. Similarly, you are paid as an employee, depending solely on how many hours you are here. You are not paid for anything you do, or don't do, with our guests."

"OK. I don't have to go to bed with any guy, but, I guess, my services will be terminated here if someone asks and I refuse."

He doesn't speak, as if to say "Well, obviously". There's a silence, he wanders over to the window, looks out over the lawns like Lord of the Manor with his country estate. He speaks to the window.

"Elephant in the room." Turns and looks me in the eye.

For a moment I literally wonder if the elephant is me. I saw those girls around the pool, compared to them I'm no stick insect, but... no. Holly, get a grip. I laugh silently at my silliness. That line of his about the elephant is well-rehearsed: he says it to all his prospective whores, he's looking for my reaction. But I genuinely don't know what the elephant is, and I say so.

"Kiss and tell. We have some very well-connected people here, Miss Harlow."

"Discretion is – well, it's – essential, in my business."

"Well, I must admit, that seems to be the case from your feedback. Potter told me. It's consistent, over a very long period. So –"

"I've got a steady lifestyle. A decent income, and a good life. I've not got much of a motive to go to a newspaper with a story about some celebrity."

He looks at me for a long, long time. It's clearly an issue for this place. What leaks, what scandals, have there been already? And what goes on here, that no-one knows about? Then he speaks, slowly and carefully.

"If you do tell – you'll regret it."

He's threatening me. With what, I don't know. But I have no intention of telling anyone, so I'm not scared. In fact, I feel a sudden surge of hope. Because – if there is something rotten behind this stately-home facade, then maybe it has something to do with Mr Jonathan Wycherley. Maybe I'm one step closer to finding a way out of this nightmare.

"You needn't worry about me. I'm a sensible, happy girl with no ambitions beyond a steady income."

"I'm not worrying. But you should worry – if you ever consider playing fast and loose with us, or treating this opportunity as anything less than the best ticket of your life. This will be your hourly salary for the time you spend here, even if no-one wants to lay a finger on you." He turns the screen of his phone to me. I read the screen: £400 per hour. Fucking hell.

"But first, you need a medical." He gives me details of two private medical clinics. "Email me your full certificate from either of these places here, and you can have a contract with us."

Ruby looks daggers at me as I leave the Soames. I catch Potter's eye too: he's back in his office working on his computer. Both of them know what I've been doing, what their boss has been doing, and I see it in their faces. As I step out of the door, I get a news alert on my phone. The news about Wycherley has broken. "Jonathan Wycherley, a doctor in Bristol, was murdered in a London hotel on 3 July. His wife, who has been trekking in Vietnam, has now been informed." There's a tearful video of the wife making a statement, and a cop in a uniform sat at a desk, appealing for evidence. It's all so weird, hearing these words being spoken, seeing these pictures with the BBC logo and colour scheme around them. Until now this was a private nightmare, shared with an odd mix of people: Jazz, Krasniqi, Rainbow, Pawan, Simmonds, the other cops, that silly solicitor. Now, everyone knows. Wycherley's death is part of the real world.

**8 Monday 17 July**

The past few days, even though they've raised hope, have given me so many sleepless hours, turning things over in my mind. The highlight, would you believe, was the medical examination, which I had the day after my visit to the Soames. Really interesting, I even learnt a few things, such as I'm Blood Group A. After that, a busy weekend: seven clients in all. Good money, but I feel fucked out. And all incalls: convenient, but I've not left the flat. I look out at the familiar sunshine on familiar bricks, slate rooftops, backyards. Will Barbara Boobs strip off today? Bloody hell, I'm reduced to staring out of the window watching the neighbours. Then my phone rings.

It's Cheriton. "You're a very lucky lady, Miss Harlow. You've been on our books only a couple of days, and I've got someone who's interested in you."

"Who?"

"All you need know at this stage is that this is very discreet. You must be here today at 4pm, to prepare for a guest who wants to see you for one hour only, at 8pm. Oh, and I received your medical examination certificate – all in good order. Thanks for doing that."

"Will I be paid? From 4pm?"

"Yes, exactly as I said, you'll be paid for the whole time. Don't ask questions. Just be here at 4."

I'm not thinking straight. I've just remembered something. "Mmm – bit of a problem. I've already got a booking at 4pm, I'm afraid. If your client's not there until 8 o'clock, I could get to the Soames around 6? or? ..." I trail off: his silence sounds seriously pissed off. It's difficult – I'm not in the habit of letting my normal punters down, a booking's a booking. But if Cheriton gets the idea that I won't come running whenever he calls... my brief career with him might be over already.

"Holly, you got a clash today? I can cover."

"Jazz, that would be fantastic. Do you mind? 4 o'clock, details on the form on GirlsDirect. You're a life-saver... Mr Cheriton, yes – of course I can be there, on the dot at 4, exactly as you say. What should I wear?"

"Travel in your everyday clothes. I'll explain when you get here."

OK, here goes with the new plan. I shower and put on my coolest cotton sun-dress. I leave the flat mid-afternoon, head over to Kingston. The late afternoon and early evening are spent in pampering. I'm bathed, massaged and perfumed by the same girl, Areeya, that I saw Cheriton arguing with. She tells me she'd like to work here as an escort. I suspect that she's too valuable to Cheriton doing what she does. As she kneads my back I wonder: has he fucked her, to try her out in the sack? Slimeball.

At quarter to eight, wearing nothing but a silk dressing-gown they gave me, I go up to a big, airy bedroom; bay window, the old-fashioned sashes are open; I can smell flowery evening scents drifting up from the gardens. Finsbury Park was sweltering hot, but Kingston is somehow fresher, and now it's evening, there's a slight breeze through the room. Like Cheriton told me to, I sit in a chair opposite the door, take off the gown, feel a coolness on my skin. Which I like.

Ten to eight. The door opens, without a knock. A figure fills the door: well over six foot, and broad shoulders. Short-sleeved shirt and jeans. Like I said, I've no interest in football, but the face of Tony Cattrell is recognisable, even to me. The door closes behind him.

"Hi. I'm Tony. Tony Cattrell."

"I can tell. You're better in the flesh."

"Better than what?"

Than on the telly, stupid. But he doesn't wait for my answer. He's undressing calmly, efficiently, like he's in the team changing rooms. Then he goes into the bathroom, without shutting the door, comes out after one minute. Like Krasniqi, this guy doesn't wash his hands.

"Can you get on the bed?"

Obviously, I will, and I do. The bed's right in the bay window. They really are not afraid of paparazzi at the Soames, I think, as I pose on the bed like I'm making a porn movie, and he comes over to me.

It doesn't take long. When he's done, I speak.

"I love watching you play. You're an artist on that football pitch."

"You're right. I'm an artist, that's what they say."

I've never watched one second of his artistic footballing talents. I'm picturing something else. Celebrity news and gossip. One issue of _Hot_ magazine last summer was completely given over to photos of his wedding, and the 'divine' Devine Cattrell.

"Holly, isn't it. I know what's in your head, Holly."

"What's in my head is, I am one lucky girl."

"You're also thinking, why does Tony Cattrell come here, when he could go anywhere, pull any woman he likes."

"You're a mind-reader." I'm enjoying pretending to be thicker than I actually am. Maybe if I keep pretending, I can ask him some questions about this place. I give it a try. "I'm guessing, gorgeous, that you come here cos it's such a nice place, such nice girls. It's really friendly, don't you think?"

"It's OK. Yeah, nice girls."

"Do you ever see any other celebrities here?"

"Nope."

"But I guess that's what you like about it. Quiet like, away from all the buzz. Mr Cheriton, he's great, he keeps this place like an oasis."

"Oasis?"

"Like – a really nice place. You can do anything here."

Two minutes. He's thinking, then he speaks.

"You're nice. Really nice, you know."

"Thank you."

"Devine. You know about her, of course."

"You're fantastic, so sexy. I feel like I'm the luckiest girl in the world."

"You watch out, Holly."

"Sorry?"

"Take care of yourself. You said, this is a nice place. But sometimes, it's not."

I kiss him, tracing my lips over his mouth, his cheek. I blow a kiss into his ear. "You're amazing. You turned me on so much, the moment you appeared in that door and I realised it was you."

He turns away, lies with his back to me. Speaks so softly I struggle to catch his words. "I mean it, Holly. You watch out. Girls who don't keep to the rules, here – things happen. Don't trust him. Ever."

"Don't trust who?"

"Cheriton."

"He seems a nice guy to me. Of course, I'm new, I don't know him very well..."

Silence. He feels he's said too much: already he's clammed up. Most guys would change the subject, to anything. He's not got the conversation skills for that, so he keeps quiet. Several minutes pass by before he thinks of something.

"Weather's been hot, these last few days."

"Yes, it's been roasting, hasn't it? I like wearing light summer dresses, that helps. Ruby – she always looks good. In summer dresses."

"Can't say I've noticed."

"Not noticed? A red-blooded guy like you? You must have seen her. She's a gorgeous girl. Nice boobs, fantastic legs."

"She's OK I suppose."

"And Potter – he seems to keep things running smoothly."

"Don't know him."

Tony Cattrell's conversation skills make most of my punters look like chat-show hosts. But there's something, under the surface. Something he wants to say, but he's holding back. I try again.

"If I was a bloke – well, I'd fancy Ruby, anyway. The other day I saw her, the sun was behind her, shining right through her dress, it was like she was nude, in silhouette. Stunning figure. Those legs go on and on."

He murmurs something in reply. And I'm not 100% sure I heard it correctly, and I'm not going to ask him to repeat it, but I think it's that very same phrase I replayed in my head a few days ago.

"Fucking tart."

He lies there, silent. I gaze at the ceiling. After a few minutes, he says one word.

"Bye."

And he's dressed, and he's gone. I'm kicking myself for not learning more, but at the same time relieved to be rid of his company. You might kid yourself you're an artist, Mr Football Genius, but how Devine – or any woman – stands being with you for more than a few hours, beats me.

They told me I could go back to the spa, or use the room's bathroom, after the booking. Bath very much needed – and I'd prefer, like that actress woman from the old movies, to be alone. I open the bathroom doors, turn on the taps, step into the bubbles, lie back and don't think of England. The football team, that is.

I could lie here in this water for hours, eyes closed, dreaming, forgetting.

I drift off in my mind, back all those years to a different time. A different world, where I'd been abandoned on a pavement on a January day, all my belongings in the world in three crappy cardboard boxes. I didn't even think about going back into the children's home. I looked up and down the gray street, the trees against the raw sky as I always see them, black-boned skeletons like the ones that come into my dreams sometimes. I shivered, and wondered where I would be sleeping that night. Then I piled everything that I could into one box that I could carry, and started to walk, as fast as I could, not knowing where, but going away, away from the children's home, away from Amrit. I heard later that his parents were furious with him for abandoning me, and that his father had combed the nearby streets looking for me for two days.

Derelict: Ground Fucking Zero. But something in me was still strong. I spent eighty pence on a coffee at a greasy spoon, nursed that drink in its plastic cup for two hours, then I started walking again, kept going through the cold rain, until I was several miles away, somewhere in the north London nowhere-land. Then, outside a parade of shops, I saw Derry, one of the kids I'd grown up with at one of the homes. He was a couple of years older than me, and in fact when I was about fourteen I quite fancied him for a couple of months. He waved, said he'd carry my box for me, where was I going? He told me that him and a couple of his mates were occupying a basement, illegally of course. He said that during the day they lived on the buses, stealing mobile phones off people and then selling them on to a guy they knew, they were making good money, they would rent a place to live soon. So of course I spent that night at his place, met his two mates, both of them a bit dim and I could tell, they looked up to Derry. He'd become leader of his own little gang. After two days, I realised that I'd moved in with them. I'd joined his gang too. There were bottles everywhere, nicked from supermarkets; it was nice to glug down half a bottle of something strong and forget for a while where I was, who I was. After I'd been staying there a few days, there came the only occasion I tried drugs: some cannabis a guy had given them in return for a phone when he was short of cash. We all got high and started playing a kind of strip poker drinking game: it ended with a shambolic orgy. Then I remember waking in the night, naked, lying next to Derry, listening for a long, long time to his breathing in the dark.

After that, the next year was a blur. Guys would come round and would pay fifty quid to Derry to join in with one of our sex sessions. My job was to get food; Derry would give me twenty quid to go to the pizza place, the fried chicken shop etc etc. And every now and then when Derry and his mates were out, I'd go to where he kept his cash and take a £10 note. I knew that he counted his money when he'd been on weed all night, and therefore his counting would be a bit hazy. So I got away with it. I hid the notes that I stole behind a loose brick in a dark, damp corner of the basement. And the next night there'd be another guy, another fifty quid, plus the money from the mobiles. Derry was no accountant, but he was sure good at persuading some mate of his to part with fifty quid for some fun with a teenage girl in a shitty basement. And after a few weeks there were two girls for them to enjoy: Derry brought along his 'girlfriend' – petite, pretty, redhead Debbie. Even younger than me. We went on like that all spring and summer that year. It was a warm year: rarely were we cold even though we lived like animals, dossing in that basement.

"Holly!"

I open my eyes, look up. Cheriton is standing over me, gazing at my soapy body lying in the water.

"Does a girl never get a moment to herself round here?"

"It's important. Very. I've got another booking for you."

"So? Do you have to intrude on me even in here, to tell me?"

"Another booking – for this Thursday evening. But I'm telling you now, because when I phoned you this morning about Cattrell, I could tell, you were reluctant to clear your diary for today's booking. This time, no questions, no hesitation. You're here on Thursday, you're available for our guest. And you're charming to him."

Under that plummy manner, behind that fat face that gazes down at my floating boobs among the bubbles, I sense that he means business. Despite being on the game for over ten years, I've managed to avoid almost all pimps. I've met a few, of course. And shagged a couple of them, for the right money. But one and all, they've been horrible, horrible people. It's as if a bit of their heart, the bit that recognises that people actually do have feelings, is missing. And that's the impression I have now. Cheriton swans about in his gold-buttoned blazer, and I bet he's never hit a girl. Oh no. He'd hire someone else to do that for him.

"Holly, you've just landed the goose that lays the golden eggs. Considering you've so recently joined us, you've been very, very lucky to be picked. This client is extremely choosy."

"How did he 'choose' me then?"

"He saw you here. When you arrived this afternoon, when you came in for your scrub-up session. He came over to see me about you, immediately. He's very different from Cattrell. Cattrell is a regular here – he dines here, he likes the restaurant, in fact he and his wife are both members here – but she knows nothing, of course, about the other services that he uses here. She believes this is just an exclusive hotel and restaurant. But Cattrell himself – in terms of sex, he rarely chooses the same girl twice. Whereas the new client, he'll need more – conversation. Intelligent conversation. He's been trying a few girls recently but I happen to know he is looking for one person to be... You see, his work is very stressful; he comes here to relax, to be himself. And he likes to develop a connection with someone. He might want something regular, with you alone. It's promising, and it could be very lucrative for you. So you're more than lucky, Holly. You've won the fucking Golden Ticket."

Even when he swears, Cheriton is using every single word like a tool, to make me feel how he wants me to feel, so that I'll do what he wants. He's told me nothing, of course, about what this special client likes about me. To him, I'm something for sale in his shop. My personality, my feelings, are just things that he needs to take into account when he's trying to control me. And right now, there's no point in resisting. Pick your fights, Holly.

"OK. I'll keep Thursday free. And thank you. Thank you for getting this set up for me. It does sound – really good."

"Good. We'll provide your clothes. Your wardrobe needs to be appropriate. You'll be meeting our guest for dinner in our restaurant, at 8."

Finally, he's gone. I'm really determined now to enjoy this bath. I bolt the door. And although I try to relax and forget, the memory floods back to me: the basement, the smell of damp plaster, rotting food, alcohol, cannabis, sweat and semen. The smell of that summer, long ago.

It's late when I leave the Soames: walk, train, tube, home. I'm on one of the last trains of the night to Finsbury Park, and I try to stop my mind flashing back to the night that Wycherley died. Now, as then, I sit on a late tube, sweaty and dog-tired. As the train chunters along, I avoid the eyes of the scattered young and old drunks, gaze out into the black tunnels through the window. I'm looking into the dark, but I'm seeing redness. Suddenly a wave of exhaustion comes over me, and I can't wait to be in my flat, in my bed. I'm glad to see the sign for Finsbury Park station slide into my view. Out on the street, it's just as hot and stuffy as it was on the Underground, the air is close and warm like a blanket. The tread of my feet aches on the pavement. Nearly home. One minute before my street, there's a little open area of scruffy public lawn among the houses. We call it the Green, it's not worthy of the title 'Park'. Parents keep their kids off it, because it's where every dog walker in Finsbury takes Poochie for his daily shit: right now, the place stinks in the heat. I walk along the edge of it in the dark, keeping an eye out for dog crap and litter in the dim orange glow of the streetlights.

My mobile rings. A punter calling me to make a booking, at this time? I answer it automatically, before checking who's calling.

"Hello, Holly. Do you still smell of petrol?"

"Sorry, is this a kinky call?"

"No, you fucking whore. I mean the petrol you used to try to burn me to death, you shitty bitch."

"Krasniqi."

"Yes, I'm still alive, and I guess you know that now. You burnt my home, my papers, my computer."

"I burnt nothing. I was never anywhere near your place, not after that one time. I never wanted to go back, not as long as I live. I don't hate you. I just despise you for what you are."

"Listen, I don't care what you describe it as – hate, despise, who cares. Nice dress, by the way. I like blue."

I'm wearing my blue cotton sun-dress. I'm under a streetlamp. I cast my eyes around the street and out into the blank blackness of the Green.

"Now, bitch. Move into the middle of the park."

"Not on your fucking life. Why should I?"

"Because you know, you cheap slag, that I'm not interesting in hurting you. You're not worth hurting. No. You and I have business to discuss. I can put you in prison for a long, long time. The police, you know, don't just think that you killed that man at the hotel. They also think that you tried to kill me, to silence me, because I can put you behind bars."

"I wouldn't be so sure about what they think, if I were you."

"You mean DI Pawan? Saint Florence fucking Nightingale? Perhaps you don't know: she's been taken off the case. Replaced by someone who is more interested in getting results. Someone I can talk to, someone who has been listening to me, a lot. Now walk, out onto the grass, right into the middle of the park."

I step onto the grass. There's a touch of dew: I feel it on the sides of my feet, between the straps of my sandals. It's mad, I'm worrying about not stepping in any dog poo in this darkness. I keep the phone to my ear, he keeps talking, telling me to keep moving. Blackness all around. His eyes are out there, somewhere. I speak into the phone.

"OK, I think this is the middle. So what do you want?"

"Before we come to what I want, I'm letting you know two things. First. You told the cops that I could not have fucked you at your own flat, because I wouldn't know your address. Well, that's changed now. Someone very helpful, someone who is investigating the murder, kindly told me your address. You live with that other silly bitch, the one who thinks she's clever. I've been to your street, I've watched your door, I've seen you both come and go."

"You said two things, Mr Krasniqi."

"The second thing is this. Since I have to make a full new statement, I'm thinking of telling the police that I was walking back towards my home, when I saw you pouring petrol through my letterbox. I think that the new police team will be very interested to hear that."

"So, what you mean is, you haven't told them that fairy-story already. Well try it. You can't keep changing your story to them. They're going to start laughing at you, you know."

Keep calm, Holly, try to keep calm. But the thought that he knows where Jazz and I live, it's turned my insides to water.

"Yes – I can get away with telling the police that – if I tell them that I was too afraid, at first, to tell them everything. It will still be a written witness statement. Whatever they believe about me, they will act on it. The evidence will all point to you, for both crimes."

"What do you want?"

"It's very simple. I just need £5000. That's all." And he can't resist adding "For the moment."

"You mean, £5000 now – and more later. Try to kill me if you want, but I'm not doing this. I'm no way letting you start blackmailing me for the rest of my life."

"Not for life, though, Holly. You must remember, if I go to the police in a few months' time, my story about you and the petrol may not be believed, they will say I should have come forward earlier. So, I need to use this opportunity now, while my information still has – currency. Now you can understand why I ask for this money. Your work earns you a lot of money: share some of it with me. For a couple of months only, and then you need never see me again."

"But five thousand pounds! Be realistic. I don't know what you know about my earnings, but..."

He cuts in, sharp. His patience has run out. "Forget it, Holly. This is not about negotiation. You get that money for me by a week on Friday, 28 July. I give you that time, to let you get the money together. Get your clothes off, get on your back, work that nice little pussy that you showed to me, earn some cash for me. You earn your money piss-easy – so I should get a share of it, yes? Then, on the day before, Thursday 27th, I will phone you. I will tell you where you will meet me, the place where you will hand over the cash to me. Then, I will tell you what more money I need to keep silent. To keep you out of prison. So, you see, I do you a favour."

"Why here?"

He's silent. I shout "Why here? Why did you get me to come out here in the dark, into the middle of the fucking Green?"

"I'm not going to harm you, Holly. Not yet, anyway. You are a meal ticket for me. But I enjoy – I like – to scare you."

He's rung off. I pick my way back to the pavement, to the lights.

As I reach the pavement, the phone still in my hand, it rings again: I nearly jump out of my skin. I look at it. Incoming call: Cheriton. I sigh. From one sleaze merchant to another.

"Mr Cheriton. Late, isn't it. What do you need me for?"

"Just checking you got home safely."

"I'm not home. Yet." I hurry away from the Green, but none of these, my familiar home streets, feels safe anymore.

"Well, have a pleasant journey, then. And, a reminder about Thursday. But also, short notice I know, but I need you to come in tomorrow. Usual rate of pay, but it's not a booking. You and I need to meet. See me in my office at 11am. I've got another piece of work for you, it's a one-off but it could earn you a nice bonus. Something I need you to look into for me."

"Look into what?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow. It's something a bit out of the ordinary, something I believe you'll be good at. And by the way, well done with Cattrell, he told me he'd enjoyed himself. One of the best in the last month, he said to me. So – goodnight. Sweet dreams."

And he, too, is gone. And at long, long, last, I'm home. For a few hours.

**9 Tuesday 18 July**

"I trust you."

"Wow. Can I quote that on my GirlsDirect profile?"

Cheriton's office catches rays of morning sun, and I can see tiny specks of dust in the air, like stars. Fairies, we used to call them at the children's home. You'd try to catch one in your hands, but they would always fly away.

He fills the silence with a smile. Well, it's not quite a silence: there's one of those fancy gold clocks under a glass dome, like in a stately home or an old person's house. A loud tick, and then suddenly it does a chime, like a little peal of church bells. I glance at it, and then at him.

"Get lucky at the jumble sale?"

Cheriton's sense of humour – when the joke is on him – is on permanent holiday. He says stuffily "It's a Napoleon III mantel clock. It's ormolu, with panels of blue celeste porcelain."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It's pretty, but I don't have it because of that. It's an amazing piece of precision engineering. It's well over a hundred years old, but it still chimes the hours and half-hours perfectly on time. Did you know, I did my degree in engineering?"

"So why are you running this" (Holly, Holly, don't say whorehouse) "hotel then? Wouldn't you rather be doing something with engines and spanners and stuff?"

"I did _electrical_ engineering. But engineering – finding solutions for problems, solutions that change the world – it made this country great. Stephenson, Brunel, Whittle, Flowers, Berners-Lee. And I especially appreciate precision. See my watch." He stretches out his pink wrist. It's quite an ordinary-looking watch.

"This is a Jaeger LeCoultre Reverso. One of the finest pieces of pure precision engineering ever made. The mechanism was first designed in 1931. Craftsmen make this, not machines. It can take up to two years from start to finish of the process to build one watch. It winds itself." He shows me the back of the watch, it has a glass panel, so you can see all its little workings. "As I move around the room, the movement in my arm moves the mechanism, and it winds the watch. No quartz crystal, no artificial accuracy. Purely mechanical responses to the outside world, captured in a motion as regular as –"

"Clockwork?"

"The movement of the planets, I was about to say. Appreciating a watch – appreciating the Reverso, anyway – it's like astronomy, except – a _man_ made this, using his skill and dedication. It's like holding the solar system on your wrist, these tiny movements, regular, perfect."

"I can see, it is nice. I'd ask you if they did a Ladies' – but I bet it's too pricey for me anyway. I get by with the time on my iphone, I must admit."

"I appreciate reliability. I deal constantly with young women that are like bloody children. That's why I'm asking you – who seem to have a little bit more maturity, albeit sometimes with a touch too much assertiveness – to do something a bit extra. That's why I've asked you to come here this morning. I feel that you won't – unlike many I could mention – go into a sulk, or ask for a silly amount of money, or bugger up a simple task. This little job would be paid at the usual rate, but will earn you payment for your travel time too, and on top of that, a thousand bonus if you're successful. And, my appreciation."

Two thoughts in my brain. First, his little speech about the watch and how nice it is to have something reliable – just his slimy way of telling me that he values me, not because I'm the hottest girl in his stable, but because I'm the steadiest. Even though he hardly knows me. Second thought: last night, Krasniqi's call, his demands. I'm flush right now: I've got well over £2k, putting together the weekend's punters and the Cattrell booking, plus there's what I'll earn on Thursday, plus my regular punters this coming week. An extra thousand quid would mean I'd be in a position to pay Krasniqi off.

"What do you want me to do, Mr Cheriton?"

"You came here on spec. That's not the usual way that girls start working here. We do sometimes need to actively recruit – obviously, there's wastage here, girls move on. Most of all, our clientele like to see new faces." He turns the screen of his mobile towards me. It's a page from EscortNet.

"Hi, I'm PantiesOff, I am like my name, I am only happy when my body is naked for YOU. I am SEX-ADDICT – Stunning Blonde – 6 feet tall, dress size 6, Long Legs, perfect Ass and Boobes size 32D. Have super toned Body and dellicate soft skin splashed with perfume! 1000% real photos. I love to Satisfy Men – Let me do it! having sex with hot strangers is a FUN for me not a work! I would be seeing you in my Discret Apartement in London also I have fresh towel and clean shower facility for you also complimentary Drinks to lighten up as I want you to feel comfy in my place and in my companion..."

I skim-read all that, because I'm caught by the photos, simply because they are so bad. There's no face photos – not even the ones that the married escorts have, with the face blurred out so they won't be recognised. These pictures have terrible lighting, unflattering angles, and every single one is out of focus. A chimp could have taken better photos. Her profile image, the one that comes up on searches, is in near darkness, and it's of her bum. It looks like two pale ovals with a dark line between, it could be anyone's, a man's even. How the fuck does she ever get any trade at all? Then Cheriton scrolls to the Feedback section of her profile. The pages on EscortNet are laid out a bit differently from GirlsDirect, and each punter uses a nickname rather than just an ID number, but basically it's the same thing. She only has three Feedbacks, two have just put a thumbs-up Like. Only one has bothered to write anything.

"Feedback from: JackRabbit 30/06 1hr incall

Nice girl – six foot tall! Legs that go on for ever, great to have them wrapped round you. But neighbourhood is dodgy, don't park round here, and avoid evenings if you can. Shame she doesn't do outcalls."

"I think I've met JackRabbit" I muse. "He must use both websites."

Cheriton ignores me. Is he drooling over this girl, imagining the casting-couch interview that is to come? Or does he just see her as a profitable asset for the Soames to acquire? Either way, he keeps on reading, then he stares at the photos again. I make the obvious statement, and I ask the obvious question.

"I have to say, this is about the crappest profile I've ever seen. There must be thousands of girls across London on these websites. Why this one?"

"I just have a sense, that's all."

No way. I don't believe you, Mr Cheriton, but of course, I'll never get the truth from you. Just keep listening, Holly...

"So here's your little task. Ruby has already phoned this girl, to tell her the basic proposition and get her home address. But now it needs someone to make proper contact with her, visit her. For a chat, and to set out our offer to her. Don't mention the Soames by name, don't even mention we're in the Kingston area, and keep it all pretty vague, nothing at all identifiable – we're a discreet establishment and we don't want people knowing about us, talking about us. To everyone, except our membership, we need to be – invisible. But do tell this girl enough to establish if she'd be interested in, if she might be cut out for, this sort of work."

"Is this how you normally recruit?"

"Yes."

"So who usually does these little jaunts for you?"

"When I first started here, I did. I'd visit them in the capacity of..."

"A punter."

"Yes. It was the best way. Not just girls' physical attributes, but politeness, cleanliness, the standard of their English. Problem was, girls put on an act with punters. You don't get to know the real person, you don't get any sense of whether they are –"

"Reliable?"

"Of whether they'd fit in here. Of whether they're going to be an asset to the Soames, or a bloody nuisance." He sounds bitter for a moment. "Then, I had the idea of sending one of our older girls, who was good at talking, listening. Women are – different with other women, than they are with men."

Don't laugh at him, Holly. Whatever you do, hold back that laugh.

"Recently, I've been sending Ruby. But I'd like you to try it for me."

I think: of course you'd like someone other than Ruby to do it. I can imagine Ruby's bedside manner. Not.

"I'll do it."

"The address, phone number etcetera are all in a text I've sent you. Plus of course a link to this girl's profile. It would be good if you can meet her before the end of this week. I need to know by next Monday or Tuesday whether she is willing to come here for an interview with me."

I hear the door open, without any knock. A face appears.

"Oh – Ruby."

"I've just heard –"

"Listening at doors? Again."

"Her? You trust her?" She looks fire at me. "She's a tart off the streets. And you offer her a thousand quid bonus to do something I've been doing as a normal part of my job?"

"We need you here, Ruby. I can't spare you to go on these recruitment outings any more. I'm trying Holly. That's all there is to it. Besides, do you actually want to go to Brixton?"

"You're happy to have me out of the office to drive people here and there. Driving there and back to Home Croft, for instance. So you can spare me from desk duty at the Soames to be a taxi driver, but not to do anything more. You'd rather trust GirlNextDoor here. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Giles."

The look on her face is venom: I realise it's directed mostly at Cheriton, not at me, but I squirm in my seat all the same. She stands there silently, staring, for ten, fifteen seconds maybe, and Cheriton stares back, like some mad Mexican standoff. Then she turns on her heel and flounces off. I breathe. And while I so much need that thousand quid, I'm annoyed with Cheriton. If Ruby resents me, she'll be more watchful of me. And that won't help me find out what the fuck is going on at this place.

He sighs and looks at me. "You see?"

"Well, I can see how she might see it, if she feels I'm on her patch..."

"Problem is: for this type of work, I need someone who can relate to the girls. Someone with the experience, the outlook – someone who knows where they're coming from."

"And Ruby?..." My question hangs in the air. Since I first saw her, of course I've been wondering: jumped-up call girl, or professional receptionist?"

Cheriton does have the knack of guessing what you're thinking – if, that is, you're thinking about either sex or money. "You're correct in your guess, Holly. Ruby has never worked here – or anywhere else – in, ah, _that_ capacity. She came here with long legs, a pretty face and a university degree in marketing. She does her job here, that's all."

Does that explain, I wonder, Cattrell's remark? "Fucking tart." Mr Two Porsches called me that, because I wouldn't have sex with him (not the way he wanted it, anyway). Maybe Cattrell called her a fucking tart, because she's not available for sex with him. She's the only sweetie in the sweet shop that he's not allowed to unwrap. "Fucking tart" means exactly its opposite.

"So you'll do it then? Go over to Brixton and see this girl?"

"I said, yes. Leave it with me."

"There's another benefit, too, if you do this job well, and if you're looking for extra work. Ruby and Michael are both pretty busy. In the past, I've trusted our more intelligent and responsible girls to do odd things for us. Such as filing the medical records, like the one you've given us, on our system. And Michael told me that you can drive too. That can be an asset, we need drivers. You'd have no problem, say, driving for an hour or so out of London for us?"

I hear the buzz of my iphone in my bag. Phones get taken off us by Ruby when we arrive – but this morning, I came straight into Cheriton's office without seeing her.

"Yes, to those questions. I'd like those opportunities. Can I answer this call?"

Cheriton nods. It's another unknown number, but I have a bad feeling about it. Not Krasniqi, though – I added him as a Contact. Because I want advance warning, next time he calls.

"Hello, Holly Harlow, the GirlNextDoor?"

"Miss Harlow. It's DS Chris Rainbow here."

"Oh." I realise, almost like it had never occurred to me before, how fast I'd be thrown out of the Soames if Cheriton got even a whiff of the police investigation. "Can I call you back? Just two minutes?"

"No. I'd rather see you face to face to talk about this. In fact, I'm at your flat right now, I called round to see you. You've not kept to what we agreed. I asked you not to travel. I've just been speaking to your flatmate. Apparently you're out, somewhere. She couldn't – or wouldn't – tell me where."

"Sorry. Really sorry. I'm in south west London, heading back now."

"I have to be in the centre, soon. Meet me there?"

"Of course."

"Embankment? I'll see you in the café in the Embankment Gardens, at two o'clock."

"I know the Gardens are near the tube station, but I don't know where the café is. Can you text me a link?"

"I'll do that for you, but you won't need it. You can't miss it."

It's an hour later. I'm sitting under the verandah of the café, alone. Rainbow was right – if you can find your way the dozen yards from Embankment Station to Embankment Gardens, then you can't miss this place. It's a funny little building, with a pointed tile roof and lots of fancy ironwork, like it should be somewhere at the seaside, on the Promenade. But oddest of all, it's raised up on a tiny hill, like it's on a little stage. On one side it looks over the river; on the other, over a nice part of the gardens, lots of trees and flowers. The trees' shadows make deeper green splodges on the patchwork of grass and petals. I watch people come and go among the colours, relaxing, laughing. I easily spot _him_ coming along, of course – his gray suit, his businesslike walk, stands out from all the tourists.

"Mr Rainbow. Are we having a drink here?"

"No. We're walking. I don't want anyone overhearing."

Next thing, we've left the gardens and the greenery and we're walking, too fast for me, on the hot, dusty pavement between the Embankment's roaring traffic and the river. The glare bleaches the colour from everything; Cleopatra's Needle sticks up like a big sword against the sky. There's a few scabby trees along here, but somehow there's no shade. Rainbow strides along in the heat, it's just like my walk with Krasniqi. After two minutes, he speaks.

"I've got a few more questions for you. Firstly, I wanted to let you know that from now on, I'm leading the investigation into Mr Wycherley's death. So, treat me as your first point of contact, if you have further information."

"OK." As I try to keep up with him, I digest this information, thinking about what Krasniqi told me when he called – "Someone new is in charge, someone more interested in getting results."

"Secondly, I need to ask you about something that's not covered in your statement. When you left the Excel Hotel on the night of the murder, what route did you take to Russell Square tube station?"

"I don't know. I was in a panic. Down an alley, maybe."

"The alley alongside the Excel Hotel? Between the Excel and the Royal Hotel?"

"Yes, I think so, now you say it. What's this about?"

"We've found some evidence, that's all. We've been to a waste disposal facility where the rubbish from both hotels is processed. You'll be aware, if you went down that alley, that there are hotel waste bins along there?"

"I don't understand."

"Did you put anything into one of those bins?"

"No. Like, what would I have put?" He's quiet: doesn't want to say, because as usual he doesn't want to show me his poker hand. But I've guessed what they've found. A knife.

We've walked some distance already, far from the café. We come alongside a big boat moored in the river. Not far ahead, the river, and the road, go underneath the massive arches of Waterloo Bridge. I look forward to the shade under there. "Mr Rainbow, can I ask you a question?"

"Feel free."

"I guess you'll have done a forensic report, one of those autopsy body examinations, on poor Mr Wycherley. Like they always have on the crime shows on the telly?"

"Yes, there is a report."

"He was killed with a knife, wasn't he?"

Silence. Which means Yes.

"How long was it?"

"Sorry?"

"How long was it? The knife that killed Mr Wycherley?"

Suddenly, we're in the shade of the bridge, like in a tunnel. It's an odd place: from the pavement alongside the river, there are steps up to a kind of concrete platform, overlooking the water, all in the gloom below the bridge's arch. It's a grimy, forgotten place, but on the platform are a couple of benches: what a funny place to put them. But right now I'm feeling hot and stressed: I'd be glad of a sit down, and without thinking, or asking Rainbow, I go up the steps to them. They're those solid concrete benches with slats of wood screwed to them to make the seats. But then I see sleeping bags, cardboard, newspapers, human forms lying among the seats. Remains of junk meals, strewn on the benches. So instead of sitting, I walk over to the railings at the edge of the platform, look straight down into the river. Deep, sludgy water churning along below me. To my left, there's something odd: a stone wall going down into the water, but rather than going straight down, there's a sort of big step, maybe seven or eight feet below the top of the wall. The step forms a flat concrete platform, a few yards square, covered with slime from the river, just a couple of feet above the water. The platform's closed in by smooth stone walls on three sides, like an alcove, and there are no steps down into it. On the fourth, river side it's open, so you could slide off it, straight into the water.

I guess that at high tide, this curious stone step, hidden from the road, gets covered sometimes. But the rubbish scattered about on the concrete floor shows that most of the time it's above water. I look down at the moss, the stonework, the garbage. A funny little place, that hardly anyone ever sees. But as I look, all I can see, in my mind, is a red slice across a white neck.

Rainbow too looks down at the little slimy step. It's deeply shaded, even though beyond the shadow of the bridge, light is blazing everywhere. "How long was the knife? Why do you want to know that?"

"Well – if you've found a knife in those hotel bins, and you think it's the murder weapon, then I guess you've found out that it's got Wycherley's blood on it – but I guess, as well as that, the size of the knife you found would fit with what your autopsy-thingy tells you is the probable size of the blade that killed him. Does it?"

Silence again. Yes again.

"You've got your witness statement, from your Mr Krasniqi, which now describes me as both arriving at and leaving the Excel hotel. In a brightly-lit lobby. Without any coat, because it was a warm night. And I gave you my dress, which matches that description, and my underwear, and my clutch bag. A very small bag. Everything I had with me that night, you have, and it all fits perfectly with your witness's description."

He's getting it.

"The skimpiest, thinnest of dresses, the tiniest of bags. All confirmed in detail by your witness's description. I was carrying nothing but my little bag. So – unless you're talking about a tiny little penknife – if you're thinking that I dropped the murder knife outside, in a hotel waste bin, how on earth did I get it there? Conceal a big bloodstained knife in the lift, carry it across a well-lit hotel lobby in front of loads of people including your precious witness? How would I do that? Hide it in my hair? Stick it up my fanny?"

Finally, he speaks. Flat tone.

"It's about a ten-inch blade."

Don't push it, Holly. Don't antagonise him.

"Sorry for kicking off, Mr Rainbow. I'm under a lot of stress, I didn't mean to sound stroppy."

There's a silence for a while: we both look out across the water: nasty brown, nasty gray, even where the sun shines on it.

"Miss Harlow?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. You've made a good point."

We both look out across the water, silent for a moment. In that silence, I feel a massive sense of relief, a weight being lifted. But I'm aware of something else too. Something totally unexpected. I feel there's a third person with us.

I remember last night, the Green: Krasniqi. I turn round sharply, look back at the road behind us: Rainbow's surprised by my sudden movement. There's no-one there.

"Are you OK?"

"I felt – there was someone watching us. Listening to us too, if they could."

"You take care of yourself. I recognise, you know, that the situation you're in, it's stressful. It can't be easy. I do actually appreciate that, and I am just doing my job. Perhaps... you should see a doctor?"

A softening in him. He doesn't care, of course, and I'm still his number one suspect, but it's nice to see a different side to him. But that's not what I'm thinking of as he walks away, leaves me to walk back to Embankment, to take the tube home. I keep my eyes peeled – as if I still might spot someone watching me – but mostly, I'm seeing a knife, a massive fucking metal blade, being used to cut into living, feeling skin. As I look out across the Thames, seeing the big old buildings, I think about history again, like that witch TV programme I mentioned before. It's Jazz's fault, really: she tries to broaden my horizons, get me to do different stuff. So one time we went to Kew Gardens, I can't really remember it, except for one place, like a gallery, a little room full of really bright flower paintings, all crowded together on the walls. I liked them; that was a nice room. A woman painter, Jazz said. And once we went swimming – well, we didn't. Because I couldn't bring myself to say, until we actually got to the Baths, that I can't swim. She was fine about it, but it's an embarrassing thing to admit, when you're in your late twenties, that you never learnt something that tiny little kids can do. And then there was _Wolf Hall_. Not my sort of thing, but Jazz did coax me into watching the final episode on TV. Anne Boleyn. Henry VIII and his merry men framed her, put her on trial, said she'd slept with all these men, including her own brother. It was so obviously a bunch of crazy lies, but the court believed it, or they were told to believe it, even though it couldn't stack up. A bit like the idea of me carrying a big fuck-off knife out of that hotel: a jury could be convinced, I'm sure, to think: she was there in that room, and she went down that alley – so, she must have killed Wycherley and hidden the knife in the rubbish in the alley, even though there's no way on earth she could have carried the knife from one place to the other without it being seen. That's just a logical detail which the prosecution briefs will gloss over, and which the court will not think carefully about. It probably won't even get mentioned. Guilty, yes, she must have done it, look at her.

Anyway, enough of me: back to Anne. I'm glad it's the twenty-first century and not the sixteenth. They found her guilty, of course, it's the way these things always go. They sentenced her to be beheaded, or burned alive, at the king's pleasure. There was a French executioner guy with a big sword; while he was getting it ready, polishing it up, she made her death-speech to the crowds, who used to turn up to see that sort of thing. Pale face, shaking, thin high voice. Brave. She said that Henry VIII was a merciful guy and that she still loved him. Well you would, wouldn't you? If you're standing there, facing instant death, that blade across your throat – but you know that, if you speak out, if you say to the crowd – "It's all lies, I've been fucking framed, by the cruellest king and husband there ever was" – then 'the king's pleasure' might change, he might stop being such a merciful fucking monarch and death won't be quite so instant. That they might drag you away, tie you to a post, pile wood around you, set fire to it, watch you scream and writhe and die slowly in limitless agony. I've touched the stove accidentally: so have you, I bet. Flames slowly burning through the skin, the muscles, in your feet, your calves, your thighs. Would your legs be cooked, like meat from the oven, before the smoke gets into your lungs and you thankfully choke to death? That's the only reason, I bet, why she called Henry a merciful monarch. She took the tiny, tiny choice that she was given, the only choice she had left: how to die. The oldest story in the world, the story that is the same the world over. He was a man and she was a woman.

**10 Thursday 20 July**

The Soames is quiet today. It's 3pm, and I've had my sauna, bath and skin treatments. It's the day of my meeting with Cheriton's very special client. Now the massage, it's Areeya again, and she's brilliant at what she does. But today it feels lighter, less penetrating, less satisfying.

"Your touch was different a few days ago."

"Sorry, if it's not as good today."

"I didn't mean that. It feels great. I love your hands. It just feels softer, that's all."

"My right wrist is a bit sore. So maybe, not as firm as last week."

"Well, stop then. Let me look at it." And I'm back in St John's Ambulance mode again. Her wrist is clearly swollen. "Why are you working like this? Tell Mr Potter or Mr Cheriton."

"I have to. Job needs to be done. Michael, he is away today. And Mr Cheriton..."

"Michael would say: you can't work with an injury. What would Giles say – carry on regardless? Well, I think you need a break. Put an ice bag on it. Nick a packet of frozen peas from the kitchens. I don't really need a massage, I'll be fine. Have a break, and I'll tell them that you've done the massage. So, where's Michael gone, Areeya?" I get up, pulling my gown on.

"He's out. He may have driven over to the clinic again. Usually Ruby goes, but sometimes, it's him."

"What's the clinic?"

"It's called Home Croft. I don't really know what they do. Botox and the like I guess."

"Are you allowed a phone in here? I'm not." I have to hand my phone over to Ruby when I arrive. But Areeya has one. She gives it me and I google "Home Croft Clinic". But there's nothing, nothing at all. There's only one explanation for the lack of a website. Home Croft is very, very exclusive.

"What do you think of them – Michael, and Giles? Do you get on well with them?"

"I get on very well, thank you. But – I don't talk about people here. It's not professional. My work, that's what I do."

Stonewall. I'm not going to find anything out from her. So I lie, un-massaged, on the massage table for a few minutes. She's got her packet of peas, and is reading the paper. _The Sun_. I want to burst out laughing to see that rag in this place. Everything here is too bloody perfect. "I need the loo". I get up, leave the massage suite, and walk down the corridor.

It's like a deserted filmset. Uninhabited. I walk towards Reception, and I'm starting to feel tense. It's mid-afternoon, the day is at its hottest. Out of the window I see Ruby on the lawn, her golden hair catching the sun, looking like a shampoo advert, she's walking about, talking on her mobile. Michael's office is next to the reception desk. The door is ajar and I can see there's no-one in it. Heart-in-mouth, I slip into the office. The computer will no doubt be passworded but it's worth a few tries. I've seen both Michael and Cheriton using this computer. I know which of those two would decide on the password. Even without thinking, I find myself typing in a word. "Reverso".

Crap, crap password, Cheriton. I'm looking at a screenful of Soames members' accounts. There are lots of names here. The bulk of the list is made up of what look like Arabic, Russian and Chinese names which I guess are businessmen. But among those names, there are more familiar ones: I recognise a lot of celebrities – singers, TV people, footballers. Hell there is some serious, serious money here. There's a politician too, who used to be on the telly a lot, Minister for Health or something like that? George Vennery. There was some news story about him, it's on the edge of my mind. Yes, that's it: he died, a few months ago.

I hear footsteps crossing the lobby, and I watch the office door, like time stands still. O – M – G. They're coming this way. One set of footsteps clacks: high heels. And then I hear voices. Two people are talking in the lobby.

"Ruby. Thank Christ I've found you. I've just tried your mobile, it was engaged. Problem, I'm afraid. Josh Borrowdale."

"Uh-oh. Does he need taking to Home Croft again, Giles?"

"Yes. Sorry to ask, Ruby, but – the usual. Can you do it?"

"Of course. No problem." She sounds like she's sucking up to him now. I bet she's regretting her outburst the other day.

"He's in the car right now, waiting. As usual, he's been telling me that his time is precious. This time he's got a sprained wrist, or so he claims. He's been overnight in the Montserrat Suite with Sunita. And like the last time he spent a night there with someone, she's got bruises. He actually said to me that it didn't matter, with her skin colour they wouldn't show. Damaging our bloody goods. It'll be a few days before we can put her with another client."

"He's a shit. But no problem, I'll grab my bag and my sunglasses."

"Thanks. If you need to call me, I may have to spend some time with Sunita. She might kick off a bit about what's happened, but I'll talk to her, let her know which side her bread's buttered. So when she calms down, she'll see that it makes sense to forget it. After all, she'll be looking perfect again in a few days, it will be like it never happened."

"You're not worried about her, then? Going to the media with her little story? One day, someone will. We do need to stop these things happening, somehow. I do mean that, Giles."

" _I'll_ decide about how we stop Josh B and the others. I manage the risks here, Ruby: none of the other girls have ever spilled any beans. Like with the other girls, I'll explain to Sunita what a really bad idea for her that would be. Everyone would join ranks in denying it, she would have nothing provable to go on, and besides, TV companies know they can make more money from a squeaky-clean Borrowdale than they can by bringing him down. He knows that, too: that's why he behaves like this. Journalists will realise it's not a runner. I mean, Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris got away with what they did for decades, the BBC loved them, and things haven't really changed. I'll tell her all that, if she gets on her high horse about it. But I think, with Sunita, it will be all sparks and no fire."

One, two seconds, and they're both gone. I've got a few minutes. Well, they've given me a name – I have no other clues, so I might as well start there. I look on the computer, do a search of the members' accounts database, for 'Borrowdale'. I know the name already, of course. Known to millions as the face of primetime TV _Green and Pleasant Land_. Here's his account on their database. Josh Borrowdale, he's spent a fucking fortune at the Soames – dinner, champagne, 'sundries'. I have no idea what Sundries are, but I can guess, and it's no surprise to find the Soames supplying drugs to any high-rolling guest who wants them. But what interests me is that every evening meal account also lists a girl. They're just notes, not charged for, because of course we're a free 'facility' for the guest. But so many notes... a new name every single evening he's been here. There are, literally, hundreds of them. Averaging two, sometimes three nights a week, and (I can't resist scrolling down, down, down) – going back ten, twelve years. And there's longer notes, too, against several of the account items. Notes that mention that name: Home Croft. In the last year, Borrowdale seems to have been driven over to Home Croft several times. Well, if they Botox and that sort of stuff, he needs to keep those boyish looks, I guess. He's been one of the top TV faces for... well, about the same length of time that he's been visiting the Soames.

Against one of the entries – from about nine months ago – there's more than a note: there's a link to a .pdf file. I open it. It's a long narrative, and some photos. Photos of a bruised girl's body. And a photo of Josh Borrowdale, with a three-inch, shallow cut across his forehead – and the most glorious black eye I've every seen. It's horrible, what's going on here, but I want to laugh all the same. "I wonder what Makeup Department did with that?" Because this guy is on telly every week, presenting the cuddliest, most heartwarming stuff about badgers and organic farming and National Parks – and interviewing women (always, for some reason, gorgeous young women) who make their own chutneys or run a vineyard. He can't be turning up on set at Smug Farm looking like... well, like he's just punched a hooker and she's punched him back. And slashed him with something.

Read, read, quickly. Yes, Borrowdale was treated that day at Home Croft Clinic. Details of the treatment, some medical words. I scroll to the end and read that he went back to the TV studios and filmed for a Christmas Special that evening. How did they manage that? The clinic, whatever it is, must be bloody good at what they do.

I've got to stop. Suddenly I realise I've been reading the report – how long? Three, four minutes? Too long. You silly cow, Holly. Get out. I close down the .pdf. and go back to the Borrowdale account. Under 'Clinic contact' there's a name – Mr Franklin – and a number. Pen, paper? Oh well I'll just write it on my hand, 07854 622 678. Then, among the member accounts, I spot names that I recognise. Tony and Devine Cattrell. I recall the face of Devine Cattrell in _Hot_ magazine, and a really insane thought comes to me. I hear footsteps again, but I can't resist my mad idea: I change her mobile number on the database, so it's the same as my own. Then I click back again, to the screen I first saw, stand up, go to the doorway. Fortunately it opens outwards; I look through the crack between the hinges. Michael. He's come back. I turn around so that my back is towards his approaching footsteps, as if I've just come to the office and I'm looking for him.

"Mr Potter?"

"Do call me Michael. How can I help?"

"I thought I'd let you know, Areeya has hurt her wrist. We've finished the massage, so she's done everything Mr Cheriton wanted. But I thought you should know about her injury."

He thanks me, and sidles past me into his office. I'm thinking, thank fuck, the dressing gown I'm wearing helps make my story sound truthful. I step after him.

"Michael... are you all right? You look tired."

"Fine, thanks. I've just got back from a long drive."

"I'd make you a cup of tea, if I knew where a kettle was in this place. By the way – I had something I wanted to ask you..."

"Ask away."

I was wondering something – just out of curiosity, really. If the clients here aren't charged for meeting the girls, how do you know who's going with who?"

I can sense an edge, a raised nerve, in his dusty, insurance-clerk manner. And I can see him thinking that he might as well answer my question, rather than being all Secret Squirrel about everything. Because it's the sort of thing that I'm going to get to know anyway, if I stay working here.

"Well, sometimes members do book a particular girl. Cattrell, for instance, you know all about him. He comes here for dinner and so on – but when it comes to the women here, it's different: he books a time slot, arrives at that time, spends it in a bedroom with the girl of his choice, leaves. But a lot of our members like to spend time here, chat to different girls, and we do watch them. Not CCTV, of course, that would hardly make our members feel comfortable! – we merely observe. Or rather: _I_ observe. One of my duties is to wander around, especially in the evenings, the restaurant, the bar, note down who I see with whom, when I see them going up to bedrooms. But the members – they don't know that's happening."

"Do they not suspect?"

"We've never had complaints. That's how this place works, you see. It's not a brothel."

"That's what Mr Cheriton told me."

"Our members come here, they can chat to whom they like. What do you sell, Holly?"

It's a very pointed question, and the obvious answer is not, I know, what he's really getting at.

"You're the GirlNextDoor, who's available for sex. The pay-as-you-go girlfriend, it says on your profile."

Michael seems to have a photo-memory of my GirlsDirect profile. Creepy, or just good at his job? I look at him, waiting to find out where this conversation is going.

"You know exactly what you're selling, Holly. Your punters can pretend to themselves that you're their girlfriend, that you're enjoying it, that you enjoy the bookings as much as they do. Mr Cheriton, for instance. He..."

"Kids himself that the girls here find him irresistible." His face registers surprise at my boldness, but I can tell, he doesn't disagree.

"Why not you, then, Michael? Why don't you try the goods here?"

He doesn't answer, looks down. Then he goes back to the earlier subject. "The thrill, for our members, is not only having sex. It's also the feeling that they're not paying for the sex itself – when they go with a girl, no money changes hands. So they can believe that the girl they choose that night is genuinely attracted to them, genuinely wants to do it with them."

"So they can pretend it's a conquest?"

"You said, Holly, that a man can kid himself that women find him irresistible. We, ahem – sustain that idea."

"It's not an idea, though, is it. It's a total fantasy."

"Well, if it looks like that to our members... it can be real, for them. Sex is only one part of what we do. Our real business is stroking egos."

I can sense bitterness in his voice. Does he feel he's given away too much? Not about the system here – I was bound to find that out anyway – but about his own feelings. I look at his creased face. He spends his time running a system that helps guys pretend they're Casanova, and watching their successes.

"You're a nice guy, Michael. Why do you work here?"

"Money. I was in business, and it went wrong. I'm a bankrupt, you see. I knew Giles from school, he found out about my situation, offered me this."

Yet you don't seem over grateful, I think. He resents Cheriton and his Lord Bountiful act, I can tell. Most of all he resents Cheriton's casting-couch perk – and he tells himself: oh no, the decent, respectful Michael Potter wouldn't behave like that. He's polite, righteous, envious.

"Michael!"

It's Cheriton's voice, calling from a distance. Michael jumps into action like a puppet when his strings are pulled. Time for me to be off. I walk casually out of the office, across the empty foyer, trying to look a little vague and clueless in my gown, like I'm still finding my way around this place. Back through the corridor, back into the spa area. Areeya is still there. She's reading the _Sunday Sport_ now, and she tells me that the frozen peas have helped.

A few hours later. The Soames Hotel restaurant is a glittering sight, like it's in a TV costume drama. It's lit by chandeliers: its outer areas, away from the sparkling, are dim and shaded. There are a few diners; enough to give it a feeling of life and enjoyment, but not so many that all these private little corners lose their intimate atmosphere. A waiter shows me to a table near the window, pulls back the chair just the right distance for me to comfortably slide into it. I remember seeing a telly programme about how proper waiters do that; they call it 'magic touch'. I wonder: can I magic touch my client tonight? And then, in the middle of the room, under the lights, I see _him_. And it feels like everyone in the room has stopped talking, is struck dumb. Or maybe I'm just not hearing the chatter anymore. I've never seen personal presence before, not so visibly shown. He's maybe forty, handsome, tall, very erect, slim, dark hair with a few strands of gray. Prominent jawline, bold lips. Confident but not a total narcissist – I can tell that from the way he carries himself, the way he speaks to that waitress. And although she's a beauty, and she tilts her head at him invitingly, he doesn't leer, his glance at her doesn't linger. For him, that interaction with the waitress was an exchange of information, nothing more. He moves over to my table quickly. Glinty, dark eyes; skin sallow, slightly tanned but not a Mr Orange. He looks fit – but like a skier, something like that, rather than a gym bunny. He's almost a cliché of male glamour, but so rarely in real life do you get a guy who can actually carry off one-tenth of what he does just by walking across the room. Sometimes a cliché is – not bad, not bad at all. When you're in my business, you'd settle for this walking cliché every day of your life. He's standing by my table, the waiter pulls back his chair, there's the magic touch again, and I can see that the waiter is more self-conscious than he is. He's not self-obsessed, but he's certainly aware of the image he projects, and he likes it. Likes the way it makes people feel. "This guy thinks he's James Bond. Well, let's see what you've got, 007."

He sits down, and, oddly, cracks his knuckles. Then a slight smile, and ker-ching, I recognise him. I can't control it, my first words are a gasp. "You're Jack Downes."

"Yes. I'd rather you didn't mention it to anyone, of course, but Cheriton will have explained that. Yes, I am Jack Downes. The lion of the House, the knight-errant of the opposition front benches. Glamour and integrity in equal measure, and when did we last see either of those in British politics? Scourge of the government, and according to the tabloids, the politician most women would like to sleep with."

"How many?"

"Have I slept with? Getting your story ready for _The Sun_ , are you?"

I start talking like I'm on speed. "Sorry. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean that. What I mean is, I've never met anyone from your world before. And of course, like all ordinary people, I always wonder. I'll be honest, this isn't my world, I didn't know who you'd be but I knew it would be someone famous, and I had all kinds of lines planned, lots of clever conversation. But now you're here that seems fake, such a pretence. I can't actually carry it off and act a part, so I may as well be myself and be honest with you from square one." I pause for breath, then rush on. "This is all new to me. The high life – your life. What's it like, living in your world? Is it all cocaine and supermodels? Or do you spend all your time on committees and opening charity fetes?"

"The latter. Almost always the latter, unfortunately for me. I'm being totally honest with you. Politics in this country – in my experience – is very clean. Compared to the States, France or Italy, it's fucking disinfected. What do you want to drink?"

And we get on really, really well. He's funny, he can laugh at himself, he's got an openness I've not seen in many guys. And I keep thinking: he's ridiculously good looking. Even if he doesn't have a different woman every night, it must be so easy for him. Why is he here, spending an evening with a professional fuck?

Two hours fly by, and now we're going upstairs. A maid had showed me the bedroom briefly that afternoon, but it was brief indeed – she said "He'll know where everything is" and led me out again. Which fits with Cheriton's pep-talk – Downes uses this place regularly, I think. And I can't help myself wondering: maybe he knows something. Something about Wycherley. I'm turning it round in my mind, even during our first kiss. "Keep it slow" I say. When I'm with a truly stunning guy, it often goes too fast. The older blokes, decent but not devastating, are the ones who've given me the best times. Take a little more time, keep the excitement under control. Slow, slow.

I don't know how much time has passed: maybe it's just after midnight. The room's curtains are open: there's a deep-blue square of night sky where the window is. My face is burrowed into his chest, and now and then I rub my face against his skin, against the dark hairs. Even in this dim twilight, the odd silvery one glints here and there. I nuzzle up under his chin. I say nothing; he says nothing. But his adam's apple is moving, brushing my forehead rhythmically.

A sniff.

And then another. In the darkness, he's crying.

"What is it? Disappointed with the quality of the service?" I try to lighten the moment, and in the gloom I can make out his lips curving, managing a smile. Then he pulls me close to him, pushed my head back under his chin. It's a long while before he speaks.

"Best ever."

"I bet you've said that to every female you've ever fucked."

"OK, second best ever."

"Thanks."

"Sarky minx."

"I mean it, Jack. In my business, to be second best is to be a winner. I'll always, always settle for second place. My first rule of happiness: be happy with second. So where would you put me, on your scale? Tell me."

"I'm telling the simple truth. Second." Glistening in the dark, a tear-track down one cheek. "Silver medal."

"You never looked at my face, all the time we were doing it. It was wonderful, but you were imagining someone else. With my work, I'm very, very familiar with guys who do that. Were you pretending I was your gold medallist?"

"Do you do this to all your clients? Do the agony aunt services cost extra?"

"I never mentioned any agony. But of course, if a little whipping is what you need... meet Miss Holly Prickles..." I caress his chest. "You brought up the agony aunt idea."

"Yes... but you ask questions. You challenge me. Most women are in awe of me. They don't say stuff like you do."

"Oh, I'm in awe all right. But not of your Big Ben, Mr Downes. Power and fame don't turn me on. But your body is rather nice. Although you don't fuck much, do you. I can tell. You could have a new woman spreading her legs for you every night, maybe two at a time if you went to the right bars. Instead you live a genuine bachelor life, except when the need to have sex gets too strong and then you come to this place, because you know it's just a body shop, it means nothing. You can get up in the morning and walk away without hurting anyone. Also, you only really enjoy sex if it's with someone special to you. Your personality, if you weren't so bloody successful and good-looking, is just a simple one-woman guy. Oh yes, they do exist. I've met a lot. They're the happiest people in the world, I think. Except when they visit me, then they feel guilty about what they're doing. But – you don't feel guilty." I pause for a moment and run my hand through his hair. "You feel no guilt with me, because – your gold medallist left you, didn't she?"

"I don't know where she is."

"But I remind you of her, right? You looked at me – me from the neck down, anyway – so greedily. Like she was back here with you."

"Please don't."

"Sorry Jack. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"This room's not bugged."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Holly, that I know this place. Some pretty powerful people put Cheriton here. Before him, a few years ago, the previous manager had tried to bug and secretly film in the rooms. A member here complained. That manager disappeared. He might be abroad, he might even be dead. Like I say, some very powerful people. But let's just say that, right now, this hotel is one of the most discreet places in England. More discreet, probably, than many rooms in No.10 Downing Street. If you wanted to say anything, tell any secret to someone, here – this room – would be the place to do it."

"So... why are you thinking about bugging? What's your secret?"

"Lucy."

I give him time. It must be getting towards one o'clock in the morning, he wants me here, I'm not going home until the morning. This is hard for him to tell me, I know. Give him time; he'll open up.

We lie together for a long, long time. I could stay like this forever. Lying here and pretending everything's OK. His arms around me... feeling safe... It's a fake feeling, but it's nice all the same. I must have slept: the clouds have cleared, because I can see stars in the blue square of sky.

He speaks.

"I met Lucy here."

"I guessed that."

"This is my favourite room, you know that's why you're in it tonight. She and I used this very bed, so many times. So many beautiful times. She did look a bit like you, but more of an air, than a physical resemblance. Her features were delicate, fragile." (Thanks a lot, Jack) "But she was younger. You've seen a lot in your life, I can tell that. But you're not tainted, somehow. She wasn't, either. But she was untainted because she was starting out."

"When did you first meet her?"

"About a year ago. And she disappeared about six months ago. One day they told me: she wasn't available. And 'not available' is not something that applies to Jack Downes. I demanded to know what the fuck was going on. Eventually Cheriton told me in his spineless way. Told me that no-one knew where she was."

"Do you believe Cheriton was telling the truth?"

"I wondered about that. If they can kill the previous manager for his indiscretion – and I suspect that they did – then they can certainly kill one of the escorts."

"Fucking hell."

"Maybe she knew something, and they had to get rid of her. Like I say, the one thing I know is: this room's not bugged. And Cheriton thinks I've got over Lucy. He doesn't know what love, infatuation, obsession, is. If his favourite wine is not available he'll happily enjoy his second favourite. He can't imagine anyone feeling any different."

"And you do feel different."

"Well, I've tried a lot of different girls in the last few months, but they weren't Lucy."

In the darkness, as I'm listening, I'm thinking to myself: you may be a more decent guy than many I meet, Mr Jack Downes – and you're famous and rich and handsome – but deep down, I wouldn't want to be in a real relationship with you. Lucy disappeared, but you felt it most in terms of its effect on _you_. Do you wonder, every minute, where she is, how she is doing?

I speak my thoughts. "Do you wonder, every minute, where she is, how she is doing?"

"I'm a busy man. There's a lot on my mind. But yes – I feel the loss. I've used a private investigation company to try to find her. They've found absolutely nothing. I would try hiring another investigator – except of course you're always worried that someone will sell what you've told him to the Press."

"So what do you think happened?"

I stroke his face. It's wet: there are new tears flowing now. And although I still feel he's crying for himself and not Lucy, I put my arms round him, hold him tightly.

"It was a little over a year ago. Glorious sunshine, your classic English early-summer day. Not muggy like it is now, this bloody stifling heatwave when all you can smell is petrol fumes. I remember it like a picture. I was in the gardens here, I'd come here to relax, to forget my work for a day. The June roses were out. I must admit, I was looking forward to – someone. I was fancying leggy, but maybe Latin. Long, dark hair turns me on. And then they sent her over to me. I saw the long dark hair, alright, but then – so unexpected – her face. Our conversation. Fresh, joyful, genuine. I knew she'd not been here long. And I knew that there were guys here – businessmen, gangsters – who would be pushing with Cheriton, making sure that she spent time with them, not with me."

The first time wasn't actually that good. We were both too nervous. But then... and after that I came here every week, often more. More than my work could spare. I'm watched a lot, of course, but I managed it. Besides, so far the Soames has truly got away with appearing like a normal exclusive hotel and spa, a sort of retreat for society's favourites. No one Tweets about us here.

I wanted Lucy to leave the Soames, to come with me. A real above-board relationship. If she had been more of a gold-digger of course she would have done, straight away. But she thought it was merely a crush on my part. I suppose she thought I was too good to be true." (Modest as well as handsome, eh Jack?) "She wanted me, but she wanted to test it for a couple of months more. That was fine with me. But I paid Cheriton £100K to not put her with any other guys."

Suddenly, sharply, he turns his head away from me, then back again.

"I was busy over Christmas and New Year. Constituency likes to see me at that time of year. I have to travel up to the North-East, charity engagements, speeches, mutual back-slapping, fundraising dinners, key constituency stakeholders, switch on the Christmas lights. Makes them happy. Like a fucking pantomime." He laughs at his own little joke. "Then, at the beginning of January I was back in London, I couldn't wait to get back to this place, and I saw her here, once more – and then without warning, she was gone."

I kiss him again, in the darkness. "So what was she like?"

"She was – different. Every girl I'm met here, under the skin, there's a hardness. An attitude. They're all on the make."

"So am I."

He ignores that: he's on a theme. "Actually, the hardness – maybe even a soullessness – the girls can't hide it. Because everyone knows the score. They work here for the money, but also for the hope – which not even Cheriton can control – that they might attach themselves to some rich guy, and quit the place. Which, as a punter, is great: the girls act like they're in love with you, and they all have the conversation skills, the charm, because they do want to net someone. More gangsters have met their trophy wives here than probably anywhere else in the country. Have you noticed how few of the girls here wear really high heels?"

"So?"

"High heels is a turn-on. But a guy, especially one with a fragile ego – which, in my experience, every business big-shot and top dog criminal has – wants to be seen with a woman on his arm who's shorter than him. He might fuck the six foot supermodel, but he'll spend time in public with the middle-sized average model."

"And simple old me wears lower heels cos they're more comfortable."

"It's pretty faces, really, that's the key. Pretty, welcoming faces. Smiles. Listening while the guy drones on about whatever shit he cares about – his cars, his executive box at Chelsea Football Club, the racehorse he bought with the money he stole."

"Or the constituency."

He doesn't notice my joke. "So like I say Holly, you – and Lucy – are different from most girls here."

"I'm not different. I'm just playing a less ambitious game. Like most of my friends in the trade. I don't want – well, I don't expect – my dreams to come true. I know that they're only dreams. I enjoy my life day by day. Like any other job, I have good days and bad days, nice clients and duff clients."

"An ordinary job?..."

"Yup. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's boring. The one thing that's almost never boring, is chatting to the punters. Some don't talk, and that can be a bit awkward, but I get through it OK. But if they do talk – I enjoy finding out about them as a person, where they're coming from, their angle on life. They talk about family, kids and wife. Maybe a bit about their home sex life, if they have one, sometimes they ask me for tips and hints. Although I'm a crap adviser.

Then they talk about their work – like you. From my regulars I've learnt a bit about what's involved in being a university lecturer, a sewage worker, a banker, a bailiff, an airline pilot. I even had a male stripper once – funny, he had a non-existent sex life. He was a sad guy; two days before seeing me, he'd walked onto the railway line, watched a train coming towards him, then bottled it and decided to book me instead. What happened to him, I'll never know." I pause, ten seconds, then I try my luck. "So, Jack – I've told you A Day In The Life Of A Call Girl. So, you tell me about this fucking love of your life."

He smiles: sad. "I think... she'd run away from home, but she'd not ended up on the streets. Maybe some other girls had helped her, I don't know. But anyway, someone she knew must be a good contact, because it's not easy to get into this place."

"Any ideas who that contact was? Maybe they'd know where she is now?"

"No idea. I know that she had – someone – a person whom she used to phone, every few days. But she was very cagey about telling me anything about them. And this person, whom she used to call – she didn't want him, or her, to be able to contact her. She told me, she actually used a friend's phone to contact this person, so that he – or she – could never call her back."

"And the friend with the phone?"

"One of the other girls here, I think, but I don't know who it was."

"Do you know where Lucy was from, her background at all?"

"Nothing. She was intelligent, we used to talk about literature, poetry, Shakespeare. She had an incredibly strong sex drive, but she wasn't – "

"A tart?"

"Sorry."

"She was glad to find me in this place. Like we had an affinity. Because despite the rose garden, the high-end restaurant, the reiki, this place is crass, it only really understands two languages: money and fucking."

"Many people would say: there are no other languages."

"And Lucy and I, we'd say there were better languages." But I can feel his chest heaving again. Suddenly he sits up in bed, trembling with big, shaking sobs. Maybe he really did care for her after all. I'm not used to seeing a side of guys that really cares for women – for one woman. But there's still a boyish selfishness here, like daddy has taken away his favourite toy.

"So was she really like me? I'm finding her hard to picture." And then, to provoke him "Should I just look at my body in the mirror? But cover up my less-than-delicate face?"

For answer he reaches over to his phone and shows me the screen. "There she is."

I look. And what I see on the screen – somehow I've known, all along, what I would see. The Lucy in the picture, smiling half-shyly at the camera, is the same girl that I saw on Wycherley's phone.

**11 Friday 21 July**

I wake up again, see rumpled sheets thrown back. It's like a morning-after scene from the movies: Lover Boy has gone.

I get breakfast at the Soames: it's excellent, and free. No breakfast cereals out of a box here. I stoke up on food, because I'm not going to enjoy today: the visit to joke-name PantiesOff. Why has Cheriton asked me to see this ridiculous girl? But I don't need to know that. And I do need the thousand quid. But even Krasniqi and his threats are not in my mind right now: all I can think of, on my journey from leafy Kingston to gritty Brixton, is what I found out last night. Jack Downes and Wycherley both knew the girl in the picture, kept images of her. And she's disappeared.

I'm on the train from Norbiton heading into Vauxhall, where I'll change to the tube for Brixton. The train is nearly empty: I sit in a shaded seat, away from the fierce sun through the carriage windows. A news alert comes in on my iphone: they expect this to be the hottest day yet this century. I go through in my head what I learnt last night, consider the possibilities. Option A – Lucy is not close to Wycherley, she's just another hooker that he visited on his London trip. Yes, he came to London, he stayed in Alperton, so that he could search for something, that seems clear enough – but whatever he was searching for, it was nothing in particular to do with her. He took a photo of me, as he did of her. In which case, Wycherley's photo was taken after she knew Jack. Option B. Lucy is important to Wycherley, same as she is to Jack Downes: she's disappeared, Wycherley was searching for _her_.

If he's linked to her, maybe she'll be mentioned in the news about him. I check every bit of available news. But there's no mention of any young girl. Although Lucy is probably not her real name, I even try googling "Wycherley Lucy". Nothing.

Out of the station. I love Brixton. It's like Finsbury Park on speed: a chaos of people everywhere, streets crowded, shops bursting with colour, Asian, Caribbean, Latin: everyone smiles in Brixton. Well, everyone smiles at _me_. Electric Avenue, onto Atlantic Road, I walk a couple of blocks, and everything changes.

Suddenly there's no-one about. There's rubbish everywhere, but the roads are quiet, and the pavements empty. A ghost town. I count the number of security cameras up on the lamp-posts, each one surrounded by metal spikes. The cameras are looking at me, but the few people I see avoid my eyes: I avoid theirs. This is not an area I know: never any outcalls here. Nor would I take them if asked. It's not a place where I'd happily go to a stranger's home, nor an area I'd feel safe walking back from after dark, carrying a sum of cash.

I have to walk out of the shade, across a road; the sun hits me and my throat feels instantly dry. I retrace my steps to the last shop I saw, buy a bottle of water and drink it, standing there next to the counter. The shopkeeper smiles, and we chat about the weather. Then I go back out. In the glare I see, on the corner ahead of me, a group of boys. Shouldn't they be in school? I think, and then laugh at myself: I'm becoming Lady Neighbourhood Watch in my old age. I can't see their faces under their hoods, but then one of them glances up at me. Then another does. Don't look obvious, looking at the iphone. Don't let people see it, and don't let people see that I don't know my way around.

Car parking is always a guide to areas. Where I live, they line up in neat rows, considerately. And shunt up close to the car in front, so as to leave more space behind for others. I've seen 'polite' notes pinned to the windscreens of cars that are parked where they take up two spaces. Here cars and vans are parked anyhow, angled into the road, tyres on the pavement, even parked on a tiny patch of grass, and on an oval of sunburnt earth which was once meant, I guess, to be a flower bed. Every car has scratches and bumps. The other side of the road, there's a parade of shops, but every one has its metal grill down. Why, why is there no-one about?

I walk on one block further, turn a corner. Ugh. It's the ugliest building I've ever seen in my life. Which, for a North London girl, is really saying something. It must be Brixton Jail: a massive wall, six storeys high, stretching all down the road as far as I can see. It's all dark gray brick and concrete, with only a few tiny windows here and there, like it's in one of those sci-fi future films that blokes watch. Fuck, what must it be like, living stuck in there? Will I end up some place like that, when Rainbow nails me? Then for some reason, I find myself looking over my shoulder. The gang of boys is right behind me.

"Hello. Can you tell me please, where is Southwyck House?"

Glances at each other. Then one of them steps forward. A slight swagger.

"It's that." He points to the dark wall.

"Thank you."

"No problem. Round here, lady, we call it the Barrier."

And he turns back to the others. I hear "Nice ass, lady". Spoken almost so he hopes I won't hear, of course it's not meant for me, it's to impress his mates. They're just boys: maybe they thought to get my iphone off me, but your nerve to rob a person can be rattled, if that person gets in first with a spot of polite conversation. But I guess I'm suspicious of the boys mainly because I used to live with Derry and his dodgy mates. Probably, these boys are hanging around on the street simply because, as I've just remembered, the school holidays have started.

I look again at the Barrier. The locals chose a better name for it than Southwyck House. Some of the tiny windows are glassless black squares, others are boarded up. There's fencing around one end of the building, big wire squares chained together, and there's a metal container, like a lorry-sized skip, full of broken bits of wood and glass. The Council must have got the builders in, but there's no-one working at the moment. I've no idea how to get inside. I go over to the shade of the massive wall, start walking. Some distance along, sticking out from the brickwork, there's a circular concrete one-storey thing, like something they'd build in World War Two to put guns in. A door on one side of it: it's the entrance to this place. Like it's fucking Checkpoint Charlie. I press a buzzer for Flat 81 on the intercom, speak into a metal mesh. A Russian-sounding voice says "Hello, I buzz you in." For one moment it feels like I'm in some spy programme on the telly, I'm going to meet the KGB. I push against the door, it opens, I call the lift, get in. Piss-smell in my nose, floor sticky under my shoes. I press the button for the third floor. It works. Up I go, the lift doors open, a little dark corridor, battered door: number 81, here it is. I'm about to knock, when I notice that the door is ajar. Voices from inside. Strong accents, arguing in some foreign language. The voices go up and down, I listen for one minute. Madly, in the middle of the gibberish, I hear "Holly Harlow" spoken distinctly. Then I hear a table being banged, with a fist maybe. Anger barely under control. Someone is going to kick off. I push through the door, call out.

"Hello! Anyone home?"

The hallway is cramped and dingy, but I'm surprised: it's spotlessly clean and tidy. A man and a woman appear. Even in the gloom I can see: she's absolutely catwalk-stunning. Like something off a perfume advert in a magazine, but dressed in jeans and t-shirt. Skin like cream; gold hair glowing in this murk. And taller than him – but he bulks out across the hallway, filling the tiny space; tattoos, muscles. A workout fanatic.

"I'm Holly Harlow. I'm here to talk to you, Jurgita. Like I said on the phone. Talk to you both, if that's what you want."

It's not what he wants. He stands blocking the hall and glares nastily at me, but his frown looks sulky, his lips pout. You front up tough, Mr Muscles, but you're not such a hard man as you want me to think. Meanwhile she smiles, without happiness. Because she's trained to smile at anyone who comes to the door.

I smile too. "You work out, I see. Nice muscles."

"What the fuck are you doing here? I know why, and you're going to fucking turn round and leave right now."

"OK. I'll go. Sorry, sorry. But I've come a long way, and it's scorching. Do you mind" – I look at the woman – "getting me a glass of water, before I go?"

The guy looks at me like I'm playing the oldest trick in the book, which I am. But she says "Jonas, I get some water for the lady" and he doesn't stop her. As soon as she's gone, I say to him "I'm sorry. I never wanted to do this either. They just offered me some money to come round here and talk to her. Paid me in cash, it was hard to resist."

He looks at me, and can't stop himself asking. "How much?"

"Two hundred. I mean, for just taking a tube ride and a short walk. Easiest money I've ever earned. Look." I open my bag, and there are the notes. I angle it so he can see them. I'd even thought of using Wycherley's cash for this, a good way to get shot of it – but then I thought, hang on to it. One day I might need to show the police how helpful I am with evidence and stuff like that.

It's hard to stay looking angry when you're curious. But he's still trying to come across all threatening, like he's some sort of boss.

"Show me that money. In my hand, now."

I pretend not to understand what he's saying, I answer him "Oh yes, of course. But I need to check the amount."

He's confused now. I count the cash, really slowly, right in front of his face, and meanwhile Jurgita comes back with the glass of water. I fold the notes up carefully, put them back in my bag, thank her, drink the water and turn to go.

"Stop. What about that money?"

I turn back round, smile, look him in the eye, flirty. "Do you know what, I could really do with a sit down for five minutes, after that hot walk."

It's five minutes later. Jonas, and the bribe, have vanished. It was easy to make him realise that the money was his for free, if he wanted it, on one small condition: that he leave me and her alone to chat.

"God, he is so stupid."

"How did you meet him?"

"There were three of us girls. We come from Lithuania. Jonas, he is too, originally – but I know nothing of his life there. I guess he is from Vilnius. We met him for the first time when we got here."

Some people think immigrants' stories only start when they arrive in England. I ask her "Were the three of you – the girls – all friends in Lithuania? How did you meet there?"

"The children's home. We are all orphans. The orphanage – in your late teens, they organise training courses. We trained together, business administration. And improved our English, of course."

Her voice is toneless. Like she's reading a story about someone else, out of a book. I remember my own childhood, and my teenage years. Making decisions without support, without parents to guide you.

"Then one day, Klaudija, my friend, she had a boyfriend, but she told me she's gone with this other guy too, and he gave her 300 litas. More than I'd ever seen in my life. And the three of us girls, we thought, we will go to London. Earn some proper money, for a while at least. Me, I thought, I will do this, earn money in England for two, three years, then one day I will go back to Lithuania, get job, maybe meet someone, marry, children. I had a plan in my head, the lies I would tell my future husband about the good job I'd had in England.

"It was springtime, last year, when we travelled here, we arranged it with a contact, a Mr Urbonas. He said he would sort things out for us, a place to live. But when we arrived, there was no Mr Urbonas, we got sent to three different houses. Tasha, she was sent to Jonas's flat, here. She had never been with a man, she phoned me that first night to say that Jonas had told her, sleep with me – or, Klaudija and Jurgita will be hurt. So she let him do what he wanted. I was at a woman's house, she had men coming in. She said if I sleep with them, we split the money fifty-fifty. So I thought: well, this is my chance, I have to start somewhere. I felt dirty, the men were horrible – but I thought, I have to do this. The woman was English, but she was nice to me. But then after a few nights, I got sent to Jonas. All three of us were here. We all sleep with him in his room, he had two beds pushed together. Since then, many men come here, Jonas takes the money. But one day Jonas was out, and Klaudija, she went down to a strip club place, they gave her work straight away. But then Jonas found out she had good money, he took the money, he hit her. After that, we all worked for Jonas for a while, but then Tasha and Klaudija left, together. That was about a year ago. Since then, it's just me, here."

It's a familiar story – I know what it's like myself, but it's worse for girls who come to the UK from outside, and I've so many of the tales Jazz brings back from Sexwork Helpline. Every week they hear of another one like this, and for every one they hear of, there must be hundreds...

"So what now?"

"Tasha, she lives in Plaistow now, she gets good money, I still keep in touch with her."

"And Klaudija?"

Her brows knit.

"Jurgita, why haven't you got out?"

"Because – where would I go? I have no money, none at all. Jonas, he controls all the money. He stays in, he never goes out. Most of the time, he works out, training." I look at her; she gets up, moving like she's sleepwalking, and leads me through into another room. A room full of weights, pulleys, machines. Smell of male sweat.

"You see? He stays, he take money direct from the guys who come to fuck with me. He gives me little bits of money, I clean the flat, I go out, shopping, buy food for him and me. Each time I go, he knows I will come back. But he doesn't like this – what you are offering."

Obviously not. Cheriton is hardly going to agree to pay Jonas direct, so there's no way this is going to happen. Unless...

"Why don't you come with me, now? And never come back?"

"Thank you. But I have to say no. It's crazy."

"It was crazy when you came here, how you ended up in this situation. You're like a prisoner here."

"I'm not a prisoner. I have clothes now, I can go out, go to shops, to...." Almost a smile plays across her lips. "It's funny, when his mother came over to visit him, we pretended to her that I was really his girlfriend, he told her I worked in a hotel. He even said, Mamyte, you will come over for the wedding. Ha."

I keep quiet, let her think. Then I say

"How long will he be gone? I asked him to stay away for an hour."

"He'll stay away for the hour. He doesn't think I will run. He knows I need him, I need to live here. I keep flat clean, do shopping, I come and go, he never worries, he knows I will always come back."

"Not this time. Let's gather your stuff. Fucking hell, I earn £400 an hour at this place I work. And you look like a goddess."

She looks at me blankly, taking in both the money that's on offer, and the compliment. Then it's as if someone's flicked a switch: she's awake. Her eyes open wider, her voice comes alive. "Yes, yes. You are right."

"You can stay at mine, for a night or two, until you get sorted."

I dial a taxi. We hurry. Two minutes: clothes gathered in plastic bags. Three minutes: the lift. Six minutes, and we're outside on the road where I talked to the boys. Like before, there's no people, no traffic. No-one around to see us, but I glance nervously around. Then I see a car. It moves towards us slowly, pulls up at the kerb. I'm so tense, for a moment I think the driver is Jonas, but of course it's not him. It's our taxi.

"Brixton Tube Station, please." I get into the front; Jurgita into the back. Hell, I must be nervy if I mistook this driver, who's at least sixty, wears a kufi and has verses from the Qu'ran hanging from his rear-view mirror, for Jonas.

The road we're on, I now see, has concrete bollards across it ahead of us: a dead-end. The driver has to do a 3-point turn in the road. Time is in slow motion. I see Jonas walk round the corner. He looks straight past me into Jurgita's face. As the driver turns the steering wheel, I see Jonas getting something: one of the squares of steel fencing I saw earlier. It's not chained to the others. It's twice his height, but he puts it down flat in the road in front of us as easily as if he's putting a plate on a table.

The driver looks at me; he hasn't a clue what to do. I haven't either. I do the only thing that can be done: I get out of the car, stand behind my open car door, look at Jonas. But I've no idea what I could say to make him let us go. He stares at me, not bothering to speak, because we all know what he wants.

I hear the driver's door opening. The driver too stands, looks at Jonas; I see the shape of his mouth, his brows, like he doesn't want a confrontation. Like a father with his son.

"It's Jonas Senkus, isn't it? I remember you. I brought your mother to see you, from the airport. A good fare for me, I remember you came down, to this exact spot on this street, to pay me. Your mother is a nice lady, she told me all about you, she was so pleased to see you."

"I want her to get out of the car."

Jurgita's door opens. She gets out and steps towards him. Jonas eyeballs her.

"Come here. We go inside."

"Jonas, listen. You have no quarrel with the taxi driver, or with this Holly lady. Move the metal, let the man drive, let me go. Jonas, I could have been your girlfriend, a good woman for you. But these men who come to the flat, you hardly even make any money anymore. Two have come, only two, in the last week."

He looks down, and I can see his face darken as he takes it all in. That the driver now knows what he's been doing. The whole neighbourhood will know, soon enough. Is that red colour in his cheeks shame, or anger? Don't provoke him, Jurgita, I whisper, like a prayer.

"Let me go, Jonas, and it will be different. I do want to be with you. I will come back to you. But I can't be with you like this, not any more. And I can tell: these last few months, you've not been happy, either. There could be good money, now. Let's try this."

The three of us stand and watch him. And after five seconds, it's like he can't bear our gaze any more. He turns, stoops, moves the fencing. His bulky shape in the road reminds me of some big wounded animal. As we drive away I see his arm move, as if he were just about to raise it in farewell. As if we were friends.

The tube from Brixton goes straight through to Finsbury Park. Jazz is at home to meet us. I order a takeaway: Jazz talks to Jurgita. Well, 10% talking, 90% listening. Jazz is in her element, of course, and Jurgita tells her everything, from the orphanage in Lithuania to Jonas and his nasty little ways. I hear Jurgita tell Jazz that at the beginning, the three girls spent two weeks, naked, living in Jonas' bedroom and pleasuring him and his clients. Only then did he provide some clothes, and it was at that point that the idiot forgot to lock the front door and Klaudija walked. And only when he realised that punters don't like phoning and speaking to a bloke –with a foreign accent – did he get Jurgita her own phone, a crappy £15 one from Asda. I think of the loneliness she's had – she's spent over a year in that flat since the other two girls left. I bring food and drinks: I'm Miss Tea & Sympathy. But after a couple of hours, I hear Jazz winding the conversation up: she has to get ready for an outcall this evening, she goes off to her room and it's my turn to talk to our guest. After all, I've still got my recruitment job to do for Cheriton.

Jurgita comes in first, with the obvious question. "How do you know about me? There must be many girls..."

"I have no idea, really I don't. I got shown your profile by my boss, but I don't know why he picked you. Well, he says he saw you on EscortNet, could see you had more potential that a lot of the other girls on there – but to be honest, I don't believe him. You are so damned gorgeous, but I would never have guessed that from your profile photos. Did Jonas take those photos?

"He wrote my profile, and yes he took the photos."

"They're total shit."

She smiles at my words. A sense of humour, but deeply hidden. "And your level of English too – I'd never have guessed it from the writing of your profile. I really have no idea how my boss picked you out."

A moment ago, her face was bright; dawning on her that she's worth so much more, could earn so much more, than her miserable life with Jonas. But now, it's like a cloud has come over the sun. She looks at me, holds my gaze. I can tell: she's going to ask me something. Something important. The atmosphere in the room has changed. I don't know why, but I feel cold.

"This place you work, Holly. What is its name?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you."

"Yes. It's all secret, isn't it? This offer of work – I get an email from a private account, through EscortNet. And when I replied to it, then I got the phone call, I speak to someone called Ruby, but she tells me nothing, all she does is give me your name, told me you will phone me. And then you phone me, to arrange visit. That's all I have. Nothing that I can be sure of, just people mailing and phoning. So how can I make a decision?"

I remember what Cheriton said – "We're invisible". But compared to this strange, chill feeling in the room now, Cheriton's commands seem unimportant.

"It's called the Soames Hotel."

Her eyes change, but all the same, I can see: this was what she expected to hear.

"Yes. My thinking is correct. I know that name. That hotel, they contact me because of Klaudija. Because she went to work there, so she recommends me to them. She told me she would do that, to help me – they might offer me work too, if I could get away from Jonas."

"And Klaudija? –"

I can see tears in her eyes. I put my arm round her, but she doesn't seem comforted. She sits still, frozen, making no sound while the tears trickle down her cheeks.

"I'll make you a cup of tea."

As the kettle boils I hear another sound, familiar. A click. Two seconds processing it in my brain, and I go back into the lounge.

She's gone.

I run down the stairs, out onto the street, look left and right. Nothing. She can't have disappeared, so fast? I call upstairs to Jazz, who's in her bedroom getting ready to go out. Jazz comes down: she takes right, I take left, we run along our street to the ends, look down the roads. Nothing.

Five minutes later.

"Why, Jazz? When you consider what she's escaped from..."

"That's exactly it. We see this at the Helpline, a lot. She's afraid of Jonas, and she can't really imagine life without him. She's gone back to him."

"No, I don't totally buy that. Yes, I can see how that happens, and this might seem a typical case. And you're probably right, she's gone back to him. But it was something else. It was the mention of the Soames that did it. Her face changed."

"Really? One word changed her mind? When she's been bullied, imprisoned? She's still a prisoner, in her head. But look Hol, this is something I can help with, maybe. Let me have her number and her address. You'll have to tell your boss at your posh brothel that it's no-go, for the moment at least, but there still might be something we can do for Jurgita. I'll go and visit her, in a few days, once the thought of freedom from Jonas has taken root in her mind. I'm used to dealing with these things. I'll do what I can."

"And Jonas?"

"I think I'm more than a match for Jonas, Hol."

I thank her, and at the same time I worry about Jurgita, going back to that man. Would he hit her? She told me he'd hit Klaudija. But my concerns about her soon fade from my mind. I worry about myself instead. Having failed to reel in Jurgita for Cheriton, I'm a thousand quid down. But even so, once the Soames pays me for Cattrell and Downes, I'll have nearly enough money to offer Krasniqi. To buy my innocence in the eyes of the law.

**12 Sunday 23 July**

We always tell each other: next time, we'll walk to Sainsbury's. It's the other side of the Park. I like looking at the boating lake, and in this weather it'll be beautiful. But when it comes to it, we always decide we'd rather not be carrying the shopping back, so we end up driving in Jazz's dinky but rather nice Mercedes A-Class. She's got the sports edition – for a city car, it handles well, it's great to drive: I use it for my more distant outcalls on the odd occasion when Jazz isn't using it. As she starts the car, I say "The Helpline... did you ever meet a young, tall girl, real English Rose, called Lucy? Long dark hair, aged perhaps seventeen? Very clever, could have gone to university if things had turned out different. Might have called into the Helpline office maybe June, or May, last year?"

We turn onto Woodstock Road. "Yes, maybe. I didn't speak to her. I saw her at the Helpline office. She was talking to Jean. I'll ask Jean about her."

"Oh well, case solved then."

Because Jean is this middle-aged, slow-moving, slow-witted bint who mans (if you know what I mean) the desk during daytimes at the Helpline, and takes a lot of the initial phone calls. Despite her work, she's got a doe-eyed innocence, and she's the sort who comes out of the loos with her skirt tucked in her knickers, and would walk round like that all day if you didn't tell her. Jazz tells me she was a pro, long ago, but that's almost impossible to imagine. She's married now and her husband drives her over to the Helpline office in a Vauxhall Meriva. That tells you everything, really.

"Jazz, you know Jean won't remember. Half the time I think she doesn't actually realise what the Helpline does. And she's not exactly the Memory Man, is she. Wouldn't surprise me if she forgot to wipe her own bum."

"But she'll have recorded the girl's visit, even if she doesn't remember. You know Jean. She loves her filing."

"If she knows how to switch the computer on."

"Trust me. I'll work on Jean, I'll find something. I can tell this is important to you. Leave it with me. But just tell me everything you know about this Lucy, and why you're trying to find her. After we've shopped, of course."

Sainsbury's car park is manic. She taps the steering wheel as we wait for a space. An old couple are loading up their car in slow motion. Once inside, the aisles are frantic too. Jazz is Mother, she has the list, she knows what we need to buy. She pushes the trolley and reads to me from the list. My job is to go and find things. Teamwork gets things done quickly. We stand in the queue at the till.

"Sometimes, I think I'll just start talking to the next person in the queue, tell them what we do, see how they react."

"Shh."

"Not joking, Hol. A bit of education and enlightenment."

I change the subject. "Was that your Mum on the phone this morning? All OK now with her ankle?"

She tunes back into what I'm saying. "Yes – she's doing fine. They're planning a holiday, for next year when they both retire. They've saved up. A week in Florida, their trip of a lifetime, they're really excited."

When we're back in the car, I ask her my usual question.

"Do you ever think you'll tell them? What you're really doing in London?"

"Mum and Dad? I'd love to, as you know. See the expressions on their faces. My fantasy IT job is such a reality in their minds. Last week, you know, they thought I was in Silicon Valley. Again." She smiles as she turns the key in the ignition. "They never even think to question how I got from A levels in Politics and English Lit, and telephone operative at Haringey Council Call Centre, to international computer whizz. But they're not ready yet. It would shock them in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons. I want to tell them when I can prove to them that I've been right with my life choices, with the person I've become."

"You mean, when you quit the game and get what you call a real job. Then they never need know."

"Back to office hours, twenty days' annual leave and sucking up to the boss? It's not a realistic option, Hol. I'm already too old to go back and rise up the career ladder. So London_Courtesan is not going anywhere soon. Hell, we're queuing even to get _out_ of this car park. But enough of me, you talk now. Tell me about this Lucy girl and why you're interested."

I tell her everything. I've already explained to her about the Soames, but only in outline. And of course I have to tell her about my shag with Jack Downes, despite my vow of secrecy to Cheriton. We get back to the flat, we're packing the shopping away, when I say "I've got another appointment there – at the Soames – this afternoon. In fact I'll need to be off in an hour. Have you ever come across it, heard it mentioned by anyone?"

"No. But I don't like the sound of it... I know celebrities need to get away from the paparazzi, everyone needs their privacy, but – it still sounds dodgy, somehow. You should really, really watch yourself there. It won't go down well with the police, if they find out about that place, and about you working there."

I'm glad I've not told her what I found out about Josh Borrowdale: she's such a do-gooder, she'd try to make me report it to the cops.

They said that Friday was the peak of the heatwave, but yesterday and today seem equally fierce. Although being a Sunday the tube is empty of commuters, it's still sweaty, sticky, dirty. Lots of tourists – young travellers, both sexes tanned, tall, blond-haired, American, Australian, European accents, big rucksacks blocking the aisles and doors. I brush my hands over my dress when we come out into the midday sunshine, as if some of the dark might have stuck to it as grime. Kingston is roasting; smell of tar from the pavements. I feel sweat between my legs as I walk up the Soames' drive.

Cheriton's at the door to meet me. "Holly, can you come and see me? Straight away."

OK, keep your knickers on. "What is it, Mr Cheriton?"

I go into his office, he shuts the door as if the whole hotel might be listening. "It's about Jurgita. I got your text. Why won't she come here? I told one of our members about her, he likes tall thin blondes, I told him we had a six-foot girl joining us. He's asked for her. For tomorrow."

"Well he won't ever get her. Unless he goes to Brixton and pays eighty quid to her rather hard-looking boyfriend."

"Her pimp, you mean."

Pot calls the kettle black.

"She can escape that, Holly. OK, she's scared of him, that's normal. You told her, didn't you, that we can sort out that kind of thing. We can deal with this pimp so he'll never trouble her again."

"She understands exactly what we can do for her. No, she had another reason for not wanting to work here."

I remind myself why I joined the Soames. There's only one reason I'm standing here talking to Cheriton right now: I'm trying to try to find out who killed Wycherley. To avoid being sent down for a crime I didn't commit. I might as well explain what happened, what have I got to lose? I might find out something, if I tell him. I speak.

"OK, I'm no diplomat. I know I was supposed to be all secret about it, but I ended up telling her the name of this place." I hold up my hand, to fend off his interruption, so I can finish what I'm saying. "And once I told her that, she said that she had a friend who had worked here. It was that friend who, a long time ago, gave you Jurgita's name as a recommendation. This friend – something happened. And Jurgita is scared of coming here. More scared than she is of her pimp."

Cheriton folds his arms, almost hugs himself.

"Did she mention the name of this girl?"

"Klaudija, she said."

His eyes widen. "Not Agnieszka?"

"Agnieszka's a Polish name. The girl that Jurgita talked about was her friend, from Lithuania. Definitely called Klaudija. She was here, I think, about a year ago."

As I speak the name again, I see something I've read about, but never seen before. His face changes colour. Pink to gray. Skin to ashes. Like the blood has literally drained from it.

He's struggling to say something, but all that comes out is one word.

"Klaudija."

"Yes. Klaudija. What does that name mean to you, Mr Cheriton?"

Suddenly, his head slumps, his shoulders crumple. He's no longer looking at me. All pretence of being in control of the situation, of being my superior, has gone. He breathes to himself "Three."

"Three what?"

But I already suspect. I chance my arm.

"Three _girls_?"

It's as if I'm not in the room. I hear his poncy glass-domed clock ticking, and his breathing. He seems to be struggling to inhale: the office is airless, stuffy. I open the window. "You need some fresh air." I take his arm and lead him to the window; he doesn't resist, puts his hands on the sill. I pour a glass of mineral water from the bottle on his desk and hand it to him.

"Tell me, Giles."

He hesitates, looks vaguely out of the window into the distance. Then suddenly it's as if someone's pulled a cord and he jerks to life, starts gabbling, like a wind-up doll. His hair flops up and down as he talks.

"Two years ago, a girl called Agnieszka came to work here. She was great: elegant, refined, really good with the clients. She was a natural here. And then, after about six months, one day she simply didn't turn up. We do lose people, of course, but normally we get some indications, some clue that maybe it's not working out for them here. The most usual thing is that we have to have words with them, helpful words generally, to explain to the girl that she's struggling to meet the Soames standards."

Meeting the Soames standards, I say to myself, means things like not complaining when a monster like Josh Borrowdale takes his fist to you. Or letting the manager shag you and photograph you as part of your 'interview'. And Cheriton's still talking, staring out of the window, not meeting my eyes. I can only see the profile of his face, but I can tell, his self-control is already returning. The mask slipped for a moment, but he's working on it, pushing it back into place.

"Anyway, if we have to have such words, then some girls listen, apply themselves, improve. Others realise they're not cut out to achieve our standards, and they leave. Which saves them, and us, trouble. When they leave we remind them that our confidentiality contract remains in place for the girl's lifetime. So far, we've never had any leaks."

"You must live in fear, though, of a leak happening?"

"Our measures are strong." Oh yes, either the fresh air, or the water, or just spilling his guts to me, has worked its magic on him, he's trying his Cheriton-speak on me, as usual. But he keeps telling me the story.

"Anyway, none of that was an issue with Agnieszka. She was – a star, really. And then suddenly, she was gone. We made enquiries, we instructed someone."

"Who did you instruct?"

"An agent that we use for such things. He found out that she'd been meeting a businessman member of ours – he was Polish too – outside the Soames. It seemed like a genuine, um..."

"Romance. They do happen, from time to time, you know."

"Yes. Well, so we thought, she and he had got together, and she'd gone off with him. But then, our Polish businessman came in one day and asked where she was. The last time he's seen her was here at the Soames. He told us that he and she had arranged to have a weekend at a hotel in the Lake District, he was going to drive her up there, and she never showed. She had vanished, without a word to him. He was – very upset. I comforted him in this room."

I'm struggling to picture that scene. Cheriton handling another human being's genuine distress.

"Anyway, that was eighteen months ago. And we've never heard anything since. She's not with him – but, if she was working in London, and doing the level of escorting that she was capable of – "

"You'd have heard about her on the grapevine from someone."

"Yes. I concluded either she went back to Poland, maybe something to do with her family, or she's still escorting, but abroad. It was – strange. Not the sort of girl to disappear without a word."

"I can understand her not contacting you. I won't myself, you know, when I stop working here. But not contacting her boyfriend – even if only to say I'm sorry, this relationship is not working, goodbye – that's odd. I know nothing about this girl, but women don't usually behave like that."

I look at him, the muscles in his face have changed. He's manoeuvring his mask into place. The troubled human being that briefly appeared is being squashed back into his box. Soon this chance to learn something will be gone. Press him, Holly. Squeeze that raw nerve of his.

"So, who's Klaudija?"

"Klaudija was here about a year ago, but I don't remember her well. She was not very memorable, except I recall thinking that she wasn't living up to her early potential."

"By which you mean, she didn't live up to what you thought of her from your casting couch."

He ignores my little dig. Oh yes Cheriton, you're back in full-on sleaze mode, Mr Bedroom Interview.

"She was pretty but not exceptional, her English was surprisingly good, which was a big plus. And yes, she did recommend a friend, two friends in fact – I remember now that it was her, not Agnieszka, who showed me a photo, three attractive girls together. One of the girls, I noticed – your Jurgita – was exceptionally tall and attractive. Anyway, Michael and Ruby kept the details. And one of our girls – Sunita, you may have met her – is leaving us, so the other day, Ruby suggested Jurgita as a replacement."

"And Klaudija?"

"There's not much else to say about her. She was only here a short time, and soon after she arrived I went to Australia for a month – exactly this time last year. When I came back, she was gone. Ruby and Michael told me that she'd been unreliable for a couple of days, then back here for a week, then she was gone again. It didn't seem like the Agnieszka matter: it merely seemed like this girl Klaudija wasn't fitting in here. Then –"

On last push. "The third one?"

"About six months ago. I can't really talk about it."

Racism is, I guess, lurking there just under Cheriton's very English skin. So I ask the question.

"Harder to talk about – because – she was British, this time, wasn't she? With family, friends, connections maybe? Because you were worried there might be people – people in England, in London – who would be asking about her?"

"Good questions."

I'm waiting for more of a response. And not getting it. Scratch where he's itching, Hol. "You thought Agnieszka's disappearance was a one-off, didn't you, Mr Cheriton? When Klaudija went AWOL you thought it was a different thing. You'd been away, you didn't know her well, you thought oh well, she's unreliable, maybe she's gone back to her old life, to her friends. But now you know she didn't."

This time, he has no answer for me at all. I press him.

"And the third girl. The British one. Again, I don't know what you thought at the time – but now you know, don't you? You know that there's a pattern."

Finally, he turns his face from the window, towards me. Oh yes, the ashen look has gone, his piggy-face mask is up again. His fucking public-school superiority is returned. There's an edge to his voice now. "So Holly, why are you asking questions about this?"

"You started the questions, asking about Jurgita. And Klaudija. A name that seemed to upset you."

But he's all self-assurance again. He goes back to his desk, sits down as if the matter is concluded. He looks me in the eye. "Thanks for the water, Holly. I just need to sit for a moment. Could you get me my pills?"

"No problem. Where are they?"

"Uh – try Ruby. Or Michael."

I go and find Ruby and ask her. Then I go and find Michael. It's maybe seven minutes later when I go back to Cheriton's office.

"Michael doesn't know anything about you ever taking any pills, Ruby doesn't – "

What I see, as I re-enter the room, stops me mid-speech. Like someone's hit the Pause button.

I hear my own voice saying "Put that fucking thing _down_."

He's got my bag open on his desk. He sent me out so he could look through it. Right now, he's looking at my iphone.

"What fucking right do you think..."

He looks at me so strangely. I can't read his face. But whatever he's feeling, there's one thing that's not there. His smugness has gone again, completely. If I could read anything in that face, it's just possible that what I'm looking at, in those eyes, is fear.

"Get out of here. Leave the Soames now. Never come back. If you do, or if I hear of you again, then everything I warned you of at our first interview will happen to you. I mean that."

"What? What have I done?"

"Go. Just fucking go."

"Ok, ok. But give me my bloody phone."

For a moment I think he's going to hold onto it. Then he throws the thing into a corner of the office. I scrabble and pick it up while he stares at me. Screen's not cracked: good. I grab my bag. But I'm not leaving yet.

"I'm owed."

"You're owed nothing, here. Nothing at all."

But I'm thinking of the £5000 I need. I've not yet had any actual cash in my hand from this place: Ruby told me she'd have it ready for me, today. I stand my ground, plant my feel firmly on his plush carpet. And glance at the screen of my phone. I wave it at him.

"What upset you? On here?"

It's open at my Contacts, scrolled about half-way down the list of names and photos. Harmless enough, I would have thought: Jazz and the other girls I know, and tons of photo-less blokes' names, Jack Croydon & Co, all my regulars, none of them rich enough to grace the portals of the Soames. Jack Downes, I put him on there too. I scroll up and down the names. H, I, J, K – OMG. _Krasniqi_. Yup, I put him as a Contact. After that scary midnight call from him, I decided that I needed some warning when he phones me next. Silly me.

"This guy." I show Cheriton the name "Krasniqi Bastard" written on the screen of my phone. "This name rings alarm bells for you, doesn't it?" Cheriton just stares at me, like he wants me to vanish.

"This guy, this Mr Krasniqi, he needs money from me. And the simple truth is: I'm more scared of what he can do to me than of what you can do. Give me what I'm owed, I'll go, and you'll never see me again."

"And me, Holly? Should I be scared of him, this Mr Krasniqi?"

I've totally lost track of this conversation now. I can do nothing except answer truthfully. "No. Of course not. He's threatened me, he wants money off me. I'll go, like you want – but I need to be paid what I'm owed."

"Go to Ruby. Get out of my sight, go to fucking Ruby, tell the silly stuck-up bitch to pay you out of the petty cash. Then go. If you try to interfere in our business again, then you'll regret it. You'll wish you'd never been born."

But despite his threats, I've been looking into Cheriton's eyes as he's been blustering, and I know now. That expression in his face. Yes, I read it right.

Fear.

**13 Wednesday 26 July**

An adventure. I've hired a car for the day, and fuck knows it was expensive. A Ferrari. I drive it like I'm driving on eggshells. A111, M25, A41 towards Aylesbury. Tarmac gray even in summer sun, concrete flyovers, the only blobs of colour are the endless streams of cars. I have to be careful with my foot: press a fraction too much on this accelerator and I'll bang the bum of the car in front. Turn off at a junction onto minor roads. Despite the hire price this silly thing doesn't have a satnav, so I keep stopping to check the map on my phone. Suddenly I'm in picture-postcard England, a village green surrounded by cottages. There's even a duckpond and a rusty old water pump. And real ducks! Is that why they say "Aylesbury Duck" I wonder – or am I being a bit daft? Well, Holly girl, I need to think like a dimbo today. Keep those daft thoughts coming.

I screwed every penny of the cash I was owed out of Ruby. Together with my other earnings, that gives me enough to pay Krasniqi and enough to live on, plus a couple of thousand to spend on today's jaunt. And what with the car hire place, and the shopping, and the haircut, yesterday was full-on, preparing for this. Most of my mates love shopping, but I find it tiring, I um and aah over every item, can never make my mind up. I'm wearing a simple, light summer dress, bought specially – for a premium price, in a boutique. It's even more top-drawer than the one I wore for meeting Jack Downes. As usual these hot days, I couldn't be arsed with a bra, but I'm equipped for what may happen with some super-expensive silk pants. Posh new shoes, too, and I'm well pleased with them. Make-up took me ages, I've never sat so long in front of a mirror in my life. I glance at myself in the rear-view mirror. Looking like this, dressed like this and sitting behind the wheel, in this chocolate-box setting, I feel like some kind of romantic-novel heroine. I check the map again and take a single-track road between two thatched cottages. It looks like a driveway, but it goes on, away from the houses, and then burrows up among trees, thick, deep woodland, sloping steeply upwards. Can this really be the way? The road surface is uneven: this hire car has bugger all ground clearance, and if I grind the underside on this lumpy surface... or if I scratch the hubcaps... concentrate, girl. There's a fork off to the left, which stays level along the side of the slope, but it has grass growing all down the middle of it, it delves even deeper into the trees, that can't be the way. I wouldn't dare try it in this car anyway. I keep right, put it into second gear as the road climbs even steeper, then flattens out. Suddenly the trees come to an end, and there's fancy iron gates across the road. And then I see an intercom next to the gates. So I speak into it. One minute later I'm parking outside the sort of place you usually only see in a lifestyle magazine at the dentist's.

I kill the engine, but I don't get out: I sit for a moment behind the wheel, and think of how I bluffed my way this far. Dialling the number for the Home Croft clinic that I spotted on the Soames database, speaking, pretending.

"Hiya, it's Devine here. Devine Cattrell. Josh Borrowdale, he gave me your number."

"You've come through to the number for Mr Franklin's secretary. Sorry, you are? ..."

"Like I say, Devine Cattrell. Married to Tony Cattrell? You know who I am?"

"Yes – well, I've heard your name in the news. But I'm not aware of you as a patient of ours?..."

"I'm not – not yet. I was wondering, can I come round? I might want some cosmetic work done. Discreetly, know what I mean?"

"Of course. Everything we do is totally confidential. But we will need to check..."

"Of course, no problem. Ask at the Soames Hotel, you see a few of their members, don't you? Tony's been there a lot, so have I. You've got this number that I'm calling from – check it with the Soames, if you've any doubts that I'm genuinely Devine Cattrell."

Five minutes later, they phoned me back: they'd checked with the Soames, who had verified Devine's mobile number that I'd altered on their database so as to make it the same as my own. And then, Home Croft texted me a link to a map showing me how to find their place. So my mad idea worked... but now I have to do some real acting. Here goes.

I cross the threshold, and for a moment I'm startled, there's a guy like Rainbow, standing with his back to me at a water-dispenser machine. Grey suit, tall, thin. Then he turns his face slowly to look at me. Dark hair like a cloud over his forehead; rich, deep eyes hold my gaze. High cheekbones, strong nose. Like a sculpture. Unlike Rainbow, his suit's fashionable and well made, and he wears it like a model – not like a plain-clothes detective. Early twenties, but confident, assured. I'm not one to gush over good-looking guys, I prefer a man who can hold a conversation – but I can see that most women would put this guy in the top 1% when it comes to looks. What on earth is he doing here? Too young, surely, to be a surgeon. Patient? Perhaps he's a demo model. "Cosmetic Surgery: This is how you _could_ look" flashes madly through my mind as that perfect face breaks into a smile. He walks over to a desk, sits down, invites me to come over. The sign on his desk says "James Goldbeck."

"Hiya, I'm Devine Cattrell. I called, I've got an appointment." I am so, so glad that James Goldbeck looks like he's never heard of _Hot_ magazine in his life.

"Mrs Cattrell. Good to see you. A pleasant journey?"

Act, pretend, fake it. "I had the Ferrari. Gorgeous countryside, must be great for you out here. Get out of the Smoke, eh?"

"Can I get you tea, coffee, juice?" I'm thinking: he's not like Rainbow, not in any way, but something about him reminds me of someone I know. Who?

"An orange juice, please." As he brings it over for me, I make an effort to think, talk like Devine. "Thank you. What do you do here, then? Are you a doctor? Do you enjoy working here?"

"I'm not anything medical, at all. I'm the receptionist. And to answer your question about my work: I love it. Meeting different people; we get a great variety."

"How do you remember them all?"

"Just a knack." I can see that he's used to humouring idiots. He hands me the glass, smiles. "Thank you for coming all this way to see us." As if it's a social call. "Mr Franklin will be five minutes or so." He glances at the screen of his computer.

"Mr Franklin? I thought I was seeing the consultation nurse?"

"In some cases, the nurse sees people first. But in this case..."

Money, money. I'm a big fish, and they want to land me. They're fielding their best striker, I say to myself, trying to think like my fantasy-football husband.

"Thank you. Mr Franklin, a proper surgeon, it will be good to meet him. Nice to speak to the one who might be using the knife on me, eh?" Shouldn't have said that word. Flashback: Room 412. I see red, but I hear James's voice saying "In fact, Mrs Cattrell, I've got a message right now from Mr Franklin: you can go straight through, now. It's down there, fourth door on the left."

I thank him, put down the glass of juice, and walk down a long, cool corridor lined with paintings, to a door that says 'Mr Franklin Senior Surgeon'. It's ajar; I can hear a voice speaking inside.

"Get out now."

A nurse comes out of the door holding a sheaf of papers. A striking beauty, piercing blue eyes. Wow, she's nearly as good-looking as James Goldbeck. Do you have to be a model to work here? But I also see: there's a tear in her eye. And I know what caused it: those three words, spoken as if to a slave.

But as I push the door open, I'm greeted by a broad smile, and deep, dark eyes in a strong, intelligent face. He's exactly my height: aged fifty, maybe. Pinstripe, like he's a lawyer not a doctor. Gray hair, but not receded. A sharp-pointed jaw. The smile is full of teeth. A wolf.

"Mrs Cattrell. Delighted to meet you."

He's taking my hand, and looking into my eyes, for just a second too long. He's perfectly at ease looking straight into me, as if into my soul. Even though I'm a stranger, and he thinks I'm one of the super-rich, he could have held that stare for as long as he wanted to. And I feel a strange sense, like a gentle breeze over my entire skin. Goose-bumps. Like you suddenly realise you've left the window open, and pull your gown closer round yourself. Not a sexual feeling at all: just a purely physical shiver.

But if his next words had been "Bend down and suck my cock" I'd have done it.

Well, not really – but I'd have had to resist the urge to obey. It's like being back at school in the headmaster's office, but here, the sense of his power, his command, is nothing to do with his pinstripe suit, his office, this place, his status. It just radiates straight from him. Never met anyone like him: never want to, ever again.

He sits at his desk, and picks up a pen and notepad. "Sit down, Mrs Cattrell. So – what can we do for you? What treatment are you interested in?"

Oh bloody hell, what am I like? Never thought of this bit. I've been so busy trying to be a WAG in my head, I've fucking forgotten to dream up some reason why I'm supposed to be here. I look wildly round the room.

I shout something out. "Tits."

He pauses, like I've got Turrett's and he's politely ignoring it.

"My boobs. They're too..." I glance down at myself, and they stand out, proud and bra-less, as if to remind me "We're perfect." And yes – no-one's body is perfect maybe, but I have always been pleased with my firm, pert breasts.

Doctor Franklin is in his best rich-patient-bedside-manner, but I can tell that he's a man of zero patience. He's trying to hold back a sharpness in his voice as he spells it out, speaking almost word-by-word, so the idiot can understand. "Do you feel that your breasts are too big? Or, too small?"

"I'd like really hard firm ones. Like in the movies." And I can tell he's thinking "You've already got Hollywood boobs. If you want those enhanced, you must be wanting to make porn films."

He's silent, and I speak to fill the gap.

"So what could you do? To make them bigger and firmer?"

"Most clinics offer a range of off-the-shelf implants. But we have them custom-made."

"Ooh, really?"

"We would do a scan of your entire torso. We'll then create an avatar of you – a virtual you – and produce a movie for you, of exactly how you'll look with, say, three options of different implants. You'll be able to watch yourself, as you will look, nude, in swimwear, and in evening dress, placed in near-real life situations. You'll see, for example, exactly how you might look on a sunny day at the beach in a bikini. We can use your own clothes for the movie if you wish."

"I'd like that. I've actually got some of my own-name brand outfits that would look great in that movie. What happens then?"

"You watch the movie and simply choose your favourite implant option."

"I'm looking forward to watching it. And then I come back to you, I guess. When would you do the operation?"

"Whenever you want. Except, you need to take a few days to think it through, to be sure of your decision. We can make the avatar movie next week, then I'd advise you to take two or three days, watching it and making up your mind. Then we can have the implants made, and then the operation."

"How long does it take to recover? Like, will there be scars and stuff?"

"We will make sure that there will be no visible permanent scars."

"But, would I be fully recovered for the start of the Premier League season? For photos and that?"

"If we operate within a few days, then – for most purposes, yes, you would be recovered."

"I'm free to make the movie next Monday."

He scribbles something on his notepad, picks up the surprisingly old-fashioned phone on his desk, makes a call, putting wheels in motion. When he puts the phone down I ask him.

"But what actually happens? In the operation?"

"Take your clothes off and I'll show you."

It doesn't even seem to cross his mind that I might be offended by his lack of ceremony. I strip to my posh new pants and stand in front of him. He doesn't bother to look up at first; still writing his notes. Then he glances up, and goes back to writing his notes. As he writes, he speaks.

"An areolar incision is not a good option for you."

"Sorry?"

"Your areoles. The coloured skin around your nipples. Some women's areoles have a definite line where they join onto the normal breast skin. In those cases, it can be a good option to insert the implant through an incision along that line. The scar is then invisible. But your areoles are very pale pink, and they blend into the rest of your breast skin. So although it's tiny, a scar might show."

"Oh."

He stands, takes one step over to me. Unlike a doctor in a hospital, he doesn't bother with rubber gloves. Without asking, he puts his hand under my left boob and lifts it to look at the crease below my breast. I expected ice-cold hands. But in fact they're warm, almost a caress.

"Lift your arms."

I obey. How many of the rich and famous have stood here, with this guy feeling their breasts?

"I recommend an armpit incision. Unless you prefer under the breast."

"I really haven't a clue. Whatever you say, Doctor."

"Strictly speaking, my title is Mister." He continues to touch and feel my armpits and around my boobs, never touching my nipples but all the same, if this was a normal guy, this would feel like some serious fondling. As it is, I can almost see the clockwork whirring in his mind. Very clever clockwork, like Cheriton's Reverso. Two things are going on inside that powerful brain. He's getting a feel for what he's going to be working with, like I guess a sculptor knows the stone he's working with, knows it so well that when he starts using the chisel it feels totally natural. And the second thing is: enjoyment, like a gourmet relishing this moment. He's not turned on – I glance at his crotch and there's not even the hint of a stiffy. No. It's power. He's loving the fact that he's feeling – inspecting – one of the rich and famous, and that I'm entirely under his command. He knows that he's the one who does this, who has the right to finger the skins of some of the world's most glamorous women, and that they're grateful to him for doing it, grateful for the changes he make to their bodies.

Well, he's sussing out _my_ body, all right. So I may as well play my bimbo bit and suss out his mind at the same time. Pretending to be thick gives you a kind of freedom. You can say stuff and people just put it down to your stupidity. If you say something and it comes out wrong, you just say something equally ridiculous but different, and they think you're randomly saying what comes into your empty head. So I can get away with it when I say

"You've got a lovely touch. Lovely hands, nicer than my husband."

Most men would be totally thrown by my remark; he barely pauses his fingering. Bulletproof self-assurance.

"Just doing what needs to be done. It seems like the surgery is going to be fairly straightforward in your case."

"Wow, how can you tell, just from a quick feel?"

"Expertise, that's all."

"So, do you enjoy your work?"

"I enjoy the challenge, and the responsibility."

"What you do, it's so important. And then, you're dealing with important people. Like Josh Borrowdale, I know he's been here."

"Every patient is important to me."

"You must get some complicated cases."

"Yes. Which we don't talk about, of course, due to patient confidentiality."

"Oooh no, I'm not after gossip. I'm just thinking, I wish I had a job like you. Like you say, a challenge, all that surgery and cutting people up and changing how they look. Do you never get stressed? Like, if you get it wrong, someone might die. How do you cope with the pressure?"

"Every surgeon needs to know their own limits. Some surgeons are limited by fear. Fear of taking risks, fear of criticism by other, less-informed opinions, fear of their own lack of skill. Fear sets you boundaries. But a boundary is also a challenge. Medical advances necessarily involve risk and pushing back the boundaries. A groundbreaking surgeon sees risk as a challenge, to be mastered and managed, not as something that controls him and holds him back. Surgeons need to be confident, they need to confront and overcome their fears."

If he thought about me, he'd realise that Devine Cattrell is probably not the person to understand all that. But I guess it doesn't occur to him to consider what Devine might or might not understand. She's just another famous person standing in front of him with her boobs out. He's speaking for his own benefit. So I ask him.

"What _are_ you afraid of, then?"

He smiles that wolfy smile again. "Nothing." His teeth gleam. "Absolutely nothing."

I pretend to look impressed, smile goofily at him, invite him to go on.

"Being true to yourself as a surgeon is all about going beyond the boundaries that hold others back, Mrs Cattrell. There, put your clothes back on."

"Do you ever treat people who are, like, injured? Near death, saving lives and all that? That must be a real big challenge, if you do that."

"No. All the clinic's patients are by appointment, and cosmetic."

But for a moment, unlike before, all his teeth don't show when he smiles. And I know: liar, liar, Mister Doctor Franklin.

It's an hour later. I'm walking out of the doors into the dazzle of sunshine when I hear a call from the foyer behind me. "Mrs Cattrell! I think you forgot something."

I turn round, and it's James Goldbeck.

He walks over and stands close to me, a step closer to me than people would normally stand. He speaks: an undertone.

"You look nothing like your photos in _Hot_. I'd never have recognised you, you know."

I'm still trying to act. "Do I look worse? Or better?"

"Oh, better, much better. Totally different, in fact. Because you're not Devine Cattrell, are you?"

He takes my hand, and I get a little surprise: I feel the nib of a pen on the back of my hand. He's writing a number. As he does it, like adjusting the volume control, his voice gets louder, back to normal. "Thank so much for your visit. We hope you'll consider what we can offer. It really is the best, you know."

And I walk out. The drive back is uneventful: no need for the satnav, I've got the route in my head now. Drop off the Ferrari at the hire place in Southgate, then take the tube for one stop to Arnos Grove for an early evening booking. It's a regular who usually incalls me, but he's getting married soon and his girlfriend is away on her hen night in Dublin so he's got the flat to himself. He proudly shows me round the flat, all the bits of DIY he's done. But he doesn't notice that I'm better dressed than usual. Then I'm hungry, I grab a bite to eat at a café, and it's gone nine by the time I get back to the flat. I'm tired as I walk up the stairs, get my key out.

My front door won't open.

There's something heavy piled up behind the door. I push harder, and it moves an inch. I look through the crack: what can I see? There's things scattered on the floor. I'm not very tidy in the flat, although Jazz is: I drop things, she picks them up. But this looks like papers, magazines, all over the carpet. I give the door another shove with my shoulder. Suddenly it's as if something breaks, something gives: the door heaves open, several inches wide, I can squeeze in, boobs grazing the doorframe. Fucking hell, what a mess! The shelves that we have in the hallway have been pulled over, they'd fallen against to door, that's why it was blocked. The DVDs and papers that were on those shelves are all over the carpet. I'm feeling confused, and the beginnings of anger. I pick my way through the chaos into our living room, it's beyond belief, every drawer and cupboard emptied, contents flung across the floor. My bedroom is the same. Clothes, makeup, jewellery, all my personal stuff is chucked across the floor, my pictures are ripped down from the walls, the mattress of my bed has been heaved off and pushed half-way onto the floor, pillows are torn. Fuck, fuck, they've even ripped open my toy tiger, the stuffing is everywhere, fluff still floating peacefully in the air.

I can't breathe: I have to get out of the flat. Squeeze back through the door, down the stairs, out onto the pavement: my hand goes to my iphone.

"Jazz? We've been burgled. The place is trashed, completely trashed."

"What?"

"It's horrible."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

I click the phone off, stand on the pavement like I'm lost. I've got to go back into the flat. I need to sit, I need a cup of tea, and maybe they've not touched the kitchen. I go back in. How wrong could I be. The mess in here is possibly worse, every plate and cup lies smashed on the floor, food taken from all the cupboards and the fridge, even the cereal boxes are emptied on the floor: my feet crunch on Special K and corn flakes. The only things not opened are the tins of food. I check Jazz's room. Her clothes – all of them designer stuff, so much classier than mine – are thrown about. All the rest of her things are strewn everywhere too, it looks mad, because the floor's scattered with glossy pictures, unreal bright colours of blue sky, warm blue water, beaches, palm trees, holiday brochures I guess. Her dreams. One of them shows a white-walled mansion, overlooking the sea, its own swimming pool. As if the burglar has put it there deliberately to show me: Holly, your life is shit. I go back into the kitchen, hold onto the work surface, look out of the window: it's getting dark, the end of another day. I imagine earlier today, some bastard wrecking our flat while everywhere around it was calm, people pottering in their gardens, Barbara Boobs having yet another day relaxing in the sun, as happy as if she owned a mansion in the Bahamas. Everyone else lives in a different world from me. A world where people can be happy.

Half an hour later. A taxi stops outside: Jazz appears. In the twilight her face is a pale mask. We go upstairs and she pushes against the door. "Jazz, you have to shimmy through. Sorry, I could have moved the shelves when I was the other side, but I've done nothing. Touched nothing."

She squeezes in, and gazes around our lounge.

"Where's our ipads?"

"I didn't see either of them."

Suddenly something clicks in me. I re-hear the words I spoke to Jazz: _we've been burgled_. I was so upset by the mess: God, why didn't I think of what they might have taken? I go into my bedroom, lie on the floor, reach under the bed frame, fingers feeling for the envelope that I'd sellotaped to the wooden slats on the underside of the bed. And it's what I knew I would feel: nothing. My £5000 for Krasniqi has gone.

"They've stolen all my money, Jazz."

There's no reply. I guess she's gone into her bedroom and is surveying the wreckage. I go back into the lounge and wait. I stare blankly at the walls. Even our photo prints have been taken out of their frames: pictures are strewn in a chaos of broken glass.

Fifteen minutes go by. I get up. Jazz is standing in the middle of her room, looking blankly at her mobile. As I look at her, she closes her eyes, puts her hands up to her head.

I speak. "Jazz, I'll call the police."

No reply again. I go into her room, put my arm around her. She's frozen like a statue. I've never seen her like this: Jazz is the strong one, the one who keeps her cool, her focus, when there's a problem. But she's completely stunned. Her voice comes slowly, with effort.

"Holly – you must know – or guess – who did this."

"Well..." I must admit, I'm stumped. For a minute, two minutes, nothing comes into my mind, or out of my mouth. Then I say "Krasniqi was after money. I'd got the cash together, I was due to pay him, but... and he knows where we live, now. I think that sod Rainbow told him our address."

"That must be fucking illegal. Why would the police tell him that?"

"I don't know. I don't understand anything anymore. Especially, I don't understand the way the police are behaving. But I'm wondering if – Krasniqi, maybe he got greedy. Or he was being leaned on, needed the money urgently. He knows that I would be gathering the cash here."

"You think he did this?"

"I've got literally no idea who did it. Or why."

She speaks again, more composed now.

"Krasniqi's place is burned down. Now this."

"Maybe they were looking for something?"

"Look at how they operate. We don't know why they torched his place: we do know that they did it when he was out of the house. Same here."

"So? ... if you're going to burgle someone's house, you would do it when you know they're out. Which they did. And they've taken my money, and the ipads."

"They may have taken some things. But the aim of this – I don't believe it's a simple burglary."

"What is it then?"

"It's a warning."

Jazz is right, I think, as I look around her room. A burglary would be bad, but this is worse: more scary. If an intruder was only searching for money, he'd maybe look thoroughly – but this is vicious. Pillows are ripped open, Jazz's tallboy is tipped over, every piece of furniture is up-ended. The photos of her Mum and Dad have been taken out of their frames and chucked on the floor. I go into the kitchen, and I'm still taking it in, how everything is a total shambles: every tin and packet is out of the floor, plates and cups shovelled out of the cupboards, thrown on the floor, smashed. I hadn't noticed before that my favourite mug lies in pieces on the floor, and somehow, it's seeing that one detail that finally starts off the tears.

We're both in shock: time drifts. It's nearly midnight. We've put the living room sofa back upright and we're sitting on it, drinking tea from two of the three unbroken mugs. I can hardly look around me.

"So you think this level of damage..."

"Is a threat. Yes, Hol. They burned Krasniqi's place. They've done this to us."

"But if it's a threat, what do they want us to do? I was going to pay him the £5k. I was thinking that with me working at the Soames, I could maybe meet his demands. I could earn enough to bribe him now, and for as long as is needed. But the Soames has sacked me now."

"Why?"

"I have no idea."

Jazz is turning things over in her mind. But sadly, not getting anywhere. Ten more minutes pass silently, and she can't think of what to say, of anything that would take us forward from here.

"Shall I call the police, Jazz?"

"I'll call them. You look – awful."

"It's silly things, like my mug and Tiger. And, your books that you love, they're all trodden on and crumpled. Why did they have to? ..."

"It's to scare you, I'm sure. I'll make the call."

**14 Thursday 27 July**

The morning comes at last, and so do the cops. As I expected, it's officers I'd never seen before, who aren't even aware of the murder investigation. They make some notes, take some photos, tell us we can now start clearing it up if we want to, and then they go. The visit seems like a token thing, like it's over before it's even begun. Suddenly there's just Jazz and me alone again, standing there in a trashed flat.

Worst of all, I've got a call to make.

"Mr Krasniqi. It's Holly Harlow."

"Holly, I said would call you, today. Why do you call me? Let me guess, you're going to tell me that you haven't got my money yet."

"That's right. I was – I was getting it together. And I actually had £5000 in cash. Honest I did. But now – my flat's been burgled. All the cash is gone."

I listen to the silence, the tiny noises of his breathing. I'm listening for any clue that shows that he knows about the burglary, that he was involved in it. But I'm getting nothing. Except – the slightest of tremors as he begins to speak.

"So, you've failed. And I will go to the police. Mr Rainbow, I don't think there is any secret to that name now. He listens to me. Me and him, we get on very well."

"OK. I can't stop you. I've got nothing to pay you with, whatever you threaten me with."

"You have one more week. £5000 as before, you understand? I will phone you on Friday 4th August, and you will pay me, Saturday 5th. Without fail."

Does he sound disappointed? No, I know what that tremor in his voice means. He's now got to tell others, whoever they are, about this. That there's a delay on this money. He knows they won't like it. They're more powerful than he is. Mr Krasniqi, I can tell, you're a little bit scared yourself right now.

The doorbell rings. Hell, does Jazz have a punter coming round, someone we've totally forgotten about in the midst of all this? I glance at her. She's sitting on the sofa, still seems stunned by what's happened: she makes no move. I press the button to let our caller in from the street. I go to the door.

It's the last person I expect to see. Mrs Geeta Pawan.

"I heard what happened."

Wow, police communication across departments. "Thanks for calling round. What do you want to know?"

"Nothing, in particular. I thought I'd help you clear up. Not totally altruistic, because I might learn something from you. But..."

"Thank you."

"I suggest, we start on the kitchen first, and if we all three of us – she glances a welcome at Jazz – tackle that, then once it's a bit sorted out, you might both feel a bit better, and then we can have a cup of tea. And then you and I can chat, Holly."

It's two hours later. Kitchen is nearly sorted, there are several bin-liners full of broken crockery and spoiled food. The three surviving mugs are full of tea, on the kitchen table. Pawan smiles, and we try to too.

"Miss Cairns. Not had a chance to properly introduce myself yet, but I'm aware of your work at the Sexwork Helpline. Good work that you do there. I hear you're the driving force behind the place."

"I guess – I'm trying to put something back. To help girls who are where I was, eight years ago. Because sex workers – it needn't be a world of pimps, drugs, extortion, STDs. Like it or not, the sex industry will always exist, and it can involve women – or men – who work independently, selling the services that they choose, without fear. Holly and I are proof of that."

Pawan looks at me. "You don't get involved in the Helpline, Holly?"

"No – well, I've been round there, done the odd practical job for them. I helped them move office, I was on lifting, carrying, and driving the van. But the whole caring, listening thing... I guess I'm not able to advise anyone. I still feel I'm making my own way in life. Looking out for Number One, I suppose. I don't feel ready..."

She nods understanding. I go on.

"Like I'm still one of the kids, not one of the grown-ups."

"And me? When you're talking to a policewoman like me – do you feel like one of the kids then?"

"Generally, yes. But to be honest, you don't seem..."

"I know that the police don't normally help with the housework."

"Can I ask you something? You've come here, and it's really appreciated. But Rainbow – he told me – you're off the case."

"Off it, and still on it. Yes, Mr Rainbow is leading on the murder of Jonathan Wycherley. But – I may as well tell you. We believe there's a bigger picture."

"Does that mean I'm not your main suspect, any more?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that. What I can tell you is – if you did do it, Miss Harlow, you weren't acting alone. I can't tell you more, but if there is anything you'd like to tell me? ..."

"This woman is innocent. You've got to see that." Jazz makes her speech to Pawan, then she stands up, goes into the lounge, closing the kitchen door behind her to give us some privacy.

"Mrs Pawan, do you know anything about a place in Kingston called the Soames Hotel? Or a clinic a few miles outside Tring, called Home Croft?"

She looks at me, and her gaze gives absolutely nothing away. Her eyes simply invite me to carry on talking.

I'm about to speak when her phone rings; she answers it. I can tell, it's Rainbow. "I'm here with her now" she says. I can hear the buzz of him talking, telling her something important. Urgent.

"I'm sorry, Miss Harlow. I'll have to go. We need to continue this conversation, though."

"Of course. I'll call you tonight?"

"Good. Thank you. I'll see myself out."

I've not drunk my tea: it's cold. Jazz is staring blankly out of the window, twisting her fingers together. I make her a coffee, and try to take her mind off the burglary by telling her a bit more about Pawan and Rainbow. We're both aware there's still tons to do to clear up the flat. A good thing neither of us has got any punters today.

"You OK, Jazz?"

"Something like this – it sets you back. You realise you're at the bottom of the heap. God there are some lucky fuckers out there. Money. It insulates you... from crap like this."

"The flat's insured, Jazz. And money... look at the bigger picture. You're so careful, your investments are doing well..."

"Well you have to, don't you. One day I'll no longer have my looks, and there'll be no punters, except the cheapskates who expect an older woman for a bargain basement price. Life's a time-bomb, Hol." She makes an effort and the bleak look vanishes from her face. "But anyway – right now, we've got to solve this. This mess that seems to have entangled you. We'll work on it together, right? I'll do anything to help you, Hol, anything. Someone's got it in for you, and the cops are worse than useless."

"You've done a lot already. Krasniqi's house burning down, you found out about that. You've covered bookings for me so that I could spend time at the Soames. And I know you'll ask Jean at the Helpline about Lucy, when you get a chance."

"But also, we can work through the problem together. Tackle it logically, do the thinking that the police aren't doing. First of all, who do you suspect most?"

Jazz's usual energy and fire is back.

"I really haven't a clue at the moment. There's one thing I know: Wycherley was looking for this girl Lucy, who worked at the Soames. And there's two things I think are probably true. First, I suspect that Wycherley visited the Soames, perhaps not long before he met me. But by the time he visited the place – if he did – Lucy was gone from there. Second, if Wycherley used Krasniqi to arrange room 412, then Krasniqi's connection was with Wycherley only. He has no connection with the Soames."

"So, why is that important?"

"Well, if Wycherley's murder was something to do with Lucy – which is my gut feeling – then I can't see how Krasniqi can possibly be in on the murder. He's nothing more than an opportunist, preying on me." But as I speak, I remember Cheriton's face. The way he reacted to seeing the Contacts on my phone. Is it possible, then, that Krasniqi is known to Cheriton? My mind's a jumble.

"Jazz, when I was first trying to find out about Wycherley, it seemed like looking for a needle in a haystack. Now, I feel like I'm inside the haystack."

"One step at a time, logically. Let's do process of elimination."

"Like real detectives. Sherlock Jazz again." I grin at her.

"Whoever killed Wycherley, they knew where he was that night. Who could have known that, Hol?"

"People who knew he was in Room 412: that's easy peasy to answer. It was known to Wycherley himself, me, Krasniqi." I slap my hand on my knee with the stupid simplicity of it. I say it again like a nursery rhyme. "People who knew he was in that room, Krasniqi, Wycherley and me." Think, Holly, think. Jazz looks at me, her eyes bright.

"Hol – there might be a fourth person. If Wycherley been to the Soames before his booking with you – could someone at the Soames have known where he was going?"

"Or..." Another thought has just occurred to me. I remember under Waterloo Bridge. The thought's occurring to Jazz, too.

"Or... someone at the Soames didn't know he meeting you at the Excel Hotel that evening – but, they _followed_ him, Hol?"

"I felt I was being followed. The other day, on the Embankment..."

"Did you see them?"

"No. Like it was – a ghost, somehow. I was with Rainbow. I knew that a third person was there – I knew it as a fact, every bit as much as I know you're here now. But I didn't see anyone."

"And Rainbow didn't see anything either?"

"Not at all. He wasn't aware of another person at all. When I told him, he suggested I see a doctor about stress."

"Hol, these cops – I mean, our lady detective inspector is pretty fab when it comes to domestic cleaning, but maybe less good when it comes to catching crooks. I'd give her 10 out of 10 for niceness and 0 out of 10 for doing her job. And that Rainbow guy sounds..."

"Prejudiced?"

"Worse than that."

I'm about to ask her what she means, but my phone rings, I answer it. "Chris Rainbow. I've heard about your flat."

"It's a complete mess. DI Pawan has just been here with us. And this puts a whole new light on things, doesn't it? You see, I know all about your witness, your Mr Krasniqi. His house was burned down, wasn't it? Whoever did over his place, did mine."

"He thinks _you_ burned his house."

"But he's got strong motives for saying that. He knows who burnt his house, he's scared of them, he doesn't want to name them to the police. And, he wants me to go down for the Wycherley murder, and the arson."

"Why? Why would he be so keen for you to be convicted, if it's not true? That's what I don't understand, Miss Harlow."

"There's two reasons. It distracts from him being involved. Can't you see, he knew which hotel room Wycherley was in, he arranged that whole thing?"

"This is the line you've been feeding to DI Pawan. She told me about it."

"Well have you considered, it might be true?"

"You said two reasons."

"OK. Krasniqi – suppose he wanted money. To get money off me. He could threaten me, with what he might put in his witness statement."

"That's nonsense, Miss Harlow. The man's been made homeless, he's a witness in a murder case, and you're telling me he spends his time trying to extort money from you?"

This conversation is going nowhere. Which is maybe for the best. I don't want the cops knowing about the blackmail, watching my every move, fucking up the handover of the cash to Krasniqi. He'd sniff that they were involved and not turn up – then, they'd then be more convinced than ever that I'm lying. I find myself saying

"OK, don't believe me. But can you do one thing? Check him out. I guess he has a criminal record, maybe not in this country, but there will be something, somewhere. I'd bet my life on it."

"We're investigating in the way we think best, Miss Harlow. But yes – we'll do background checks on him. We would in any case. But that's not why I've called."

"Sorry. I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job."

He ignores my attempt at an apology. "I'm calling because I've just spoken to DI Pawan. You said you'd phone her, later. Don't. As I explained to you, _I'm_ leading this case. I thought you understood that. Anything you need to tell us, you can tell me."

I'm quiet. I've not told Rainbow about the Soames, Home Croft, anything. He doesn't like me and doesn't trust me. I realise how mad and desperate it's all going to sound if I start telling him about everything. I can't think of what to say. He's still talking.

"The main thing is, Miss Harlow – don't call DI Pawan. She's busy with other aspects of the case. Call me, if you need to talk."

OK, OK, I get the point. But I keep polite. "Of course. You're in charge, and if I have anything to say, I'll tell you."

"And do you? Have anything more to tell me?"

"No."

**15 Tuesday 1 August**

If you're logged onto GirlsDirect, then your profile gets pushed up the front-page listing that the punters see. It can increase bookings, especially last-minute bookings: a guy feels horny, he logs onto GirlsDirect wanting sex that same night, but rather than search for the best ratings, he just goes for the first profile he sees on the front page. After Pawan left, Jazz and I logged on from our phones, and stayed logged on, 24/7. I also phoned some of my regulars. "Hi babe, special offer this week..." Meanwhile, we're clearing the flat, buying new bits and bobs, cleaning, getting it nice and ready for some serious work. Jazz is happy to lend me her week's earnings, too.

By Sunday we've earned nearly £2,000. I've got less bookings for the week ahead than expected, but Jazz has more, so by the time I meet Krasniqi it will be nearly £4,000: not enough to satisfy him, but enough to show that I do mean to pay him. I rehearse the words in my mind "I already had £5000 gathered, but the burglars took it all. But look, I've done my best since then to raise the money for you."

It's the early hours of Tuesday morning: suddenly, I'm wide awake. There's light, and I see Jazz standing over me.

"Hol. You were screaming in your sleep."

It's half an hour later. We're sitting on the sofa. Despite yet another sweltering night, we're drinking cocoa. A comforting taste.

"It's my nightmare. Not the one about the murder and the blood. No, it's a recurring one, I've had it every now and then all my life. It's an overwhelming feeling, I'm running down dark corridors and a sense that something dreadful, something I can't escape, is happening. I come to the end of a corridor and it's blocked, and I know that this is the end of my life, that whatever I've been escaping all my life long has caught up with me and I have nowhere left to run. And then I wake up, which is a relief. But the feeling hasn't completely gone away, and I still feel – not scared, exactly, but a sense of dread, like something really bad is going to happen. And now – "

She looks at me, inviting me to go on.

"The bad things – they have started happening. They're happening all around me, around us."

She strokes my hair, my cheek, and I hold her close for a moment, before we sit back again. Mustn't spill the cocoa. I've no family: she misses her Mum and Dad, she can't tell them about her life here, and I guess we're all animals: to feel physically close to another person is such a basic need. I picture us both as old women, still friends, living in some country place like that village with the duckpond, and everyone saying we're dykes, like we're the focus of all the village gossip, but everyone likes us. All the old guys, the sort who sit on a bench on the village green, can pop in for a coffee in our farmhouse kitchen, and we have a chat sitting round the Aga. This, I know, is a mad fantasy.

But it's strange. As we sit side by side, I feel protective. Like she's the vulnerable one. Neither of us speaks or needs to speak, but it's almost like our pulses are in synch. We sit there, both looking forward, time seems to stand still, and I know she can feel it too.

Another day, another little journey. I'm trembling to think of what I may find. No Ferrari this time, just Anglia Rail. I'm headed for the London that no-one wants to think about. Even the station names along my journey are notorious. Bruce Grove: over the last few years, thirteen murders within five minutes' walk of the station. White Hart Lane, just round the block from the site of Britain's worst riots this century. Silver Street, where one guy was murdered over a £10 debt, and another was stabbed to death in the station doorway because he told off some boys who were throwing conkers. Edmonton Green, where a train was stopped by a pitched battle on the platform, knives and baseball bats. And that's where I'm getting off the train. It's weird, this railway line is like a dark vein, tracing its way up through Tottenham and Edmonton, the grimmest reputation in London, but when I get out onto the streets, it's nothing like Brixton's Barrier, the houses are almost suburban. Only yards from the station, I'm walking in the sunshine along a sleepy street, normal, Anytown. There's even a couple of old people out in their front gardens, enjoying the sun, pottering about, someone mowing the lawn. A cluster of bright colour looms ahead. Then I see, it's flowers. Tied to a lamp-post, photo of a young guy. Baseball hat, gleaming smile, eighteen maybe.

The last house in the street is different. The garden's a mess of weeds, and there's spray-painted words all over the walls and around the front door, I can see it's been washed away, rewritten, washed away again. I knock, wait. The door opens.

It's weird to see the face of James Goldbeck surrounded by graffiti. Before I even step over the threshold, I have to ask. "What's all this?"

"The writing? Every few days, it reappears. I'm past caring, it doesn't bother me, but I don't want – a certain person – to read what the words say. So I keep scrubbing it."

"Who?"

"I'll get you a coffee – or a tea? and I'll explain." We go along the hallway, past an open door into a sunlit front room, and another into a bedroom, to a tidy, bright kitchen. I can see out onto his back lawn, flowers and mown grass, looks rather nice. Once you're past that front door, it's a different house.

"Thanks for calling me. I'm glad you're interested in talking to me. Because I guessed you must be trying to find out something about Home Croft. Unless you always go round impersonating Devine Cattrell?" That smile of his must be popular with many of Home Croft's female patients.

"You tell me first, how did you rumble me?"

"Rather obvious, if you don't mind me saying. Out in the gleaming world of Home Croft I may act all Home Counties, but my roots are here. I grew up in this house. Edmonton Green – before the gangs – is my home, my roots. A North London boy, from a good Jewish family. James Goldbeck is Spurs to the core. And you can't support Tottenham without hating Tony Cattrell. Scored five times against us last season. And you can't hate Tony Cattrell without noticing, on the front cover of _Hot_ , what a gorgeous woman he's netted."

We go back along the hall into his front room. "So it was a crap disguise, then?"

"It was, to be honest. Don't try it again. You only got away with it because not one of them at that place actually knows their patients as people. They don't know anything about normal human life, they just do what they do, like machines. Sometimes I watch it all going on around me and I think: am I the only flesh and blood here? Are all the others androids, no feelings, no awareness, just doing their very clever stuff?"

"Tony Cattrell shagged me. I got paid for it, though."

Those deep brown eyes are saucers. But I've realised something: the feeling I had at Home Croft, his odd familiarity. It's his voice. I've realised it now he's told me he's North London. The same trick as Jazz's, although she's originally Watford. It's the accent – the disguising your voice as something educated and posh. It's a kind of lie about your origins, I guess, but it's a necessity, if your job involves calling yourself London_Courtesan. Or, if you work at Home Croft. So I understand why he does it. Now that he's away from work, his fake posh voice is – like a thinner layer, like you can see what's below, showing through. Yup, James, you're a member of my club, those of us who fake it for a living. I feel comfortable, open with him: I tell him that I work as an escort, then about Wycherley, about the Soames, and about why I came to Home Croft. He's a good listener. We're on to our second coffee, and at last my story's told, and I ask him. "So what does the Home Croft clinic do? You obviously want to tell me. You don't write your phone number on every patient's hand."

Is that a smile playing across his lips? "Well Holly, I may as well start off by saying, there are definitely things that you need to look into – but, what I can tell you is limited. I don't know most of what goes on. They take patient confidentiality very seriously, it's like they think they're MI5. James Goldbeck's humble part is to be window dressing. I make the patients feel welcome. There are a lot of – how can I put it..."

"Women of a certain age?"

"Well – me sitting there like a stuffed dummy makes our clientele feel they are at somewhere – exclusive. I look, apparently, like someone you would only see in places where ordinary people aren't welcome. Which they are not, at Home Croft. I work there, you see, but I hate the ethos. Most of all, I suspect there's a lot I don't know, and I want those things found out, exposed, stopped."

"A bit like I felt about working at the Soames Hotel."

"By the way Holly, I meant to say when you were telling me. The Soames – we sort out stuff from that awful place."

"What stuff?"

"Well, for starters, we do high-class plastic surgery for the escorts – as well as for their clients of course. But in the case of the escorts, it's made-to-order."

"Meaning? ..."

"Scenario. Global music star, a regular at the Soames for years, suddenly he likes an escort there. Likes as in wants to be seen with her, in public. There have even been marriages, you know. And I'm not talking drug-wasted aging rockers. I'm talking about the sort of people who look fantastic for their age, and appear on your TV telling you to save the rainforest. Anyway, let's say the escort has small boobs: musician likes big boobs. We deliver the solution. That kind of thing: a lot of it. Actually, I lie. Mostly we make boobs smaller, not bigger."

"Shit."

"Well, the girl does consent, of course. She gets new boobs that maybe she didn't want, but she also gets the crumbs that fall from the star's table for a few months. Financial crumbs that might set her up for life. I know one that we changed until she looked positively prepubescent, she's now a very happy suburban housewife – housewaif I should say – with two little kids. Respectable as anything. Husband's an accountant in the City: doesn't know a thing about what happened to her, her former life. Never will."

"And the Soames is always involved?"

"Well you see, Home Croft itself don't advertise. We don't even have a website. We don't want publicity, because then you'd get lots of middle-class wannabes banging on the door – however exclusive our pricing is, there are always people willing to mortgage themselves in order to buy something that makes them feel like they're a celebrity. And if our real clientele became aware that any Tom, Dick or Sally can walk into Home Croft, put down a wad of money and buy a new face, then they'll find another Home Croft for themselves in the States or Switzerland. So, we get our work almost exclusively through the Soames, or by personal recommendation from Soames members to their peers, one celebrity to another. OK, some people might think the setup's too hand-in-glove, but in the end, there's a demand for what we do: if we didn't meet it, someone else would. But what bothers me is this. Our close relationship with the Soames includes not only doing plastic surgery, but every now and then we have to sort out – in secret, of course – the results of what happens when the sex, drugs and egos all boil over and someone, usually a young girl, gets hurt. You see, the operating theatre is equipped for major operations. Home Croft was originally set up as a full-scale private hospital, but now we just concentrate on the plastics... and, every few months, what drifts in from the Soames. But the latter – it's all unofficial business, I don't think our management knows the seriousness of it. I think they're not aware of what goes on. Not long after I first started work there, I saw it with my own eyes. A girl from the Soames, brought in screaming, several broken bones I'd guess."

I'm silent.

"There was a stretcher, and blood, and a serious air of panic, and that chubby guy, the one with the hair..."

"Cheriton."

"Yes, him – fussing about, terrified she would die and then there'd have to be a real cover-up. Of course, she was nowhere near dying, but her pain was horrible to see. There was a sulky-looking blonde with him, too, also from that place. I thought to myself at the time: that girl really, really hates Cheriton. And he's not got her under control. I overheard that blonde, her saying to Franklin that a footballer did that to that girl. She named a guy who's had a seven-figure transfer fee. When she spilled the beans about that to Franklin, Cheriton looked at her like he could kill her."

"Was it Cattrell she named?"

"I can't tell you who she named."

"In which case, I guess it must have been a Spurs player?" He smiles at my little joke, but he's thinking.

"There's a woman, a patient of ours. She told me that she'd found out a few things about Home Croft which were less than perfectly Hippocratic. Stuff I know nothing about, medical things. She threatened to tell people. But unlike me – or you, come to that – she's high-profile enough that they couldn't shut her up. She's not a household name, but she's unbelievably rich, and she has serious connections. So the Home Croft management talked to her, they agreed an uneasy truce. They got away with it, I guess, because she felt she didn't have enough evidence to go to the police. But... if you were to dig around, find out about the nasty cases – maybe it would give the Home Croft management enough of a scare – not to close the place and lose me my cushy job, but – for them to stop the nasty stuff. They're rolling in money – they don't need to do it, except maybe to please certain very demanding clients, and to keep the Soames sweet with them."

"So most of your suspicions – they're not things you've seen yourself, they come from talking to this woman? If so, could you let me have her phone number? ..."

"Sorry, I've not got her contact details. In all honesty, I can't even name her to you. After all, whatever Home Croft is up to, _she_ expects patient confidentiality, from the receptionist as well as from the other staff. I do treat my own professionalism – seriously, you know."

I hear a noise, upstairs. Then footsteps coming downstairs. James gets up, goes into the hall, closing the door behind him. I hear his voice, speaking to someone. He sounds like a teacher talking to a pupil. After five minutes, he comes back in.

"I've got someone that would like to meet you."

"Eh?"

"Well, actually, he wants to make a coffee for you. He's in the kitchen, now."

"I've had two coffees already, thanks."

"He – _wants_ to make it for you."

A figure looms in the doorway, awkward, hesitating. I look up, see a young man, his eyes to the floor, standing nervously there, holding a mug like it was a precious jewel.

"You are Holly? Hello. I'm Marcus."

James smiles at me. "May I introduce my brother?"

Marcus's face is elegant, like James's, but more so, somehow. Like an elf out of _Lord of the Rings_. He trembles, but only a little: doesn't lift his eyes, but I see the hint of a smile. He carries on looking at his feet, and says, like he's rehearsed it "Welcome to 98 Askew Road. I've brought you a coffee. James said you like it like this: One spoonful of Nescafe. 75% hot water, 25% milk. The milk is semi-skimmed. No sugar."

"Sounds perfect." I take the mug from him. "Thank you. Delicious."

"This is a proud moment, Holly. Marcus, do you want to tell her?"

"Holly. You are the first guest I have made coffee for. In my life. Nice to meet you, Holly. I am going for my nap now."

I want to say more to him, but he's gone. Like a fairy tale, he's vanished back into Elfland. I feel like I've dreamt the last few seconds, and I'm awake again now. Did that really happen?

James says "The graffiti. And occasionally, dog turds through the letterbox. It's him, you see. Some people... so, thank you. It's called Fragile X. It's genetic. It includes some autistic symptoms. For him, in particular, it's fear of social interaction. Meeting new people terrifies him. As you can imagine, going out – in this neighbourhood – is just about impossible unless I'm with him."

I motion him with my eyes to carry on speaking.

"Which is why... he's only ever made coffee and tea before for himself, and me. To make a cup of coffee for a total stranger, and hand it to her... A true milestone. Hardly anyone ever visits this house, you see. So I decided that you could be that total stranger. I hope you don't mind."

The question hangs in the air. I may as well say it. "Your parents?"

"Car crash, four years ago. We were hardly rich, but they decided to go private with care for Marcus. He lived in a specialised care home. When they died, I found that they had massive debts. And, the home was not the best place for him. I brought him back here, I've converted this house into two flats, so he has his own kitchen and bathroom, upstairs. He believes upstairs is his own, real flat. But in truth, I'm desperate to sell this place, move out of this neighbourhood. Round here, it's become – evil. I want to buy two flats, next door to each other, in a half-decent area – subject to London property prices, of course. Then he could have a better measure of independence. Be able to walk down the street. The closest we get to community spirit round here visited me last night, in fact. There was a knock on the door, a gang of youths, hard as nails, standing outside. They told me that they knew who was 'disrespecting' Marcus, and they offered to 'sort them out' for me. I gave them money – you have to, you know – and politely said no thanks, please don't. The last thing I want is for me and Marcus to end up as pawns in some gang turf war.

So, you see why I work at Home Croft. The hours are short, and the pay, for what I have to do, is fabulous. It allows me to spend time with Marcus, and fund some care for him – bits and pieces of targeted therapy. No job that allows me to spend a decent amount of time and energy on Marcus is going to pay better than Home Croft."

"And then, there's the perks."

"Perks?"

"When I asked you about writing on other patients' hands, had you ever done it before. I'm guessing the answer to that is – Yes?"

Have I offended him? Maybe. But there's something I've got to know. So I ask a question which I already know the answer to. "You said hardly anyone ever comes to this house. Have you got a regular girlfriend, James?"

"No, I haven't. Marcus takes my time, my commitment."

"You can tell me, James. I won't be shocked."

"OK, OK, I may as well say it. I guess Home Croft does keep my sex life alive. Even a couple of minor celebrities... and, none of the women have taken it to mean more than a roll in the hay. I don't tell them about Marcus, I don't want pity."

"It's fine, James. I'm hardly in a position to judge you."

"I guess so... in a way, you and I are alike. I get a lot of gifts. Seriously expensive gifts, good resale value. I kind of donate to my Marcus fund, if you see what I mean. I've made over £50K from..."

"Sugar-mummies?"

"Uh – yes, I guess you could call them that. £50K over the last two years, over and above what I already save from my salary. One day we'll be able to afford those two flats."

My phone rings.

"Sorry, sorry. I thought I'd switched it off. But I'd better answer it." Unknown number.

"Is that Holly?"

"Hi, yes."

"It's Jurgita here. I'm sorry I ran away."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I went back to Brixton, back to Jonas. It was the right decision. He was not angry with me. He sees – that we can't go on, that way. He says things will change."

Yes, Jurgita, and a squadron of pigs in Red Arrows formation has just flown past the window. "Well – I'm always there, if you need me. And Jasmine sends her best wishes too. Don't tell Jonas, but she might pop in to see you one day. Just a social call."

"Thanks. Jasmine was so helpful, she spoke to me, she listened to everything, she asked me all about everything, my situation, even my life back in Lithuania. She was so patient, willing to hear everything. After leaving you – I phoned that Sexwork Helpline, you know, without Jonas knowing. They are advising me about lots of things, but it is difficult with Jonas. But anyway, I didn't call you about that, except to say – Thank You. No, I call you because I worry about you. Working at that place where you do. Where Klaudija worked. I know nothing more about it, but Tasha does: you should talk to her."

"I'd very much like to."

"Yes, I thought you would. So I also phoned to say: I have Tasha's number for you."

"Thanks. Thanks very much indeed." She gives me the number. "Holly, I have to go now. Jonas has come in. But I will call you again, I promise. You are good friend."

Once I've rung off, I say "Thanks, James. Your information has been – a lifeline for me. And thank you for letting me meet Marcus. But one more question, and I'm sorry, it's a bit personal. Your sugar mummies. You said, none of them have expected it to be more than a fling. Of course, you don't really know what any of those women hoped for. But I know that there was at least one who expected more."

I've touched a nerve. "How do you know that?"

"I'm right, aren't I, James? There was at least one who believed that you and she had something more lasting? And, she's the woman you mentioned earlier, isn't she?"

He plays dumb, but I press him. "You said, there was a woman. A patient, who found out things, who threatened to expose Home Croft. She must have been through a lot, I think. A woman wouldn't share stuff like that with a man unless she trusted him. This woman told you her story when you and she were rolling in that hay of yours, didn't she?"

He looks embarrassed, ashamed. "Alright, yes."

"Can I have her name and phone number?"

"Please, Holly."

"James, this is not some game. I've had a piece of luck, meeting you. But the information you've given me – the trail ends. I have nothing more to go on, unless you give me this woman's number."

"This wasn't what I reckoned on. That information is private, and it's embarrassing, you raking it up. I invited you here..."

"Look at me. Look into my face. This face, me, is going to end up in prison. This life, this person, is going to go to waste, rotting in jail. Unless you tell me this woman's number. Can you live with that on your conscience?"

We argue, keeping our voices down: neither of us wants to disturb Marcus. Eventually I say "James, you're a decent man. I admire what you're doing, for your brother. But can you really respect yourself, if you let things at Home Croft happen under your nose, and never lift a finger? When you saw me walk in, impersonating Devine Cattrell, you thought, aha, here's someone that wants to dig the dirt on this place. I'll give her my phone number, tell her my suspicions, then off she'll go, do all the investigating, I can keep out of it. You may want Home Croft cleaned up, and you care deeply for Marcus – but you insulate yourself from life, from responsibility. You don't want to get involved, to take a risk, to be a bit brave."

He's the one looking at his feet now. But I need to know this information, I keep on at him.

"Imagine it was Marcus, brought into Home Croft on that trolley. Marcus is vulnerable. So are the girls who get used by the clients of the Soames and Home Croft. No-one's protecting _them_. A little – consistency, that's all I'm asking of you."

It's early evening as I board the train. For the first time this year, I notice that it's a little darker, the long summer evenings are drawing to a close. For some reason, as the train pulls away from Edmonton, I don't think of James, or Marcus, or of my problems. Instead, I think of that boy's photo on the lamp-post. His eyes, his smile. And I drift back, I see Derry's oh-so-young face, his confidence, his brash innocence.

It was a warm year, like I said, my Summer of Love. Then it got colder, but the business with Derry's clients, as he poncily called them, was still good. Long nights, lying naked next to smelly strangers amongst rubbish, hearing the occasional rat scuffling in the blackness. I realised, I had to get out, away from this going-nowhere life. And then one night, Debbie had had too much to drink, didn't want to join in when Derry brought a guy back to the basement for the usual fun. She started crying and wailing, confused-pissed. "He smells of sweat and dirt, I can't do it with him." Then she threw up. And Derry hit her. She and I left five minutes later, carrying all our stuff in four plastic bags. Including £800 from behind my brick in the wall, which I used to put as a rental deposit for a tiny bedsit near Turnpike Lane. When finally I lay alone the following night, in my bed in the flat, with new, clean sheets – _my own bed_ – I slept like I'd never slept before.

The following day, I phoned Derry. He was still completely unknowing about the £800, of course. "Derry. I'll do you a deal."

"You fucking bitch, Holly. Why the fuck are you calling?"

"Look Derry, it's Christmas, and this is your Christmas present. Some free money for you. Give guys my number. I'll send you my photo, you can use that to get them interested. For every guy you send me, I'll pay you twenty. I'll leave it in an envelope for you, at a place we agree. I'll do that, I promise. Same for Debbie. But I'll never, ever tell you where I live."

And that's how it worked, for the first six months anyway. The guys phoning, calling round, the sex. And leaving brown envelopes containing twenty-quid notes in a crack in the stonework of the park bandstand for my would-be pimp. But the freedom, from the caring control of the social workers, and Amrit, and Derry's bossing me about, was like heaven.

After a few months I joined an agency, started to get a quite a few punters through that. Craig Garrett, the boss, was a bastard, but at that time he was helpful to me, and he also told me about a strip club in Tottenham which he part-owned, I got a lap-dancing job there, Friday and Saturday nights. I paid £50 per night to work in the club, so any money I got over £50 went into my pocket. Derry still didn't know where I lived, and the escorting was going well too, I started to get a few older clients, some of them wanting regular bookings. I was able to put my rates up. Another year went by. I learnt to look after myself. I even started to cook my own (terrible) meals. But Debbie was a problem. She had always been a drinker, and increasingly the mess in the flat, the disruption to my punters when she'd crash back home completely pissed, was becoming impossible to live with.

She was also an easy shag, as opposed to an escort, if you see what I mean. She was really pretty, and had no problems joining the agency. But she'd arrange an incall, and then go out for the night, end up bringing some other bloke back, or more usually not coming back at all, doing an all-nighter with a guy somewhere. Free of charge, of course, apart from a couple of cocktails bought for her at some club. I picked up some trade from her disappointed evening punters who turned up to find their bird flown. All of which made me realise that a guy comes to an escort's flat ready to shag, and who he's going to be shagging, as long as she's not an actual turn-off for him, isn't important. Not once did I get the line "I'm not paying you, you're not Debbie."

But then, one night, when she was out, there was the familiar knock on the door of a Debbie punter, I opened it, and I was staring at Derry.

"How did you find me?"

"I've been here many times, Holly."

And he had. He'd been visiting my flat, shagging Debbie, and taking all her earnings, behind my back, for months. And giving her more booze than she could handle. He said she'd never actually lost touch with him, she even phoned him that first night when we ran away, to say sorry to him. After a while he found out from her where we lived, and once he got her back into bed, she told him about how I'd managed to steal enough cash to leave him. He told me all that – and then, what I knew would happen, happened. He hit me.

I ended up with two black eyes, a nose that I thought was broken (turned out it wasn't) and bruises all over. But I guess he didn't draw a knife, and he didn't rape me.

Sitting in A&E, North Middlesex Hospital, with my suspected broken nose, courtesy of Derry. Will they ever call my name out? After two hours, I put my magazine down.

"May I look at that?"

"Yeah, I've finished with it." But instead of picking it up, the elegant, slim woman, just a few years older than me, says "They should bring George Vennery down here to look at this A&E. Show him the real world, for the first time in his privileged life. I bet he's never had to sit in a place like this, waiting for someone to call his name out."

"George? ..."

"The health minister. I'm Jasmine, by the way."

"I'm Holly. You been waiting long?"

"Long enough. But you see this everywhere, now. Human debris. I worked in housing, the problems I deal with... well, used to deal with, actually. I don't do it anymore, although I still think about the bloody injustices. I packed it in six months ago. I found something that pays better, and has better opportunities."

"Well done you. I love your clothes, by the way. And the shoes."

"Courtesy of my new job. Well, self-employment, actually. At last I can afford to look like I feel. Your look's nice too, great colours."

I can tell she's being nice to me. Then she leans forward, speaks as if she's telling me a secret. "Problem is I've not shaken off London's bloody accommodation crisis myself. My landlord's taken a sudden dislike to me, and I've now got a housing problem of my own."

I like this outspoken person who's latched onto me. "Funny. I'm thinking of moving to a new flat too."

Despite my half-hint, the woman looks into the distance, then changes the subject. "This country needs to change. It's not really about funding, it's about attitudes. My parents, for instance – they plod along in their little jobs, not questioning anything. Not realising there's a whole other world they don't understand."

"Other world?"

"People who aren't part of the legitimate economy. People who don't have the rights that we take for granted. But those people's work, on minimum wage or worse, it props up the whole system. Or, take escorting as an example. There's married couples sitting at home, they see something on the TV and say, how dreadful, these poor, stupid girls. And the next day he tells her he's working late, when really he's shagging a hooker."

"Well... he might need it. Sometimes people can't tell the truth, all the time."

"Holly Harlow!" A nurse calls for my name, here goes at last. But as I get up, I pull out a pen, write my number on the corner of the magazine. "Call me if you'd like to chat about a possible flat-share. But if you are interested – you'll need to understand that I often work at home. If you do call me, I'll explain. Most people... they wouldn't want to share with me."

**16 Wednesday 2 August**

Ever since I left James and Marcus's house, I've been trying two phone numbers, one given me by Jurgita, the other by James. Here goes again, let's try Tasha one more time. But when the call's picked up, I get a surprise.

"Hello, Diamonds, Cressida speaking. How can I help you?"

"Cressida! Is that really you?"

"Holly."

Cressida worked for the same agency as me, we used to be really close. She's black, stunningly beautiful, and when we were working together, she was studying as a postgraduate maths student. Cleverest person I've ever met. The escorting was an income for her, and she once told me it was a bit of a laugh too, a release from all that seriousness and brainwork. But she used to have arguments with the tutors at the university: whatever she was doing, they didn't like it, or they didn't understand it, it didn't work out somehow. They all seemed to hate her. I remember asking her if there was racism, some reason that her face didn't fit. "It's more complicated than that" was all that she would say. Anyway, at that time, I was having problems too, with the management of the agency that's now calling itself Diamonds. I always clicked with Craig Garrett – him and me, we're alike in some ways – but then I found out that he and his mates were dealing in more than just girls, and I expected a police raid every day. The stress was doing my head in. So I started using the GirlsDirect website, and after a couple of months I realised that I didn't need the agency at all. I kept in touch with Cressida, and we meet up every blue moon. But it's weird to hear Cressida's voice answering this number. And to think she's still there, working at that place. I've moved on: she hasn't.

"Cressida! Look, we must, must, meet. Kirsty's hen-do was the last time. Two years ago. A night out _soon_ , yes?"

"Totally. I'll text you with some dates. But Holly, this isn't my phone, it's the Diamonds call number. Why phone me here? Did you want the agency? I can't believe you're wanting to join again."

"Actually, I had no idea that I was phoning Diamonds. I was given this number. It's supposed to be a contact number for a girl called Tasha?"

"Tasha, I know her well. She works here, she's lovely. But sorry, your luck's well and truly out. She's not working today, and I can't put you on to her. And tomorrow, she's on a job, and after that she's back off home to Lithuania. For a whole month, I'm afraid."

"Any time tomorrow I could catch her?"

"Like I say, she's on a job."

"All day and night?"

"Look, Holly, I can't say much, on this line. We supply Raw Silk."

"Eh?"

"Call them, here's the number. They're on tomorrow night. Tell them you want to go along. You'll find her there. Ask a guy called Scott."

And she puts the phone down on me. She's not being rude. I know that Craig has just walked into her office, he'll be listening to everything she says. And he's not a man that you want to annoy.

I've vaguely heard of Raw Silk. I phone the number Cressida gave me, I speak to a very la-di-da woman. She tells me to got to their website and fill in an online form and attach a recent photo of myself to it. "Sorry, it's our bureaucracy. You're a single woman aged under thirty, so between you and me, it's a formality, darling. You'll be most welcome tomorrow night." I also have to do an online payment of two hundred pounds for 'annual membership'. Once that's gone through, the woman phones me back and tells me an address in Wapping.

I breathe out as I put the phone down. It's nearly midday, but today's a bit cooler, at bloody last. They said on the radio that July was in the record books, third hottest this century for London. My favourite client is coming round at one o'clock. Mr Attwell, a well-spoken sixty-year old, has been seeing me for seven years; never uses anyone else. And he's a delightful gentleman, who also happens to be bisexual. He's been with his partner for donkey's years, they're very close. But not physically, not any more.

"Godfrey. Great to see you. Usual?"

"Yes please. The massage to start. I've brought along that scented oil that I like."

"Like you always do. And every time, I say, leave it to me, I'll buy some. Last time, I did buy some, here it is. Let's use my supply for once."

I make him a cup of tea while he strips. I strip too, and he admires me.

"How's Derek?"

"He's doing well, thank you. I'm trying to persuade him to take early retirement, like I did. Best thing I ever did, quitting that school and trying to teach plate tectonics to another batch of uncomprehending fifteen-year olds. Once he retires too. we can do more together. I'd like to tour Europe, properly. There's a lot of places I'd like to share with him. But Derek – he's in a rut, as I say to you, every time I visit. Him and his comfort zone, it never changes."

"I've never asked you. Does he know? About – our arrangement?"

"Oh no. It's lies, I know, but Derek wouldn't understand. Basically, I'm gay, I've only ever loved men – but it's women that turn me on. Even when he and I were in the first flush of being in love, the sex – it didn't do it for me. I just needed to be with... a woman. I guess a lot of people would call me confused."

"Just be yourself, Godfrey."

"I can be. When I'm here."

We go into the incall bedroom, he lies on the bed face down, and I begin to knead his back, his thighs, his buttocks. He's in heaven. We carry on chatting, bits and pieces of conversation.

"Are you ready? Shall I get on the bed with you now?"

At that moment my phone rings. Of course, I never answer calls when I'm with a client. The call goes to answerphone, as it always does, but then the phone rings again; they've redialled. Then it happens a third time.

"Do get it, please, Holly."

It's an unknown number. I speak. "Hallo, Holly, the Girl Next Door?"

"I'm John. Are you free for an hour incall?" An uncommon accent, in London anyway. I guess Manchester? – it's northern, but with a hard, urban edge.

"When?"

"Now."

"Sorry, no, in fact I'm with a client."

"When will you be finished?"

"I'll be free at two-thirty."

"OK."

"So, what would you like?"

"The regular, normal stuff. Your profile says one eighty for one-hour incalls."

"That's right. So, shall I give you directions? Where are you coming from?"

I talk him through the directions, but it's one of those conversations where I feel he's not really listening. I give him my postcode twice, just to be sure he's paying attention enough to find me. Then he rings off. I go back to Mr Attwell. After fifty-three minutes of the booking, we're done.

"Thank you so much. I needed that, I really did."

"It's a pleasure, as always. Decent blokes like you, you make it all worthwhile, you know."

"Very kind of you to say so, Miss Harlow. As you know, Derek and I have been away for a few weeks, summer holiday break you know, but I'm back now, so can we go back to our normal pattern? Same time next week?"

"I'll put it in my diary right now. Where did you go?"

"Our usual place in Cornwall. Derek likes it... May I use your loo?"

I'm used to this. The one gross thing about Mr Attwell is that after sex, he sometimes needs a poo. Oh well, another little foible. Every punter has them, and his are relatively harmless.

"Problem is, I've got someone coming at half-two. If you don't mind sitting on the loo while I'm in the shower. I really need to shower right now."

Which is what we do. We chat through the shower curtain.

"So you had a good time in Cornwall?"

"Oh yes. It's a bit – unvaried, year after year, but all the same, it's spending time together that's the main thing, isn't it? Also, it was nice, I must admit, to get a bit of sea breeze in this heatwave. London always gets so muggy."

"I agree with you. Everyone seems to want hot weather, but when we get it – well, for me, it's a bit too much. Day after day. I could have done with your sea breeze, the last couple of weeks."

"But your flat is always lovely and cool. You've got new pictures up, I see."

"A lot of stuff was damaged. My flatmate replaced it all. We were burgled."

"My goodness. Were you here, when the burglar broke in?"

"Fortunately not. But it was horrible, coming back and finding it. I even had to replace the crockery."

"Yes, I noticed you gave me a new mug for my tea. Well well. Thanks for seeing me this week, after all that you've been through. It's really appreciated."

I hear the street-door buzzer. Oh hell. My next punter's early.

I put my bathrobe on, go and press the button. I hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and I look through the spyhole, but all I can see through it is the empty landing. Weird. I speak through the door. "Hello. John, is it? You're – a bit early, I'm still getting ready."

"No worries. I'll come in and wait."

"Well – I still have another client here."

"That's OK. I'll come in and wait."

Something tells me: send him away. But then the image of Krasniqi flashes into my mind, and I remember that midnight phone call from him, me standing there with his unseen eyes watching me in the darkness, the sick feeling of fear. I have to keep that fucker quiet: I need as much money as I can gather, I need this booking.

"OK."

I undo the chains, the bolts, turn the key. All new since the burglary, when the door was forced open.

I pull the door back. John the punter stands there. He's wearing a hoody, and under it, I see with a shock, a gimp mask.

"John?"

For answer, he pushes the door wide, strides in. He's a huge bloke: six foot three maybe, wide shoulders too. He must have spotted the spy hole, crouched low down so I couldn't see him through it. I feel like a hand has reached right inside my tummy and is twisting my guts round. I try to speak.

"Who are you?"

"None of your fucking business. Where's this other client, this guy who's still here?" He doesn't wait for my reply, but goes straight through my living-room, into each bedroom in turn, then into the bathroom. I hear him threatening, his voice rasping.

"Get out, old man. It's my booking, now. Yours is finished."

"No."

Say that a-fucking-gain."

"No. I'm not going. I heard what happened at the door. I can't see your face. I can tell that you're here – well, not for the right purposes. I don't want to think what might happen to Miss Harlow if I go. So – I'm staying."

"You're not. You're fucking going, if you have any sense."

"Leave him alone." I've stepped into the bathroom, behind Gimp Man. It's a mad scene: he's looming over poor Mr Attwell, who's still sitting on the loo, trousers round his ankles.

"It makes no difference. I don't care what this old pisspot hears. I've come here to tell you something. To give you a message. I can give you the message with or without our shitting friend here."

"You've come here to tell me? – what? I'll tell you something. You burgled me, you trashed my fucking flat."

"No." One flat word. But something in the way he says it tells me something. He wasn't the one who burgled the flat. And I wonder, about Krasniqi. How he claimed to get my address from the police, from Rainbow. Was that a lie? Who else knows where I live? For some reason, Cheriton's look of fear when he looked at my phone flashes into my mind. As I stand there, in this crazy situation with Gimp Man glaring at me, and Mr Attwell, mid-shit, unable to get off the loo, I dimly realise something: there's a single key to it all. There's something here I don't understand, at the heart of this whole matter. It's like that drawing of the old woman, with the hooked nose, but if you stare at the drawing long enough you suddenly see, it's also a picture of a young woman, facing the other way. I can't see the young woman.

Mr Attwell farts.

"The burglary is fucking irrelevant, bitch. I am here to tell you: you have been sniffing around. The Soames Hotel, for instance. Sniff around more, and you won't be alive to sniff anything. Understand?"

I don't speak in reply. Or even nod. I stare at the mask, at the eyes that I can just make out. I can't tell the colour. I notice a thick neck, bulging muscle, under the edges of the mask. I sense no anger, if anger comes from feeling hurt or threatened, deep inside. Just hardness, a job being done. This is a paid thug, a hired hand.

"You know where I live. But I might move."

"It makes no difference. Move if you like. But it's not only you who might be hurt. Your flatmate, your special friend. We've watched you both. Maybe there will be a fire here, maybe she won't be able to get out. Things like that, they happen. Will happen."

I can't speak.

"So, Miss Fucking Harlow, you've not said yes to me, but I know you'll do what I tell you. You, and your friend. Both of you, you stop trying to find out about that man who died in the hotel, and about the Soames, and the guests who use it. And all your other little enquiries. Or, you and her will be dead. Both of you. Guaranteed."

He pushes past me, hurting my shoulder, my arm. And he's gone. I'm standing in front of an old man sitting on the toilet, finishing his poo, while I compute murder threats in my mind. Mr Attwell speaks.

"Well, you don't usually get death threats made in the bathroom."

"Not while someone else is trying to have a crap in there."

Suddenly, we're both laughing uncontrollably.

It's an hour later. Mr Attwell has finally left, repeating his offers of help, assistance, protection, all things that he can't give me. I'm alone: in the silence I can hear my heart still thumping like a drumbeat, but I have to try and make the second of those phone calls. This number, I've phoned it four times already. First time I spoke to an answerphone. Since then I've not left messages: it already feels like I'm stalking.

"Elspeth Corr speaking."

"My name's Holly Harlow, my friend James Goldbeck gave me your number."

"Really." A voice like ice.

"Yes, James said... he said that, you might be happy... to meet me for a chat?"

"James often makes promises for other people. He should try keeping his own, once in a while."

"Look, I'll be absolutely straight with you. I attended an appointment at the Home Croft Clinic. I... well, I wasn't totally comfortable there, I wasn't sure that everything was above board. I felt uneasy. James works there and... he said that maybe what I felt... you shared it? A concern about the place?"

"I've never heard of that clinic. I don't know what you're talking about. This call is over."

I get three words in quick.

"James says sorry."

A pause. She's not put the phone down yet. I try a bluff. _I_ put the phone down. Give her time to feel, to recall, to regret. How long? Most men would need two minutes and then they would be trying to redial me. A woman of my age, maybe a day or two. To weight it all up, to overcome pride with hope.

An hour later I'm on the loo, and still trembling. I think of Mr Attwell's bum on this loo seat. The phone rings. I finish my wee, let it ring a few times. Could be a punter, could even be Gimp Man, but of course I know it's not. I walk over slowly, deliberately: pick up.

"We spoke about an hour ago?" It's her voice.

"Thanks Miss Corr. We got cut off earlier. My signal is terrible."

"How do I know, before I tell you anything, that you're not some journalist who is interested in Ms Corr and her intimate medical history, rather than in the Home Croft Clinic?"

I've already decided to appeal to her reason rather than her vanity.

"At Home Croft, you're a rich patient. A VIP. But you're not in the public eye. Given the clients of Home Croft, and the fact that they are very nearly a secret clinic, isn't it much more likely that I'm interested in the clinic itself, than in you? Or that, if I'm after gossip, it's not about you but about some of the other patients there?"

"In that case, why aren't you talking to those other patients?"

"First, I'm not actually a journalist. Publicising the goings-on at Home Croft is not my aim. I just want to find out what's going on there. And second: if this is worth following up, I'll be talking to other patients, finding out their stories. Nothing you tell me will ever be used, except for one purpose: for me to know whether I'm onto something here, whether I should investigate further, or whether I am wasting my time."

I pause, let her think in the silence between us. Then I go on again. "I could walk away and leave Home Croft to its business. It would be easier. But I have my own self-interest in this – everyone does, don't they? If I told you I had no personal reason for doing this, you'd suspect me of being a nutter on a crusade."

"Enlightened self-interest?"

Desperate self-interest more like. But I try to keep any excitement out of my voice at the thought that she might be weakening.

"And – what has James to do with this, Miss Harlow? Are you his lover?"

"Definitely not."

"James still works there. Despite what's happened, I don't want to jeopardise his position there. I don't know if he told you, but he uses his earnings to help his brother, who has a rare genetic disorder. Everything would fall apart if he had to rely on the State. He needs to remain in that job."

"I know about his brother. I've met him, he's lovely. James's job will not be put at risk by anything I do. In fact, I believe James, in his heart of hearts, would be grateful to you, if he knew that you were helping to right possible wrongs at Home Croft."

On the brink.

"Miss Corr, I think we understand each other now. Can we meet?"

**17 Thursday 3 August**

I take the Victoria Line to Highbury & Islington, then get on the train: a journey I know well. I'm heading for an area that people might call a curate's egg. It's good for outcalls, many of them last-minute bookings: I'm often sat in front of the telly in the evening and then hey, suddenly there's a phone call and I'm earning £200. The punters in this area are usually young, sometimes only my age, and they often call on nights that they were expecting to go out and pull a new girl at a bar, but it's not worked out. But the downside is what Jazz and I call getting Shoreditched. That is, you sleep with some good-looking guy, the sex seems pretty good, he has two or three massive orgasms, then the next day he logs onto GirlsDirect and rates you 5 out of 10.

I'm coming out of Wapping station. I guess that once-upon-a-time people round here worked for a living, but now all the cobbles and old brickwork are so clean that they look fake, like I'm in an Old London theme park. I walk along Wapping Wall past restaurants, bars and clubs to the address I was given.

My Raw Silk party invitation is open on my phone. I flash it at the woman who stands at a little desk, just beyond the door. She checks the number on it, hands me a plastic mask to go over my eyes and nose, and waves me on in. I go through double doors into a room floored with polished wood, walls of bare brick. People sit around a scatter of round tables as if they're at a wedding.

The mask is like a kid's toy. It's meant, I think, to look like something from an old-fashioned masked ball, but the main thing I notice is its thin elastic strap, which digs in to the sides of my head. And I feel over-dressed. Based on my conversation with the lady on the phone, I'm wearing a Little Black Dress, which I hate – black doesn't suit me anyway, and worse, the skirt is too short and my thighs look like tree trunks – but most of the women I can see in this low light are more daring, they're in lingerie: I can see suspenders, frilly pants, bras. The odd burlesque-style corset and, standing at the bar, a scatter of thongs: bare bums like pairs of pale ovals. I remember PantiesOff's profile photo. But as I stand hesitantly in the doorway, I'm more struck by the guys. Because every one of them looks exactly the same. It's not the masks that make them all identical, or even the suits. Or the fact that every single one of them is white. It's the manner. Each guy is sitting, legs apart, leaning slightly back, and talking to one, two, sometimes several women. At each table, the women are listening.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Thanks. Just a mineral water, ice and lemon, please." He's come over to me at the doorway: a tall guy, slim, about my age, and I see the shine of his eyes behind his mask. There's a temporary bar set up in one corner of the room; we go over.

"Are you new at these parties? Despite the mask, I'd definitely remember you."

"Yup. A total virgin. Call me Holly. Seems all very polite at the moment."

"I'm a regular, and every party has been like this. Classy, civilised, and besides, no-one wants to make a scene and get barred. Any guy giving a woman unwanted attention is barred for life, period."

I sip my drink, and ask him what he does for a living.

"I'm a social worker. I'm probably typical here – there's a huge variety of career types. Accountancy right through to medicine and media, and everything in between."

"Mmm – I've had some contact with your profession... I was brought up in care, you see."

"Really?" He asks me more, and I tell him. I don't tell him that I work as an escort now, of course. I say that I work in a shop, and that I've come out of a long-term relationship.

"I'd say you'll fit in well. We have more and more single women coming to these parties. Wanting a bit of fun, maybe. Something without any serious side?"

A woman comes over and elbows her way into our conversation. "Scott, great to see you here again! Come and join us, Jemina's here as well..."

So this guy is Scott. Well well. We go over to a table and join a group of about five women, all my age or younger, sitting round in their underwear. Scott's the only man. They all seem to know each other, and they talk about their boyfriends, who each of them has come to this party with, but who are at a scatter of other tables right now. I can also tell by the words these girls are using that they're clever, they've probably all been to university and stuff, but the conversation seems pretty boring to me. Soon I work out that four of these girls are newly-qualified lawyers. There's talk of blue-chip clients, closing deals, late-night working. I look at them in their skimpy bras and pants. Scott listens politely, chipping in now and then. Meanwhile, another guy has noticed the amount of female skin on show at our table, and comes over. He seems to know one of the women, but not the others: he tries to draw her into conversation.

The masks are a pretty poor disguise. I suddenly recognise the new guy. It's Julian Caunce. My solicitor.

Fortunately, he doesn't notice me. I suspect that it's not because of my mask: he's forgotten me already, and anyway, he's totally taken up with trying to impress the girl that he knows. She's answering his enquiries, off-hand, while he stands over her, trying to appear tall, confident. Which he is not. Scott turns to me. "You see what these parties are like. Lots of young professionals, who work hard. Demanding jobs, long hours. Young people who need a bit of fun, need to let their hair down once in a while. A Raw Silk party is always a friendly atmosphere. Anyone can chat to anyone, as long as they're respectful."

"Scott – do you know a girl called Tasha? Comes to these parties? I was told she would be here tonight."

"Tasha? Of course, she's here already. Have you spotted her yet?"

"Actually, I've never met her and have no idea what she looks like. I was given her name, nothing more."

"No problem, I'll introduce you." We go over to another table, where two men are holding forth to three woman. Scott gently interrupts one of the conversations: a petite, slim brunette listening eagerly to a young guy talking about cars. He introduces me to Tasha: she smiles at me. Scott and I join them, car man shakes my hand, then gestures to a waiter who brings us a bottle of champagne. The other man and two women get up, walk together over to the bar.

"Thanks for this champagne. Very kind of you, but I'll stick with my water." The others toast and sip the champagne. The conversation is not quite what I was after: we seem to have split into two groups, Tasha talks to Scott while I'm left with Car Man. He's telling me how he drove round Silverstone once, a Driving Experience. "One of my girlfriends bought it for me." I think he tells this story often. The champagne label is familiar, it's a supermarket one that punters have occasionally brought along to bookings. As I pretend to listen to car stories, I try to catch bits of Tasha and Scott's conversation. I hear Scott saying "Not a problem any more, I got on the phone to them and sorted it. It's the usual set-up now, there's viagra and cialis available in the Gents."

Another girl comes over, practically naked in a thong and see-through bra. She flashes a big toothy smile at Scott, but she also seems to know Car Man, and he turns to talk to her, eying her nipples through the sheer material. I grab my chance, lean next to Scott and whisper "You work here, don't you?"

He laughs, like he was waiting to be found out. "OK, you've rumbled me. I _am_ a social worker – that's my day job. But for two years I've been a regular Raw Silk customer, and I'm good at chatting to newbies – so they asked me after a while if I'd like some part-time work. I help see that it all runs smoothly. I'm also alerted to any Raw Silk virgins, the desk sends me an alert when they arrive. Newbie couples and the occasional single woman like yourself. Single blokes, of course, aren't allowed, otherwise they'd be queuing round the block."

"But letting single men pay to get in would make a lot of money, wouldn't it?"

"Yes – and trash our reputation overnight. The whole Raw Silk business model depends on these parties being where couples – and especially women – can feel relaxed. And, therefore, uninhibited. I meet them, chat, put them at ease. Otherwise, you might have stood in that doorway, nervously wondering what to do."

"And Tasha?" The toothy-smile woman has moved on: Car Man and Tasha are deep in conversation again.

"She's a regular."

"She's more than that. She's like you, isn't she? She's paid to work here." I smile, arch an eyebrow so it shows above my mask, inviting him to be confidential with me. "You yourself said, Scott – occasional single woman. So where do all these girls come from?" I glance at him, then around the room at the girls' faces in the dim lighting, the skin, the underwear.

Scott tries to avoid my question. But he keeps on talking. "Mostly, my job is chatting to those couples, and I'll normally take the couple over to a table with a girl or two on it, introduce them. The guy in the couple then gets chatting to those girls. My job, meanwhile, is to make the new woman feel at ease. Because the guys always want to be here, they're excited, pumped up, a lot of testosterone – but I seem to have the knack of chatting to their girlfriends in a way that doesn't alarm them. I'm a non-threatening but hopefully attractive and personable male."

"Is that your way of saying –" I raise that eyebrow again "– that you look good in a mask?"

He grins, unsure whether I'm laughing with him or at him. So I take my chance and get in there with my real question.

"So you're telling me that you work here... but she doesn't?" I motion with my head towards Tasha.

"You're not going to let this go, are you Holly? OK, I cave in." He smirks like a naughty schoolboy, telling me secrets. "We do have paid female partygoers. There's ten here tonight. An agency supplies a rota of girls, one of them being Tasha. They're the girls I introduce to the couples, they talk to the newbie guys. Their job, at the beginning of the evening, is to be welcoming to them, lots of smiling, lots of listening, the occasional hand on the guy's knee. So the guys feel like they're attractive to the women here. It makes them feel confident about approaching other girls. But also, the agency girls..."

"They kick off the action?"

"Yes. You've guessed it. A lot of the women here are unsure. Most of them have come here because their partner wants to try it. Not many women, I guess, would really choose to go out for an evening knowing it will end up with her having anonymous sex with random guys in front of a bunch of strangers. Even though that's exactly how it will end. For the men, of course, it's a huge turn-on. But if a woman sees other women doing it, appearing to enjoy it..."

"It makes it seem normal to her."

"That's right. About midnight, some of the girls – the ones who are paid to be here – will start snogging guys or other girls, and stripping off. A few will unzip some of the guys' trousers and play with their cocks. When women see that going on, like it's the norm, then they're more willing to give it a go themselves."

I look across the room; it's already started. Two women at a table are closely entwined, groping each other, while the two guys with them sit, watch and stroke their own trouser crotches. At another table a woman gets up and straddles a seated guy, and I can see his hands on her bum, under her pants. Scott speaks like he's commentating on a sports event. "You can see how every woman in here is noticing what's going on. In a few minutes, two of the agency girls will get out vibrators and start masturbating each other in the middle of this room, where it's most brightly lit so everyone can get a real eyeful. It's a kind of signal, and that's when the women, even the more tentative ones, think what the hell, let's go for it. All the men are ready anyway, of course. There's thirty-odd iron-bar erections in this room right now. Soon, everyone will be upstairs. Although there are side rooms for foursomes, almost everyone goes for the big bed, it's got twelve mattresses pushed together. The paid girls will strip off and get on the bed first, then usually the guys, and then the girls who've been chatting to those guys get on the bed with them. Which is all quite funny really, because after the first round of shags, anyone goes with anyone. Every party that I've been to, I've seen girls happily shagging with, or sucking the cocks of, guys that they ignored during the first half of the evening."

Car Man is leaning over, stroking Tasha's thighs. My time's running out. "Scott, can you do me a favour? I need to talk to Tasha, before she gets too busy, and this guy..."

"No problem." I see him look across the room, motion with his head. After ten seconds, we're joined by a tall peroxide blonde in a basque who bends, kisses Car Man's cheek, whispers in his ear. He turns to her, and Tasha is free for a moment. Scott gets up and goes over to another table.

"Tasha – we've not really had a chance to talk yet. You see, I know Jurgita."

"Jurgita – you are friend? That is so good! She is my oldest friend, from Lithuania. We grow up together."

"You both had a third friend, Klaudija?"

"Oh yes, Klaudija. She was at the orphanage too, my other friend. We all come over to England together."

"Tasha, I know about Jonas, what he did to you. I helped Jurgita. I'm trying to find out about Klaudija."

"Of course, I can tell you. Klaudija and I, we got away from Jonas. We took a flat in Plaistow. I go to Diamonds for agency work, very good work, good money. After a few months at Diamonds, they send me to Raw Silk – Craig, my boss, he says all Diamonds girls have to take their turn at these parties. But Klaudija did not like Diamonds, she argue with Craig. Then she tell me she has new job, escort at a hotel for rich people. Even better money. She told the boss at that hotel that Jurgita and I, we are beautiful girls too, she hoped they might offer us work as well. But they never contacted me. Klaudija had a boyfriend, you know, Emilis – but he was back in Lithuania. She told him she was a waitress at hotel, not escort. He came over once, he go to that hotel, sees her there, but he suspects nothing. She was always planning the wedding, looking at magazines, the white dresses. She said I would be a bridesmaid."

"And then?

"She went away, I don't know. No message. Emilis, he came over to England again. He used all his money to come here, to look for her. He told the police, just like I had, but they weren't interested."

Peroxide is standing over Car Man: she reaches down and unzips his fly. Her fingers probe inside. He turns towards her and stands up; they walk towards the stairs, hands moving over each other. Other couples are also heading that way.

"I need to go upstairs Holly, the other girls are going. I am watched here, you see. I won't get paid unless they see me with guys."

Scott's back, bringing two shorter, less attractive men who haven't managed to find themselves a partner yet: they both look hungrily at us. Tasha stands up, puts her head on one side, smiles at them. But I'm thinking: I don't want to do this. I shag strangers for a living – but the idea of going upstairs with these guys, stripping off along with fifty other people, fucking anyone and anything for the next two or three hours – it just turns me off. What I'd like, right now, is a coffee and a nice quiet chat with a bloke like my punter Martin.

We're all headed for the stairs, like a tide is sweeping me along. I'm arm in arm with Tasha. The two guys are right behind us; one runs his hands down my back, my bum, as we start going upstairs. I need just a few more minutes with Tasha. I don't want to mess up her work here – but I have to do this.

"Tasha. Can you help me? I only need a couple of minutes, in the bathroom. With you."

It's cheeky of me, and selfish – this is her job – but she can't refuse. I tell the two guys that we'll be right back. The toilets are at the top of the stairs. As soon as the door is closed I say

"I need to know a little more about Klaudija. Did you take any other steps to try to find her?"

"We have to talk very quick. I don't want to lose this work, here. Scott is good man, my friend – but others will be watching me too, they will complain to Diamonds about me. But yes, Emilis went back to the hotel to ask. He told me, it was strange, what happened."

"What?"

"He speak to the manager, the big boss. Boss was willing to see him. And that boss, he said, can you do me a favour? He said, if you are determined to find Klaudija, then anything you find out, I will give you money. You come back here, he said, and I will give you five thousand pounds if you have information. And if you find Klaudija and bring her here, I will give you ten thousand pounds. But you are not to go back to the police. In fact, he threatened him, he said if Emilis went to police, he would get beaten up. And the manager, he gave him two thousand pounds cash there and then, for Emilis to live on while he was in England."

"What happened?"

"Emilis took the money, of course. He stayed with me for a while, until the money ran out and then he went home. But I was busy, Emilis he did all the searching. He looked and looked, but found nothing. Klaudija had gone like people say, off the face of the Earth. So there is nothing more I can tell you. Now, I need to go."

"He found nothing at all?"

"Nothing. Speak to him, if you don't believe me."

"Speak to him?"

"Yes, in Lithuania. He speaks English, you know. We all do. It is 3am in Vilnius right now, but he won't mind." She hands me her phone; the screen shows a photo of a young man. "Just give phone back to me, later. Now I need to go."

The phone signal shows one bar. I step out of the toilets onto the landing. Three bars. I call Emilis Petrauskas. Wait as I listen to the double-buzz, double-buzz. As I stand there, I rip off my mask, which has got itchy. More couples pass me, groping each other, tripping towards the main bedroom.

He's picked up. "Labas?"

"Emilis, this is someone who knows Tasha. In England. I am searching, for Klaudija."

There's a second or two silence as he takes this in. Then a choking noise.

"Thank you. Thank you. You are police?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Just someone who's trying to help. I've spoken to Tasha. I need you to tell me, what you found out when you were here in London? Did you find anything, when you were looking for her?"

"Nothing. My Klaudija – she was everything to me. I know about the Soames Hotel place, the other guys. And about that shit, Jonas Senkus. I don't care that she went with those other guys, none of it matters. I just want to find her, or find out what happened. I still have her last message to me, on this phone, you know."

"What was it? Her last message?"

"I have it here. She sent it to me exactly one year ago. Yes, here it is." He's reading and translating it into English for me, the words come slowly. As he speaks I gaze down the corridor into the bedroom, now a pink mass of writhing bodies. But despite the orgasms that are being had in there, there's hardly any noise, and in the near-silence I can hear every note in his voice.

"Emilis, I am missing you as ever. When we meet I will be even more beautiful for you, because I have arranged to have the moles removed. I go for the treatment tomorrow. My body will be beautiful for you. I know that you say you do not mind the moles, but I want to be lovely for you. I am still at the hotel, I earn really good money, but because I do so well for them, there is a girl who works here, she has told me, I can have this treatment, and the hotel will pay. So when you next see me, my back, my tummy, they will be clear skin and good to your touch. I can't wait, my darling Emilis. Your loving Klaudija."

He stops there, and I can tell, he's crying on the other end of the conversation. I feel empty in the pit of my stomach.

"I'll do what I can, Emilis. If I find anything, I will tell you. I promise."

I don't even think of walking towards the bedroom. For once, I'm the paying customer, and it feels like bliss to have the freedom of being able to choose, to say No. I enjoy my job – but right now I don't want snogging, touching, fingers exploring my skin. I'd rather think about sadness and loss. My choice makes me feel strong. I walk down the stairs with Emilis' words in my ears. I explain to the girl at the desk that I have Tasha's phone, could she look after it for her? I walk out onto the street, and it feels like I've been holding my breath all evening. Now I can take air into my lungs again: I can move freely.

**18 Friday 4 August**

Well, this is a change. I've made a booking myself. And it's all the wrong way round: I've booked a rich older woman. And I'm desperate for what she can do for me... information, that is.

Which is why I'm here at the Savoy Hotel, of all places, in a restaurant I can't afford, with a menu I don't understand, waiting for the arrival of a woman I don't know, and I'm not even going to get paid for it. This restaurant is real class: a world away from Raw Silk or even the Soames. It's also worlds away from where I began in this game. I think back again, to Derry. After what he did to me that night, I had to move away, of course. I left Debbie behind me in her alcoholic haze, got the new flat with Jazz, and Derry never found me again. I'd got a fair bit of cash saved up by then, and I didn't need his contacts any more. At that time I was getting a lot of work through Diamonds, Craig and I were still friends at that point and he put as much work my way as I could handle. If Craig had known what Derry had done to me, things would have been pretty nasty for Derry... so, as you can guess, I told Craig I'd had an accident and needed to take a couple of weeks off.

By the time I went back to work, Craig had also sorted a second strip club job for me, central London this time. Midweek work and higher rates. But like I said, there were downsides to Diamonds. After a few months I took Jazz's advice: I said goodbye to Craig and his little empire and I joined GirlsDirect. Best choice I've ever made. Suddenly I was looking at thick wads of £20 notes rather than the little piles of tenners that Diamonds and the clubs used to pass on to me. Jazz and I moved flat again, up-market. We're jointly named on a proper rental contract, and what with the need for banking, a credit card and so on, I guessed I'd better join the ranks of Britain's legitimate economy. I paid for driving lessons, too, and passed first time. I've never owned a car, but I can use Jazz's Mercedes to visit punters in those Home Counties villages, who are happy to pay a bit extra to have their sex home-delivered. They're often two or three hour bookings too – a nice earner, I'd recommend it to anyone joining the game. Being more chic than me, Jazz gets more of that trade, it's why she needs to own a car, and why she's away from the flat half the time. And I got the photos taken by Paulo, and I put the ground rules on my profile, which send out a message: punters, behave yourself with this girl. Like the adverts, she's worth it.

Most of all, I guess, I moved on – and up – because I learnt from all the mistakes I made. Such as: yes it's good to have a flatmate who is in the same business as you. But it's better to fly solo if your flatmate is a piss-head thicko. Yes an agency is a good way to get business, but advertising through a web service is better – it truly is worth being a bit brave and confident, biting the bullet, and going independent. If you do that, your price per booking is less than agency prices – but GirlsDirect just charges a one-off fee, they take no cut of your earnings. It makes most of its money from advertising: popups appear all the time when you're logged on. The adverts are aimed, of course, not at us escorts but at the punters, and they're hilarious. When will guys learn that nothing will actually make their cock bigger? Or that viagra doesn't make sex more fun, it just means that if you suffer from a limp dick, it might help you keep it up until orgasm. Or, most of all, that there actually aren't millions of women looking for casual sex. There are all these popup pictures of naked women, all of them saying "I'm desperate for a shag – to contact me, join this website..." who on earth falls for it?

OK, off my soapbox. I come back to reality. Where the fuck is Elspeth Corr? Is she standing me up? Waiters are watching me sitting here alone, like a fish out of water. I'm circling my finger round the rim of a champagne glass, and my date is nearly an hour late. I get up to go to the loo. And on the way there, as I cross a wide lobby, chandeliers, pillars, marble tiles like something in a palace, I bump into a familiar face. The word is out before I can help it.

"Martin!" I've broken the first rule of my job. I say in an undertone "Sorry, you're at work."

A warm smile. "That's OK. Not a problem, honestly. I am allowed to talk to the hotel guests, you know."

"I'm not really a guest, Martin. I'm here to meet someone for dinner."

"Posh booking, if you don't mind me saying."

"It's actually not a booking. In fact, I'm meeting a woman. This place was her choice. You remember that policeman – "

"I'd hardly forget."

"It's all to do with that business. The police aren't investigating properly, so I have to. Otherwise I'll get nailed for a crime I didn't commit. So I need to ask some people some questions – and this one, she was only willing to meet here. Anyway, how are you?"

"I'm good. I'm looking forward to finding time for our booking." He taps the side of his nose like he's acting in a panto. "Kids are doing well, too."

"Busy here?"

"Full summer season, it's mental. I take time off when I can, to see the kids, but this time of year it's a juggling act. I'm back on nights next week, for the rest of the month. I'll be glad of it. No guests asking me a million questions, bar the occasional late-night wanderer. Best of all, I see the kids in the daytime. Take them to the park. By the way" – he looks over his shoulder – "might that be your date?"

I glance back into the restaurant, see a waiter escorting a woman to the table I've just vacated. I can see what he's thinking about the woman: she looks like a desperate old dyke.

"Yes. Good to see you, Martin. Got to go."

I go back into the restaurant, say hello to Elspeth Corr, and I'm about to tell her that I need the loo. But the mannish, hard-voiced woman who drips jewellery – and arrogance – just speaks at me. "So you're Holly. I need to see your proof. Where's you photo of James?"

I produce the photo which she asked that I bring, and which James was kind enough to email to me. And then my driving licence, which she also asked for as proof of my ID.

"Do you want my St John's Ambulance certificate?"

She looks at me, without humour. But I have to show her that everything is not on her terms.

"I've waited an hour for you, Miss Corr. I need the loo now. I'll be back in five minutes."

I know her type. Like some of my teachers when I was in my teens. You had to show them that while you would meet their demands, you were still your own person, that your identity wasn't snuffed out by a desire to please authority. Elspeth Corr is used to people kowtowing to her. I'm not going to give her that. At least, not yet.

I return to the table. I'm not even sitting down when she fires the question she's been thinking of while I've been weeing.

"You're not a journalist. You're not James's girlfriend. So what are you?"

"I'm a hooker."

She stares at me. Beady, mistrustful eyes. I keep on talking.

"Whore. Prostitute, slut, call girl, slag, tart, escort, tom, slapper, lady of the night, good-time girl, village bike. Harlot, strumpet, crumpet. A shag machine."

She pretends to be unfazed, but I can tell she's glancing about in case anyone hears. Cut-glass voice. "So how do you know James?"

"I booked for an appointment at Home Croft. I met him there."

"And he saw you... and paid you? ... to...?" I can see behind her mask, her thinking that her former lover would stoop to using a prostitute.

"Not at all. He guessed that I was interested in finding out more about what goes on behind the scenes at Home Croft, and he wanted to talk to me. Then, I visited him at his home."

"Can you tell him? ..." Pride versus desire. I can see her battling with herself.

"He knows, Miss Corr. He knows how you feel about him. Honestly, he does."

She's embarrassed. Because I've touched her rawest nerve. The lust, the head-over-heels-in-love feelings of an older women. Feelings that most, maybe, would laugh at. She's not used to being laughed at. I'm working hard to show her that Holly Harlow might be a tough cookie, but there's one thing I'd never do: laugh at her. And indeed, I wouldn't. Because I sense that one day, I might become her.

Except without the lavish funds.

And she responds. Something changes, she makes a decision, suddenly her armour is down, she gets down to business. "OK. Let's focus on what you want to know, then. Home Croft. Well, it's not what it seems."

"So what was your experience?" Although I'm itching to hear the worst about them, anything that might link them to the Soames, maybe to Lucy or Wycherley, I need to keep to the facts she actually knows. Be patient: get her to tell her story.

"I went there for –" Hesitation. A hawk-like glance at me. "Do you think I'm attractive?"

"Not really for me to say."

"Oh yes it is. But as you're trying to be polite, I'll tell you. At best I look like a man in drag. A short, stocky man that you'd pass in the street without noticing him."

"You're not bad for your age" I lie.

"Don't piss me about, Miss Harlow. Give me some respect."

"Sorry. OK, you're not the most attractive of women. Not physically, anyway."

"And what other way is there than physically? Are people attracted to me for my ready wit? Or for my money? Go and google Dating Websites. Take a good look at those websites. Every one you look at, from Fancy A Shag Dot Com to Sensitive Soul Mates, it will be the same story, it depends one hundred per cent on one thing only: people's profile photos. You are judged, summed up, every day by people because of how you look. If you're a man, you can maybe get away with being less than Adonis. Men's clothes, their whole style, shows them as a group, a team, and within that group all the members are one of the boys. Even the ugly ones have some kind of status, and as a woman, you find them cute, or characterful, or some other way of recognising that if the guy has manners and money, oh yes, you'll end up in bed with him. But if you're a plain woman, you're well and truly alone. Men are constantly comparing women, ranking them in their minds, It's hard, being at the bottom of the heap. I've had thirty years of it, since dances as a teenager, and I never got picked. Boys at that age – so much testosterone they'd go with anything with a fanny, and yet they steered clear of me. Didn't want to be seen with me in front of their friends."

"You've been married twice."

"I see you've done some research. Both were after my money, and nothing else. I've tried with men, you know. I even had a go at using one of those dating sites. I put out in front of all those men. I even put on my profile 'First Date' as 'Strip Poker'."

I can't help it. A snigger. Then a giggle. No wonder she didn't attract the right kind of guy. She carries on, pissed-off but regardless.

"I got no offers, apart from guys who wanted my email address and then sent me photos of their genitalia." (Hold that laugh in, Holly) "Not one decent date. I wrote a long profile about how I wanted a relationship that was filled with both sex and passion. Do you realise how it was, being regarded by the male sex like that?"

"So?"

"I wanted – a man. I wanted – I still want – to move on from gold diggers. I want to be part of a couple, and be normal. To belong."

Is it harder to feel sympathy for ugly people? Well, despite her snipes at me, I do feel for her at this moment. A lonely woman with nothing but more loneliness to look forward to. But then, I know plug-ugly wives in loving relationships. It's a hurdle, not a barrier. It's easy to sit back and blame everyone else.

"So... I went to the clinic. For plastic surgery. On my face, and my body. My first visit there, it was... wonderful. I felt like I'd been paroled from prison. And I met James, of course. He was charming, attentive. We got chatting, and – we went on from there."

"But Home Croft? The operation that you went for?"

"Franklin – not his real name, as I'll tell you soon – was incredibly encouraging, supportive. Within two days he had a DVD couriered round to me, a simulated movie of how I would look post-surgery. During and afterwards, they'd arrange special counselling if needed to cope with the change, clothing and makeup advisers... there was nothing they couldn't do. To create the new Me."

"What went wrong?"

"Nothing, at first. I was completely unsuspecting. My treatment, you understand, was not one operation but a series. After the first operation, which was relatively minor, I was there at the clinic, in January, for a progress meeting with Mr Franklin. He was generous with his time, generous as..."

"... as you were generous with your money?"

"But then, he suddenly got called out from our consultation. He went out, in a hurry, and he didn't close the door completely. And I looked through the crack."

"And –"

"I saw this. A trolley was brought into the corridor outside his office. A trolley carrying someone I know well. I'm not going to tell you his name, but I'll tell you this. He was a member of the Cabinet."

"Hell."

"And I heard Franklin talking. The man had collapsed at some place called the Soames Hotel, wherever that is. The medics also had two girls with them, in evening dress. Incongruous in that place. So I guessed that those girls had come from that hotel. Franklin and the other medics were asking them questions, they wanted to know exactly what had happened, timings and so on. And they rushed him through into the operating suite. I heard the words 'liver failure'."

"Was it George Vennery?"

Her face is flinty, but she blinks, and I can tell that I've guessed right.

"Doesn't fit very well with all those cuts he made to the NHS, does it?"

"How did you guess it was him? And by the way, I used to know George Vennery, very well. So you can imagine my shock, seeing him in that place, in that state. Because when I knew him, he was a perfect gentleman. I danced with him at a ball at Eton, when he and I were seventeen."

"Did he ask you out, at this ball? Or try to kiss you?"

Mistake. Not the time to touch her raw nerve. She repeats herself. "How did you guess it was him, Miss Harlow?"

"This is your story, not mine. Could you tell me about the two girls?"

"One looked very, very young. Tall and willowy. Long dark hair, like a veil. She had the saddest but most beautiful face I've ever seen. I didn't get a good look at the other one, she was standing with her back to me. She was tall and slim too, but blonde. But..."

"What?"

"Thinking about it, the other one, the blonde, she was answering all the questions. In fact, I got the impression, I can't remember exactly why, that she had driven Vennery and the other girl over, in a car, from that Soames place. The younger one – she looked – stunned, confused. Her face, it said – sad, lost."

"Then a nurse came in, and she finished my session. She was just taking a few final notes really, Mr Franklin and I had already more or less wrapped it up."

"So – what about the rest of your surgery?"

"I pondered and pondered what I'd seen. Eventually I decided to challenge them. To find out what had happened. Especially as George did an interview, which I saw on television, only five weeks later, and when I looked for news of him, all the information was that he'd been on holiday in Corsica. January's not the usual time for MPs to go on an extended holiday. And then in March, George resigned, suddenly. And I thought: he's jumped before he's pushed. He knows this will come out, or will do if he remains in the public eye. So I decided to ask Franklin myself."

"I bet that went well."

"I don't want to talk about that. All I will say is, firstly: I was not reassured. If anything, I felt... threatened. Nothing specific, but I left that place feeling afraid. I tried to find out more. I'd been chatting a lot to James, first in the reception, then we met at a café, then – we used to use a nearby hotel."

"Does it ever occur to you that maybe it was just a fling, for him...?"

"You mean, like all the others, he was after my money?" The idea seems new to her. I watch surprise, then shock, pass across her face. She'll be processing that for some time. And I'll never know what she concludes.

She wants to talk about something else.

"I instructed a private agent to make some enquiries. Try a Google Image search for the following: Evans, surgeon, King's Hospital. You can cull the results a bit by typing in site:fr after your search words. But you still have to scroll down many, many pages of results, almost all of them irrelevant. Eventually you'll see a picture from a French website, showing the speakers at a surgeons' conference in Paris, maybe ten years old. You'll recognise the man that you met under the name of Mr Franklin. And once you're satisfied that it's the same man, try a normal Google search for Evans, Surgeon. And again you'll have to scroll down through many pages, but eventually you'll find a page from an Australian medical journal "English surgeon struck off for serious misconduct." There's a photo in the article, and again you'll recognise the man in it. And if you read the article, you'll find that a certain Mr Evans was struck off for repeatedly taking cavalier, unjustifiable risks in operations. Operations in which two people died under the knife, and many others suffered serious harm."

"So how come he's allowed to do surgery at all, even privately?"

"He's not. That's why he changed his name to Franklin. He claims to have qualified in the States. Records in the USA are complex, but my agent did some checking for me, and there was a surgeon called Franklin, in Colorado. But then, you dig some more, in different places, and eventually you find out that the real Franklin died six years ago in a skiing accident. Meanwhile, the new Mr Franklin has managed, probably through tactical bribery, to remove almost all the public record information, and images, of Mr Evans and his striking-off. Also, the NHS was at a difficult point in its history then – a scandal was not what they wanted. So even at the time, public coverage of what had actually gone on was limited. But – despite what the man's infinite ego believes – not every last thing in the universe is under his control. Anyone who looks carefully enough can find out about his former life."

"I still don't get it. Why he would want to take the risks of carrying on as a doctor, illegally, after being struck off?"

"Evans' passion was the major operations he did with the NHS. Doing that type of surgery allowed him to feel – well, it's like a miracle, I think he felt – "

"Like God?"

"Yes. Giving back life where it was hopeless. Only God does that, and Mr Evans."

"But he can't do that level of surgery at Home Croft clinic, surely?"

"No. Which is why he has put his divine stamp onto transforming lives in other ways. Making the beautiful people's lives more beautiful. Making them perfect."

"But – he's not a qualified plastic surgeon? Isn't it a bit different from like, full-blown operations and stuff?"

"The actual plastic surgery isn't done by him at all. There are about three specialists he uses. They all have other jobs elsewhere – but when they operate at Home Croft, no patient ever meets them. Except, of course, when anaesthetised. So-called Franklin, he fronts it up, gives the impression he will be doing the operation. He talks to the rich and privileged would-be patients, he gets to know their desires. He helps them re-plan their faces and their bodies. They are people who have pretty much everything ,but still aren't happy. Everyone aspires to be a celebrity these days, but celebrities themselves are often reaching out for something... they have wealth, fame, adulation, but they are still not content. They long for some kind of fulfilment. Often they know they should be happy, and they're not, and they've had the rehab and the therapy and the realigned chakras and the CBT and they're still searching. Whereas, people like you –

"Prostitutes?"

"Ordinary people. People who have to work for a living. And I'm sure you do work – I'm sure you're good at what you do. No, what I mean is that your personal situation, your need to earn the daily bread, allows you think: you could be happy if you were rich. So you work towards being as rich as you could be, but you never get there. But suppose now, if you were already there, already rich... and still not happy..."

"If you're in that situation, then – you look for another solution, I guess?"

"Yes. But because you know that getting rich hasn't made you happy, then you might be feeling that little bit more desperate, for that happiness that's eluding you. And some of these people think that a new face or a new body might be the answer. Evans-now-Franklin redesigns these people, he shows them what they could look like. What could make you feel more Godlike than dispensing a new body, a potential new life, to people who have it all already?"

"I guess so."

"You guess right, Miss Harlow."

"But all the same – if George Vennery had liver failure, could Evans bring him back from that?"

"I'm not a medical expert. I don't know if it could be done or what kind of action they might have to take to save him. I have no idea as to whether it's possible."

"And the news never got out? About his health problems?"

"You know what happened next. At Easter, George Vennery killed himself. No newspaper has ever found out why. Only the usual gossipy stuff about his drinking – which everyone knew about, anyway."

"Do you think that those two girls...?"

"That something could have happened to them, to stop them talking? I don't know. It's possible. Yes, now I think about it, that's very possible. But as I got the impression that they worked at this Soames Hotel, and my knowledge of brothels is zero – especially compared to yours, Miss Harlow – I think that finding out about them is more your territory than mine."

"Can you tell me a bit more about him?"

"About George Vennery? Or about Evans, Franklin as once was?"

"Evans."

"Hard to say. All I know is an impression I had. An impression that struck me, when I went back to ask him what the hell was going on. The coldness, but the confidence, of his manner. Like nothing on earth. I thought, I never expected to meet such a person. Almost supernatural, I felt cold, scared. A real-life Peter Gint."

I'm not going to show my ignorance, so I nod as if I understand, and when she's not looking, I write it on a serviette. It's obviously someone in the news, who I've not heard of. I'll Wikipedia it later. But I have one last question to ask.

"Did Vennery know Jack Downes?"

" _I_ know Jack Downes. He and I are on a committee together, and he's done promotional work for several of my charities. He and I, we believe in the same things."

"What do you think of him?"

"Well... he's dynamic. And obviously attractive. He believes in what he's doing, too. Making the world a better place. For me, that adds to his attractiveness. But he's always had everything he wants. On a silver plate. So –"

"A bit of a spoilt kid?"

"That's too strong. It's just that – I don't know what he would be like – if the chips were down. In a situation where things weren't in his favour. For God's sake, despite his high profile, he's never served in a government, never had to actually take responsibility –"

"You mean blame –"

"Exactly. So he can afford his high ideals, carry on being a John Buchan hero."

"Him and Vennery?"

"Well, they were in opposition, of course, but there are many close friendships across the House. In the case of those two – George, you see, his family went bankrupt suddenly, when he was at Oxford. So he had to earn his fortune. He had the right connections in the City, it enabled him to regain some level of personal wealth. But he had to work hard for it. It gave him a chip on his shoulder, a resentment."

"A resentment of people like Jack Downes?"

"Yes. There was a cross-party committee on the sale of a lot of NHS land for housing. Jack was on the committee. George was the Minister at the time, he got someone to look into it, and it turned out that one of the pieces of land for sale bordered Jack's family estate. George had Jack removed from the committee, for potential bias, on the basis that Jack would be personally prejudiced against the new housing, the new roads and infrastructure needed. It was like they were kids – if Jack had a toy, George wouldn't play with his own toys, he'd want to take the one Jack was playing with."

And then my phone rings. Oh shit. "Incoming call: Krasniqi Bastard."

"Sorry, Ms Corr, I do have to take this call."

"Holly. How is your money gathering going?"

"I've got some. Not all. About three thousand. I'll have more by tomorrow night. You said Saturday."

"Tomorrow night does not matter. Because, plans have changed. I need all the cash you have got, tonight. You must bring it to me."

"No. Tomorrow night. I'm busy, I'm..."

"You are not busy. Neither am I – I have time on my hands, time so that when this phone goes down, I can take the time to telephone Detective Sergeant Rainbow. Who is on his first really big case. Who has taken it over, because someone high up in the police decided that he was the man for the job. Rainbow listens to me. And if I do not have all the money you've got, tonight, I'll tell him what he would like to know. So, as you see, you are not busy. You will meet me, at midnight tonight."

"Where?"

"You go back to your flat. You get the money. I will drive over, and pick you up there."

"I'm not getting in a car with you."

"Yes you are, Holly. You will do exactly as I say." And he's gone. So too, I realise, has Elspeth: she got up half-way through my phone conversation. Is she in the loo? I go into the Ladies', call her name. No reply. I go back to the restaurant: she's still not there. I ask a waiter, he knows nothing, but I tell him sorry, we won't be eating at the restaurant tonight. He's amazingly polite, considering how we've messed them around. Then I ask a waitress who did see Elspeth, and she tells me what I've already guessed: she's left.

Was it something I said, I laugh hollowly to myself. What is ahead of me? I can't ask questions right now. I just have to take the path in front of me: there's no option.

**19 Saturday 5 August**

I'm cold, for the first time in two months. I pull my coat around me. A wind sweeps along my street: in the light of the lamps, I see litter blown across the pavement. The sky is low: raggy clouds race past the moon. I'm standing outside my flat: it's five past midnight.

A car turns in to the street. A black Audi A6 saloon. Its headlights pick me out: glare in my eyes. It pulls in, engine still running. I try to see the number plate, but between the headlights is a pool of black. The passenger door is pushed open.

"Get in."

"No. Talk to me on the pavement."

For answer, Krasniqi hands me a piece of paper. I read it under the streetlight. It's a certified copy of his witness statement.

Then he hands me another piece of paper. It's got a couple of paragraphs typed on it.

"Now read that. That's what I'll add to the statement."

I read it. I get into the car.

A hand reaches across me, pulls the door hard shut. I'm out of the breeze: it's airless, stuffed in this car. Suffocating. And then I realise there are two other people in the back seats.

I turn to look, but I can see only silhouettes. Big, big blokes; they fill the space behind me. I reach for the door, but a hand comes from behind my seat, holds the door lock column up. I feel like I'm going to be sick. Krasniqi's hand goes to the gearstick, and we're moving: my home, my street, slides from view.

The car turns left. We're heading north. I hear a voice behind me.

"Get the money out. Put it in the glove compartment."

I recognise the voice. The man whose face I've never seen. Manchester accent. Gimp Man.

I do as he says: hoping, willing the car to slow. For the door to be opened and for me to be pushed out, onto the pavement. But we're on a major road now: we could be going anywhere. And obviously, this is not about a measly three thousand quid. The faceless voice continues.

"When I visited your flat, I told you to stop sniffing around. This time, I'm not going to bother telling you that."

There's a silence. Thirty seconds.

"Now you are going to tell us everything you know."

And I do. I start to talk, to confess. This is it, Witch Finder General has caught up with me. But then, as I start speaking, I do remember one thing. These guys in the back of the car, they are mean fuckers, no doubt. And I feel certain that one or other of them was the man who came to that hotel room, who killed Wycherley. They're murderers; they might even turn out to be sadistic. But I remember what I thought about Gimp Man when I saw him before: a hired hand. No, he's not really the Witch Finder General after all. He's not personally interested in what I say. He might enjoy hurting me, but all the same, this is work to him. And the bottom line of his job is this: he's not the boss. He has to report back to someone else.

So I tell them, but I skip bits, because I know Gimp Man's not going to ask detailed questions. I say that I was offered a job at the Soames, but I don't say how I found out about the place. I don't tell them about Jack Downes, or that I know the name George Vennery. I don't tell them about my argument with Cheriton, or that I know the names Agnieszka, Klaudija, Lucy. I tell them that I impersonated Devine Cattrell at Home Croft, but that I found out nothing. I don't mention James or Elspeth. I tell them that after finding out nothing at Home Croft, I'm giving up. All trails have gone cold.

As I'm speaking, telling them what they expect to hear, I can see through the windscreen, against the moonlit clouds, what looks like pylons, standing up above us. And it's dark around the car, I can't see streets any more. Have we driven right out of London, into the country? I've lost all track of time, we could be fucking anywhere. I feel so lost and scared that I'm about to lose control and start screaming, but I try to hold it in: I know it won't help me. Anything I do can only increase my risks. Sit still, try to keep it together, think. And then I see, below the pylons, a familiar silhouette, and I realise they're not pylons. They're radio masts. We're at Alexandra Palace. A road runs through the park, below Ally Pally itself, lit by only a couple of streetlights. We're high up on an open grassy hillside, looking out across space. As the car slows down, stops, I look out of the passenger window, see the lights of London strewn across the valley. I can pick out the three Barbican towers, the Shard, the City and the Heron Tower, then Canary Wharf and a trail of lights out towards the dark of the estuary. Between the lowering sky above and the dark below, it's a glittering veil of man-made stars, an orange Milky Way.

The hand reaches from behind again, lifts the column lock of the door. "Get out of the car."

I open my door. I realise there's no point running into the dark; I can dimly make out some bushes, but these guys would find me, sure as houses. I stand by the car, and wait. One of the guys gets out, stands next to me. I see he's got a scarf or something over his face, as has Gimp Man, who stays in his seat.

Some kind of discussion is going on inside the car between Krasniqi and Gimp Man. I hold to this thought, even though it doesn't explain everything – Krasniqi's blackmailing me: if they kill me, there's no more money. If they don't kill me, will they rape me, hurt me? The sick feeling inside me is growing, I can physically feeling it pushing up against my lungs, my heart. Time seems to have slowed to a standstill and I can't breathe, I can't stand it any more, I'm about to run. If I run behind the car, back down the road, they'll have less time to react. I tense my muscles, to spring into a run.

And then the driver's door opens, Krasniqi steps out. The rear passenger door opens behind him. And in the orange streetlight glow, I see, for the very first time in my life, the black tube of a handgun barrel. Pointed at the head of Krasniqi.

Gimp Man gets into the driver's seat. He doesn't bother to shut the door, but he winds down the window. Now he's pointing the gun through the window at Krasniqi, who's standing beside the car. I can see the outline of Krasniqi's face, some of his features. His expression says: I give up. A shrug of hopelessness. He walks away from the car, across the grass, then back onto the road ahead of us. He's giving up on this deal: they've cut him out of it. I see his figure lit by the glare of the headlights, an unreal shape, like he's floodlit: the raw glare seems to drain the colours from his jacket, his trousers. A white silhouette, washed out by the light, against the black of the park. Shoulders down, head sunken. Defeated.

The car goes into first gear, and starts to move. The screech is three, four, five thousand revs, still in first gear. The bonnet hits Krasniqi in the back of the thighs: I see his shape flying up, his feet in the air like they're on strings, his body a rag-doll, hitting the top edge of the windscreen and the roof of the car, bouncing down onto the verge.

Ahead there's a pool of light where the headlights are shining onto bushes and leaves. I see the black outline of Krasniqi's arm raised, moving against that greenish glow. The silhouette of his hand flaps feebly. I run towards him: I fucking despise you, Krasniqi, but I'll help you. I'll help you.

The car's reversing as I reach him. I kneel beside him in the dirt, and now both Krasniqi and I are full in the headlight glare. I look into the light. The arm reaches out of the car window, the gun is pointing at me now.

"Stand back from him."

"No. he's dying. Leave him."

"Stand back."

And I do. Krasniqi's hand reaches up to me, as if to hold onto me, but I step back. I preserve my life. That's the basic programming of a human being, I think, as I take two, three steps back.

The car moves forward again, and this time it's like I'm watching a film, like it's all happening on a screen in front of me and I'm not connected to it. The left wing and tyre of the car hit his head; I see his face fly back, his eyes and mouth a mass of blood. The rest of his body is under the car. It reverses again, and his body is entangled under it, drags along between the two front wheels. Then it comes loose. Now it looks just like a couple of torn sacks, lying in the road, spilling out here and there, red and sticky.

Gimp Man is getting out of the car, looking at me. "See. You are still alive. Be glad. Now do you understand? If I see you again, it will be to kill you, like this piece of shit here."

I can't answer him.

"If you tell the police anything about this, then you will see me again. Understand that, bitch? You don't go to them. If they come to you, you say nothing. You weren't here. If the police link you to this, you will see me again. And then you will be dead. So understand me now: you weren't here."

"Not here."

"Well done. Remember that, and just maybe, Holly Harlow, you and your flatmate will survive this business."

I hear the slam of the door, and the car is gone. I'm about to go over to that thing lying on the road. Something wants to hold me back: like the autopilot that first night, I think: the police have my fingerprints and DNA. So far, I've not touched Krasniqi. Gimp Man said I wasn't here, and that I would die if the police found out that I was. But another part of my mind says – St John's Ambulance. Kenneth Cropper. Airway, Breathing, Circulation. I go over, I kneel in the blood that covers the tarmac. I touch the heavy ball of mush that his head has become. I put my hands on the floppy neck to feel for a pulse. I hold my ear against what had been his nose and his lips, to try to hear any breath. And of course it's just a lifeless lump of meat, and after a while I get up and walk away in the dark.

I'm not going to use my iphone to report this. I walk downhill, away from the park. A footbridge over the railway to Alexandra Palace station, public call box. I lift the receiver, dial 999. I hear my voice telling someone there's a body in the road in the park at Ally Pally, no I don't know who it is, how it happened, whether any vehicle was involved. "I think he's dead." I hear my voice repeat that five, six times. I ring off. Autopilot tells me not to use my usual taxi, but just beyond the station is a taxi-driver's cabin. I put my white, stunned face round the door. Ten minutes later, I'm home: I strip and put all my clothes in a plastic bag, fall onto my bed naked.

Normal things can be surprising. My alarm goes off. 8.30am. Was I asleep or awake? I don't know, I can remember nothing, feel nothing, know nothing. All that my brain can hold onto is what I need to do right now. I have a meeting, at 10.30am. I get up, shower, dress. I take the tube to Green Park, and the plastic bag goes into a litter bin. Then I start walking, down through the park. The sky is uniform, colourless; a misty haze has come down on everything, although I sense the sun behind the gray blanket. That's how I feel: gray, numb. I am taking the steps that are ahead of me. It's not even the horror of last night: it's the certain knowledge that if Rainbow & Co don't put me inside for these murders, then Gimp Man and his mate, or those who pay them, will kill me. I'm counting out the last days of my life, taking the steps that I can. I'll keep trying to find out what, who, is behind all this, until I'm stopped dead in my tracks, by either the cops or the robbers.

I reach Pall Mall, and cross it. Although it's a day of outlines and shades, not of colours, I'm going to enjoy St James' Park, this last time that I'll see it. I walk down to the lake in front of Buckingham Palace, I see children feeding the ducks, young women with prams, tourists chattering. A squirrel balances boldly on an iron railing, just two feet from the American couple who snap its photo. Goodbye, life. I liked you.

I walk along the side of the lake, purposeful, not hurrying, not dawdling either. My eyes take in everything, the August holiday mood, the laughter I hear around me as I pass the playground. All these people who are happy, unthinking, enjoying their lives, who have never paid for sex, or been paid for it, who don't live in fear of murder, who've never seen a real gun, or a body covered in blood. I'm a ghost walking through them, like they might feel a chill from me. Past the island where they once found the skeleton of a man who'd lived in hiding there, obsessed with the Queen. Past the bridge dedicated to Princess Di. Past the pelicans and the Duck House, across the road where Big Ben and Westminster Abbey hove into view. Then I turn right, into the entrance of a building I've never been in before. Westminster Central Hall, headquarters of the Methodist church. I follow the directions I was given, down some steps and into a cave-like underground café.

It's like some weird non-London, at the heart of London. It looks like a country village hall jumble sale: middle-aged and older people, badly dressed. I tune in and out of half-a-dozen earnest conversations as I weave my way through, go to the counter, order a coffee and a teacake. And I see him at a table; he's already here.

"Jack."

"Holly. Thanks for making it."

I don't tell him what's happened. Maybe I will, if the conversation goes there.

"I never even knew this place existed."

"It doesn't. In terms of London – the politics, the business, the hustle – you can come in here, and instantly it's all shut out. The Press would never think to come here. The twenty-first century equivalent of medieval Sanctuary. I always say: you can forget anything in here."

I think: forget anything, except the thought that your own life is about to end. But I focus on the job I've come to do. Just keep taking the next step, Holly, and the step after that, until I'm cut down. So I take the next step.

"Do you know George Vennery?"

"That's a bizarre opening question. I thought we were meeting so you could tell me what you've found out about Lucy."

"That's right. That's why I'm asking you. I think there's a connection."

"What, between her disappearance and old George?" He looks surprised, but almost amused too.

"Exactly. I'll tell you. I'll start with what I know. I found out about a private, very discreet clinic, out in the Chilterns. Home Croft. It's legitimate business is plastic surgery and other therapies for the rich and famous. But there is a secret, non-legal side to it. They deal with cases from the Soames. Cases where people have got ill or – injured."

The face of Josh Borrowdale looms in my mind. In our society, I guess the rich can get away with anything. For a while, at least. Probably, that's true of every society.

"So are you saying that George was a guest at the Soames?"

"Exactly that. And that he was treated at Home Croft. At about the same time as Lucy disappeared."

"It makes no sense. The Soames can't have many cases of people falling ill, even if they're snorting a ton of cocaine there. Why have a special clinic? One that's equipped – if you're right – to deal with really serious illness? And even if it was worth their while, why have one so far away?"

"Yes. All those points have occurred to me. And those are the parts of the story that don't make sense. Yet."

"And how did Lucy feature in this?"

"One more question, and then I'll tell you what I guess happened. Did Lucy ever meet George Vennery? At the Soames, probably?"

"That's very unlikely. She knew who I was, everything about me. We kept nothing from each other. By the same token, she told me about every person she'd been with."

"And then, you paid Cheriton, didn't you, to keep her away from – the other guests."

"I did."

"But Cheriton could lie to you."

"Lucy wouldn't."

"Unless..."

His face registers disappointment, shock. "You think she went with Vennery, and that either they threatened her, told her not to tell me, or she didn't tell me to spare my feelings?"

"One or both of those."

"OK." I watch as he digests this information. But of course, I've worse to tell him.

"Jack, I think there's no hope. I feel certain that Lucy is dead."

"Yes. I do know that. I knew it in my heart all along. She'd never have disappeared like that. She was either abducted, a prisoner somewhere, or – "

"You do have to face this. Nothing about this matter tells me that anyone involved would keep her alive, for any reason. In January, George Vennery was taken from the Soames, along with a girl who I'm sure was Lucy. I don't think that Lucy survived that day."

"Who?"

"Who killed her? I have no idea. But I know this: whoever did it, they are now going to kill me."

"What do you mean?"

All around us is chatter: I hear words that I don't understand: long, mild words – ecumenicism, synod, denomination. How nice to take life for granted, to have been given education and confidence, to be able to spend your life sitting there, saying long words, talking about God and make-believe. I tell Jack about Gimp Man's visit. Then I steel himself, and tell him what happened to Krasniqi.

"Fuck. So, you've gone to the police?"

A man in a dog-collar stares at Jack briefly, and returns to sipping his tea.

"No. They told me they'd definitely kill me if I did."

"But – would they? If you tell the police everything, then you'll get some protection. And if you did tell the police all you knew – and these guys know that – then they have nothing to gain by murdering you. The only outcome of doing that would be: they add to the catalogue of evidence against themselves. Increase the risk to themselves for no gain. So their threat is almost certainly a bluff; they won't carry it out. Plus, if they're willing to murder you, why didn't they kill you along with this Krasniqi bloke, last night?"

"Logically, all that you say makes sense. But I've met these people. They made my blood run cold. I know, and you can't reason it away, that they will do what they've said. And anyway, the last people I would go to are the police. The lead detective on this case, I don't understand what he's doing, it's strange. Like he's got it in for me. But I guess the cops have a one-track mind: they think I'm in on this. Prostitutes are controlled by gangs, aren't they?"

"Not some of them."

"But others are. Unfortunately for me, those are the ones the police see. They don't see me as a law-abiding person earning a living: they see me as the sort of person who's on the edge of the underworld. And now – I was there, actually present, on two occasions when men were killed. Killings which are obviously related. This detective, Chris Rainbow, he's convinced that I'm in with the killers, that I set up my booking with Wycherley, arranged to meet him at that hotel, and gave the room details to the guy who came up and slit his throat. Then Krasniqi's flat was torched, and it looks like I was in on that too, I was seen near his place, and he's a key witness. It looks like the fire was a warning, to shut him up. And now, I arrange to meet Krasniqi, and lo and behold, two thugs turn up and kill him. When it was the one murder, I had a chance. But it's too much of a coincidence now, for any jury to ever acquit me."

"To lose one parent is unfortunate. To lose two is carelessness."

"I lost my mother."

Five seconds go by. I start speaking again. "Anyway, I'd rather be dead than spend the next twenty years going slowly mad in a prison cell. But it's not even that, really. It's something you wouldn't understand, Jack. I made my own life. Fate, God, whoever it was – they dealt me a bum hand, but I made something of it. I made something from nothing. I've got – I had – a decent income, friends. Hope. If I go to prison, I'll be alive, to watch everything I've gained, everything I've built in my life, being taken away from me. I'll see myself destroyed. I'll have nothing to think about, to look forward to, except getting out of prison sometime in my fifties, knowing no-one, having no home, no money, no job, or even hope of getting one. Nothing."

He looks into the middle distance, thinking.

"The thought of that, Jack – it's so horrible that I'd rather the gangsters got me first. Unless they plan to hurt me before they kill me. I don't know if I could face that. I can't imagine – "

I trail off into yet-unimagined horrors. It's like I've stepped on a crack in the pavement and have slipped down, out of ordinary life, into Hell. I look across at the vicars, the nice middle-aged ladies; I hear the educated chatter. I guess I'm probably the only person in here who didn't have a proper schooling, who isn't able to quote verses and stuff.

"Jack, who's John Buchan?"

"Adventure story writer. _The Thirty-Nine Steps_. Lashings of derring-do about a decent bloke who's in the wrong place at the wrong time, ends up with both the cops and the baddies after him. Funny, it's a bit like how you got into this, really. Anyway, he's a complete amateur but he gets mixed up in espionage, and handles it all with a stiff upper lip and good old British grit and humour."

"How the fuck do you know all these things? Anyway, someone described you as John Buchan."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"There was some other name, too, but I can't remember it. I wrote it on a serviette, I left it at home when I collected the money together for Krasniqi."

"I have to go, Holly."

"Can you help me? Please Jack, I'm scared, I'm fucking scared."

The vicar looks again.

"What can I do, Holly? I can't get mixed up in this. I feel I'm already in too deep, with what you've told me."

"For Lucy's sake?"

He looks at me, those deep brown eyes. That jawline. That face has helped you get ahead, Jack, I think. But then, you were ahead already.

"Lucy's dead, Holly. We've both known that from the time we first got mixed up this business. Neither of us can do anything for her now. So I must think about – "

"Yourself."

"I've got responsibilities, my constituency, the credibility of my party. We want to change this country for the better, and I'm part of that. The public persona of Jack Downes is going to help get the likes of George Vennery out of power at the next election. Then , we can give proper education and healthcare back to the millions who need it. That's the big picture that I need to consider. So it's not selfishness."

"OK, it's not you being selfish. It's just something that looks exactly like it."

"I'm sorry you see it like that."

He gets up to go. I've not touched my teacake, and although it's now cold, it looks quite nice. While I'm still alive, I'm going to enjoy eating it.

As he walks away, I can't resist calling after him.

"When you replace Vennery's lot, in government, when you've got the power that he had, make sure you don't become just like him."

The afternoon: travel back home, two incalls, one after the other. I don't know how I got back after seeing Jack: a blank. I can't remember either incall: another blank. I literally have no recall of what we did or what either guy looked like. But I know they must have gone OK, because the first guy went onto GirlsDirect straight after and gave me a 9 out of 10. The second guy gave me a £20 tip. Some part of my brain is carrying on the GirlNextDoor act while I'm living in some numb place inside my head. As he gives me the cash, I say to him "Thank you. I like guys like you – generous personality, gorgeous body." He thinks I'm telling the truth. Now he's gone. I shower, get myself cleaned up. I eat a banana and a bowl of Shredded Wheat.

I'm just not here any more. It's like Holly is dead already. I nurse a coffee for half an hour, then mechanically go into my room, lie down on the bed, roll over onto my side, look at the sideways view of my room, like that dream of my mother at Coram's Fields. Maybe it was a dream, maybe a memory; it's on the borderlands of my conscious mind, but yet the colours, the sense of being there, is brighter than ever now, as I recall it. My mother. How long is it since I thought of you properly... where you might be now, what you're doing, how life has been for you? What you might say to me if we, by crazy chance ever met, twenty-two years of time to make up? Where are you, Mummy?

Maybe I pass you in the street every day.

**20 Sunday 6 August**

I've come on in the night. Blood on my pants. They're the ones I like, big old-fashioned cotton knickers which no punter has ever seen. I'm in the bathroom with a Tampax, and I hear the flat door open.

"Fuck, Jazz, you nearly gave me a cardiac. I thought you were coming back tomorrow."

"Sorry, Holly. My God, you look like you've seen a ghost." She can see me, standing side-on to her, through the bathroom door. I look sideways in the opposite direction, to see my reflection, the profile of my body in the mirror. I don't recognise the person staring at me. The bones seem to show through the skin of my face. I think: a scraggy old whore. My body looks horribly pale, and my flesh has a sheen, almost like one of those greeny glow-in-the-dark things. My boobs seem to sag, like I'm an old woman. The lumps on my spine stand out in a wiggly line: I've never seen that before, or noticed it, anyway. Skin stretched on a skeleton.

I put my pyjamas back on, come out of the bathroom, lie on the sofa. Jazz comes over, slides in underneath me to sit on the sofa, I lie across her lap, she cradles me, strokes my face, my hair. I tell her everything. No tears; I seem to have gone past any stage of crying. I just tell her the facts. And as I talk, I start to feel a tiny bit like a human being again. Like the person I once was. I settle my head back against her arm.

"Coffee?"

I'm suddenly awake.

"It's midday. You've slept all morning, love."

"And you – were stuck there, under me."

"A pleasure. Have you got any punters today?"

"None."

"Neither have I. Or rather, I had one, but I've cancelled him. Mr Khan, he was happy to rearrange. Because my priority today is looking after you." And that's what she does. I lie in bed all afternoon. Jazz bakes my some shortbread, my favourites, brings them in on a tray for me, like I'm in a hotel. Mid-evening I get up, she makes me some food, we sit, without talking. I feel time has stopped and I take each moment as it comes. Sit for a while, drink coffee, sit some more. Twilight. Jazz potters about. Then she picks something up off the sofa. "Time for bed, I think. But by the way, what's this? It has your writing on it."

She holds up the serviette from the Savoy, which I must have left on the sofa when I came in, after seeing Krasniqi die. I guess I was lying on it, all morning while she held me.

""Peter Gint." Is that someone you know, Hol?"

"It's not a punter, that's for sure. Just someone that a woman mentioned, I wrote it down but I'm not sure of the spelling, have you ever heard of him?"

"Could she mean Peer Gynt – P-E-E-R G-Y-N-T?"

"Possibly. I didn't ask how to spell it."

While Jazz makes me a coffee, I get dressed, then I google Peer Gynt. I read the Wikipedia entry "a five-act play in verse by the Norwegian dramatist Henrik Ibsen. Written in the Bokmål dialect of Norwegian, it is one of the most widely performed..." I read on, but it's not helping me. It says that Ibsen said "The conception of poetry in our country, in Norway, shall shape itself according to this book." None of this means anything to me. I want to know about what a real-life Pe(t)er Gynt might be like. And then I see this –

"THE LEGEND OF PEER GYNT – Librarylibrary.thinkquest.org/12924/nr3.htm?Cached

There once was a little boy named Peer Gynt. He was a bad boy. He stole things, played tricks, and never helped his mother. Everybody hated Peer Gynt."

OK. Maybe this is what Elspeth was driving at. I call through to the kitchen.

"Jazz, do you know about that name you said? About Peer Gynt?"

"Yes, it's an opera. By Grieg. Edward Grieg, the Norwegian composer."

"It says here it's a play. By someone called Ibsen?"

"Yes, Ibsen wrote the words, I think, and Grieg did the music."

"So what was he like, this Peer Gynt? The character, I mean."

"Well, as I recall, he doesn't have the courage to ask this girl Solveig to marry him. So he sets off around the world and has lots of adventures, but really he is always trying to get back to her."

"Oh. That doesn't really make much sense." I'm pondering now, and I don't hear Jazz's answer. I hear her call "Toast Hol?" and I say Yes. After a while I shout "Is Peer Gynt the same as _Peter_ Gynt? Could there be another character called Peter Gynt?"

"There's a Peter Quint, if that's what you're wondering. What is this?"

"I just want to know about that character, really. What would it mean if someone was described as a 'real-life Peter Quint'?

"I'm not sure... But you can check for yourself, if you like. Look on my bookshelf, you'll see a book there, _The Portable Henry James_. Look in it, there is a story called _The Turn of the Screw_."

Jazz goes out, and I'm left alone with this book, the last thing I'd want to read, usually. All the stories look very wordy and off-putting. I wish I knew why people read this stuff... or write it. And then suddenly I stumble on this conversation. And I race through, picking up bits of the conversation. Because it breaks in on me that this is it, the key to that clinic place and what they do. And it was sitting here on Jazz's bookshelf the whole time.

""Well," I said, "I've been frightened. An extraordinary man. Looking in."

"Have you seen him before?"

"Yes – once. On the old tower."

"You've seen him nowhere but on the tower?"

"And on this spot just now."

Mrs. Grose looked round again. "Was he a gentleman?"

I found I had no need to think. "No."

"But if he isn't a gentleman – "

"What is he? He's a horror."

"A horror?"

"He's – God help me if I know what he is!"

I spoke boldly. "I'm afraid of him... never – no, never! – a gentleman."

My companion's face had blanched as I went on; her round eyes started and her mild mouth gaped. "A gentleman?" she gasped, confounded, stupefied: "a gentleman he?"

"You know him then?"

She visibly tried to hold herself. "Quint!" she cried.

"Quint?"

"Peter Quint"."

I hear Jazz's voice. "Holly, there's a police car pulling up."

I run over to the window. I can see the police car, bright splodges of blue and yellow. But beyond it, on the other side of the street, I see another car I know.

"Jazz, have you see that other car before? The black Audi A6?"

"No. Could belong to a drug dealer" she jokes.

I can see the outline of two heads, thick-set, in the two front seats of the Audi. I hear Jazz open the door, the police coming it. That is, three people come in. Rainbow. Simmonds. And Ruby.

Rainbow speaks. "Miss Holly Harlow, I'm here to arrest you..."

I'm getting my little clutch bag and my jacket, like I'm going out to the shops. I'm listening but not taking it in. Then I start to shake. Jazz holds me, I'm shivering uncontrollably but I don't know why. The room seems like it's moving around me, not swirling this time but everything seems to be shaking and pushing out at me, like there are snakes wriggling behind the wallpaper, breaking out, moving towards me.

I say the one thing they need to know, now. "There – are – gangsters – outside. On this street. Look out of the front window. Black Audi. They killed Krasniqi. I think they killed Wycherley too."

"Come into the car, Miss Harlow. We're going to the station."

"No, no. You must listen. They're here. They're parked across the street right now. They are going to kill me."

Rainbow's humouring me, he smiles. "They won't kill you if you're with us."

"Arrest them. Just fucking arrest them!"

I pull away from Jazz, I want to point out of the window at the car, but Simmonds moves over and grabs my arm.

"Off me, you cow." I wrestle out of her grasp and then I feel another, stronger grip grasp my wrist. I turn on Rainbow and grab his hand, pull his fingers like I want to peel them off me one by one. Simmonds has got my shoulders now, is pushing me down. I lurch against her but my thigh hits the edge of the sofa, I'm off balance, I slip and I'm on the floor. With Simmonds on top of me.

I'm picturing a girl-on-girl uniform-porn photo I once saw on GirlsDirect. 'Resisting arrest' it was entitled. Well, I'm acting it out for real now. I look up at a ring of faces; Rainbow, Jazz, Ruby, who's holding my clutch bag, and in-my-face, Simmonds, who breathes on me. Smelly.

As they lead me down the stairs, onto the street, I point again, even though I know it's idiocy to draw the attention of those two guys in the Audi. As they're putting me in the car, I struggle again, and Ruby helps hold me so that they can stuff me into the back seat, Simmonds' hands clamped round my head so I don't smash it against the car door. As I'm pushed into the car I feel I'm being pushed into a black hole: absolute panic. I wrestle and writhe, I try to bite Simmonds' fingers, I scream, I go rigid across the back seats, then I start kicking out at them. They get the door shut. Simmonds now has the job of getting in the back with me. She opens the other door, grips my calves, starts to move my legs out of her way so she can sit down. My clutch bag falls on the floor of the car and pops open. And both Simmonds and I are looking at a small, clear plastic packet hidden inside it. A packet of white powder.

I sit up. I even do my own seat belt. My fate is inevitable, and the fear of seeing Gimp Man and his mate again has made me almost glad to be with the cops.

**21 Monday 7 August**

It's the same room, the police interview room I was in – a month ago? It seems like years. I've been here overnight in the cells, it's morning now. The same uncomfy chair. No Pawan this time: just Simmonds and Rainbow. He hands me a plastic cup of water, and asks me, like they did when I first arrived here, if I want a solicitor. I remember Julian Caunce. "No thanks."

Simmonds starts up with one of those standard police lines – "I'd strongly advise you – "

"No. I can handle this myself. I'd rather speak for myself than explain things to a stupid brief who tells me to say No Comment to everything. Any idiot can be unhelpful. I want to help you. I want to help you find the killers."

Rainbow ignores me; he's here to do a job. He starts making a little speech.

"Miss Harlow, we believe you may be an accessory to two murders: Jonathan Wycherley on Monday 3 July, and Enver Krasniqi in the early hours of Saturday 5 August. Let's start with the first of those. You've admitted you were at the Excel hotel on 3 July, you were with Wycherley when he was killed, but you state that you didn't see the murder happen because you were in the bathroom."

"Yes. I've already made my statement about that."

"We know that the room was arranged through Krasniqi. Did you discuss the room or the hotel with Krasniqi?"

"It should be clear from my earlier statement that I never even knew the guy existed until I saw him staring at me that night, as I was leaving the hotel. No, Wycherley and Krasniqi agreed the room, and I know nothing about it. The only details I ever had are those on the GirlsDirect website, which I showed you."

"Let's move onto Krasniqi himself now. How long have you known him?"

"Like I've said, and in my statement, I first saw him that night at the Excel, when he saw me. Before that, I knew nothing of him."

"I'm going to give you some background information about Mr Krasniqi. Please comment at any point you think is relevant. I can tell you that he was from Albania originally. At that point he appears to have no connection with the UK. He first turns up on police records in Kosovo five years ago, where he worked with three prostitutes, one of them his sister. They were all coerced by him into prostitution. He was never charged with anything, then he disappeared from the records for three years, and then he arrived in the UK two years ago. But we now know from the Czech police that he was operating in Prague during that period, with a connection to the UK. He set up a website offering sexual services to men on stag parties from the UK and other countries. He had arranged it so that an advertisement for those services appeared on a legitimate website, when individuals were looking at a Prague stag party service provider based in the UK."

He gets a web screen shot out of the folder, puts it on the table in front of me. It shows a popup window in front of some kind of stag party website. The popup couldn't be simpler: no words at all, just an image of a blonde girl's face, shoulders and bare chest, but cropped just above her nipples. So strictly speaking, it's not porn, but obviously guys who are going on a stag trip are going to click on that photo.

"Have you ever seen this advert? Were you aware at all, of Enver Krasniqi at this time?"

"As I have said, no."

"The stag party providers received a fee from him for hosting the image and the link, but none of them bothered to check out what lay behind the link; they just took the money. But the link led to a website which was blatantly offering sexual services in Prague, including several girls at one time for groups of men."

"But that's not necessarily illegal?"

"In this case, the Czech police believe that none of the girls involved in Krasniqi's operation in Prague was a willing participant. They have evidence that all those girls had had threats made against members of their families if they didn't comply. None of them was ever paid, for anything."

"Shit."

"Can you reconfirm, Miss Harlow, that you had no involvement in the UK side of this activity?"

"Absolutely none."

"What we now know is, that those threats were all bluff. There was no evidence that Krasniqi had any criminal connections there, any power to carry out the threats to these girls, except by himself. His business was exposed when he ended up in hospital."

"How?"

"He had a broken neck, although there was no damage to his spinal cord and he made nearly a full recovery. A brother of one of the girls did it. Hospital in Prague, but he managed to avoid prosecution, or deportation back to Kosovo or Albania. The next we know of him, he's in London. So we now move onto Mr Krasniqi in the UK. Have you ever seen this before?"

He shows me another screenshot from a webpage. But this time it's GirlsDirect, and it's open at my profile. Alongside the profile is a popup advert showing a guy embracing a scantily-clad woman, and the words –

"Special Night?

Your new date, she wants to have sex NOW...

Central London, quality hotel rooms at instant notice and discount rates!

Simply call 07334 489 543 and the room is yours!!!"

I look him in the eye, show him that I know that he's trying to pull a fast one here.

"OK, I can guess, that's Krasniqi's number. But that's a popup advert, one I've never seen before. GirlsDirect has loads of popup adverts, viagra suppliers, webcam girls, chat-up advice, penis extensions, Russian brides. They appears randomly to any punter using the website. I've never seen that one before, but there are so many of these ads, it could well have been on the website for months and I'd not have noticed it. I guess that it's the advert that Wycherley happened to see when he was looking at GirlsDirect, and again I'm guessing, but I'm probably right, that he phoned that number, and that's how the room at the Excel Hotel got arranged. There is no connection, none at all, between that popup and my profile or my work."

I look at Rainbow, search his face. Even as I'm talking, I can see that he's thinking: this is going nowhere, better change tack. He opens the folder again, gets out a photo and puts it on the table in front of me.

"Do you recognise this man?"

"Yes. Giles Cheriton."

"Are you aware of any connection between him and Krasniqi?"

"Not at all."

"Have you ever worked at the Soames Hotel, providing sexual services?"

"Yes."

"You're aware, are you, that the Soames Hotel is a brothel as defined in law?"

"No, I'm not. Giles Cheriton told me that because no-one was actually paid to sleep with the guests, we were only paid for the time we spent at the hotel, then it was all legal."

"Both he and you are wrong."

"In that case, so is Ruby Birch, who came with you to the arrest, fuck know why. Who planted that coke in my fucking bag, right under your noses."

"Calm down, please. Ruby Birch was with us because she may be a witness, we interviewed her at the hotel, then we drove direct from the hotel to your flat, and we wanted to take her away from the hotel, for her own safety. She's co-operated very fully with us, and we believe she genuinely wants to help us investigate. She also says that she has had serious concerns about what was happening at the hotel, that she – assisted by another employee, Michael Potter – has been keeping her own records of suspected wrongdoings there for the last three years. That she's only held back from coming to us before because she was afraid, due to threats made by Cheriton."

"She would say that, now, wouldn't she."

"She's given us her records. They're extensive, and our first impression is that they are genuine. We have no reason to doubt the truth of anything Miss Birch has told us."

"Except for her planting drugs in my bag."

"We were there, when she was with you. None of us saw any planting going on. We're not pre-judging anything, but a simpler explanation would be that you were already in possession of those drugs. We'll consider what you say, and investigate it, but for the moment, we have no reason to doubt any part of Miss Birch's account of events, and every reason to doubt yours."

I'm trying to see it from the cops' point of view. I picture myself sitting there on the other side of this desk, looking out through Rainbow's eyes at this shaky, desperate woman. I remember all the different lies and stories I've told him. Then I think back to that view of myself in the mirror at my flat. A scraggy old whore. I compare myself to Ruby. I realise that everything about me is saying to him: Guilty.

"Anyway, Miss Harlow, we're not talking about the drugs yet. We'll come to that issue shortly. Right now, we'd like you to tell us your experiences, your impressions, of the Soames Hotel. Take your time, and give us as much detail as you can."

I tell them. I don't mention Wycherley's phone, or how I found out about the Soames. Then I hear my voice telling them about Cheriton and his casting couch, and how I sneaked a look at their database, and realised that the Soames had a connection with Home Croft, and that I impersonated Devine Cattrell and went there too. I don't mention Tony Cattrell, Jack or Elspeth. But I do tell them that the only girl I've talked to a lot at Soames is Areeya Vesayaporn, and she's a masseur only, nothing to do with any sexual services. An innocent party. And that I've talked a lot to James Goldbeck, and that I'm convinced he's an innocent party too. And I tell them everything I know about so-called Mister Franklin, and that I've googled Evans and his botched operations, that I believe they're one and the same doctor. At the end of it, my mouth is dry with all the talking.

Rainbow goes back to Krasniqi. Like a dog with a bone. "Despite all these things that you claim to have found out, you deny knowing of any connection between Krasniqi and the Soames Hotel, or Home Croft?"

"I don't know of a connection. There might be one – but I think that Wycherley was trying to trace someone. He involved Krasniqi in that, in arranging the hotel room. Apart from that, I don't believe there was a connection. Because if Wycherley made first contact with Krasniqi, and Krasniqi already had some connection with the Soames or with Home Croft, that would be sheer coincidence, wouldn't it?"

I pause, to let him see what I'm saying. They I tell him what I think. "There was a completely different connection. Wycherley got Krasniqi to arrange Room 412 for him because he was searching for someone who had worked at the Soames Hotel. A young girl."

Rainbow is intent now. He stares at me, and I can tell, he's trying to fit pieces together in his mind. I carry on talking.

"I also found out, from a Lithuanian girl who I know only as Jurgita, about another girl at the Soames, called Klaudija, who was there about a year ago. And I believe there was a third too, from Poland, called Agnieszka. I don't know any surnames, I'm afraid. But I asked Cheriton about these names, and he went mad with me, and threw me out."

Rainbow's eyes widen, then narrow. There's a deep furrow between his eyebrows. An intake of breath, and it's like he can't keep his eyes off me, as if he wants to glare his way into my brain, my thoughts. Then suddenly he looks down. He's confused by something, but what? He says in an undertone, to himself "It makes no sense. Why is she saying this?"

"What am I saying? Why can't you make sense of it?"

"Not your business. As I said before when we interviewed you as a witness, you're here to answer questions, not ask them." He's brisk again, trying to cover up his feelings. Pretending this interview is going along just dandy for him. He looks across at Simmonds, but she's out of her depth here. I can tell that he's wishing Pawan was here.

"What you say, Miss Harlow, fits with the facts. I'm just surprised to hear you bring up those names."

"So?"

Silent. He seems genuinely clueless about what to ask next, rubs his forehead, looks into the distance. Simmonds jumps in. Trying to impress him, but he hardly notices, he's lost in his own thoughts.

"Going on to early hours of last Saturday. Do you know either of these men?"

She shows me two photos. I recognise them, all too well.

"Gimp Man and sidekick. That's what I know them as."

"So, you do know them." She's emphasising that, for the tape.

"You could put it like that. Because I was threatened by this one, in my home, a few days ago, and then I was abducted by Krasniqi and both of them. And, if you'd listened to me, they were there, parked right across the road. When you arrested me." I'm frustrated, I start ranting. "Shit, they were even in the same fucking car they used to kill him, if you'd listened to me, there must be some forensic evidence there."

She waits, all superior and mumsy, while I calm down. Then she goes on. "Tell us about this so-called abduction."

I start, telling her first about Krasniqi's demands for money, every detail of the harassment, but as I do, I glance at Rainbow. He's not interested in what I'm saying, or her questions. No: he's thinking about something that's puzzling him. It's something small but important, I think. As if he's found a little thread sticking out of a woolly jumper, and he's pulling it, and the whole thing is unravelling. Simmonds is completely unaware of this. She just keeps asking me questions, and I talk her through the story of how Krasniqi died. She looks unimpressed, as if she knows I'm lying. When I've finished she says

"I put it to you that everything you've told me is lies, apart from the fact of you all four being in the car together and going to Alexandra Palace. What really happened was that, in collusion with you, these two men, Mark Johnson and Douglas McKay, located Mr Krasniqi, and got him to drive, at gunpoint, to your home, where they picked you up. Then the three of you forced him to drive on to Alexandra Palace, where they killed him."

"So, if they were going to kill him, and I was in on it, why did they need me? There was no need for me to be in that car."

"You wanted to see that the job was done. That they'd done your work for you."

" _My_ work? You think they were under instruction from _me_?"

"So, you admit that?"

"No way. That's a crazy idea. How would I be able to employ two hitmen? Go to Assassins R Us dot com?"

Her thick lips are a straight, scornful line. "Everything fits together, Miss Harlow. You knew Krasniqi already, due to his advertising on your prostitution website. You got him to arrange Room 412 at the Excel Hotel, knowing that that floor of the hotel would be unused and quiet. You met Wycherley there, then you slip to the bathroom while he is killed. You come out, see that the work is done, you leave. Then you find out that Krasniqi has been talking to the police. So, you get Johnson and McKay to burn his flat, to threaten him. When that doesn't work, all three of you kill him."

I can't reply. She's convinced – and, I now realise, all the cops are, except perhaps Pawan – that I was in on the whole thing.

"There's no motive." I say dully. I'm surprised at the low, level tone of my voice. Like I'm recovering my reason, at last.

"You're closely linked to both crimes. We know that the Soames is illegal, and you worked there. You admit knowing the names of the girls who disappeared, although you've fabricated a story about how you know about them."

"I only worked there for a couple of weeks – and Cheriton – he knows..." I trail off there, because I know that to mention Cheriton is purely defensive, it won't help me, it just puts me on the back foot. There's something bigger, something I need to say, but I can't quite discern it in the jumble of information in my mind. Slowly, slowly, unpick the facts. I recall a story that Kenneth Cropper once told me. A Ghurkha parachutist jumped from an aeroplane, but his chute didn't open, it was tangled. As he fell towards his death, he picked away, carefully, logically. He untangled the cords, the chute opened. He lived.

Simmonds carries on regardless of my silence, the fact that both Rainbow and I are now sunk in thought. "You mention Giles Cheriton. Firstly, I can tell you that we already have a statement from Ruby Birch. She decided to come to us when she learnt that you might have a connection with those three girls."

"You mean, Cheriton told her, and told her to come here and report me."

"No. At first she asked if she could give a statement privately, for us to look into. She didn't want Mr Cheriton to know that she was coming to us. Because he had repeatedly made threats to her, as apparently he does to all the employees, that they are at risk of violence if they say anything about what goes on there."

"Yeah, he had that little talk with me too. More than once."

"So that's Miss Birch's account. We do believe that some of her information about you was not gathered by her, but is based on suspicions shared, in confidence with her, by Giles Cheriton. We believe that he was reluctant to involve the police. Now, as part of our investigation into the Soames Hotel, we have questioned him closely, and he has been co-operative. He genuinely believes that you are involved in those disappearances. He even admits to breaking into your flat to find evidence to prove your involvement."

"It was _him_?"

"Yes. That's why it was such a mess: he searched everywhere: bedding, kitchen cupboards, any possible hiding place. He was looking for any clue about what you might be doing – it could have been on something as small as a memory stick. He admits that he took money from your flat, which he believed you had been given, against his will, by Ruby Birch.

But, Mr Cheriton – he states to us that although he understands that he may be convicted of prostitution offences, and the burglary, he had nothing to do with the disappearance of those three girls. That he was shocked and surprised when he realised that there might be a pattern, rather than three unrelated girls leaving the Soames, disappearing from contact. He burgled your flat, searched so desperately, because he connects that pattern, those disappearances, to you, Miss Harlow."

I feel like I'm suffocating, all her words are like a pillow she's pressing over my mouth, my nose, I can't breathe.

"When we went to the Soames Hotel and interviewed him, we also recovered your ipad, which Mr Cheriton took from your flat because he believed it might have evidence on it. We – agree with him. We are currently looking at the files on your ipad. They may provide further evidence – you yourself will know to what extent."

"But – Miss Simmonds, what if Cheriton's faking evidence, planted false information on my ipad? ... No-one I've met trusts him, absolutely no-one."

"You're starting to sound like a conspiracy-theory, Miss Harlow. Which is not very convincing. We believe that Mr Cheriton is telling the truth. So – if you come clean now, and you tell us the names of the other people involved, it can only help you. There's someone behind you, someone who is paying you, using you, just as you are paying McKay and Johnson. We have conclusive forensic evidence that you were at both murder scenes. You yourself volunteered the names of the three girls. You simply can't deny involvement."

"I didn't."

"Just denying it is not going to help you."

I speak, with difficulty, because it feels like my tongue doesn't work. "No, what I mean is, I didn't volunteer the names of all three girls. I only gave the names of Klaudija and Agnieszka, the two girls that Jurgita, and then Giles Cheriton, told me about. Although I do know about the third girl. Lucy. And I think I know who she is."

"This – unverifiable story – it's not going to help you."

Suddenly, Rainbow interrupts her. "This interview is suspended."

He looks tired, the answer to the question he's grappling with still eludes him. But it clear that he's had enough of Simmonds and her line of questioning. He switches off the machine, stands up, brings me a fresh cup of water, and I get a break.

The police cell reminds me of the lift at the Excel Hotel, a little cube-shaped room where I'm away from what's going on, from the shit that's happening. After about an hour they bring me food, and I'm glad of it. Once I've eaten, they let me walk in the yard, which is a bigger cube, tall walls on four sides. The sun's right overhead now, shining down onto me and my little shadow on the concrete. Then back into the cell. The next time they let me out, the shadow's longer. And again back into the cell: more time passes. I wonder what they're doing.

It's nine o'clock, and they take me back to the interview room. Simmonds has gone. Instead, I see a familiar face. DS Pawan reads her own name, Rainbow's, and mine, into the tape machine.

"Miss Harlow, can you tell me everything you know about the surgeon, Mr Evans, also known as Mr Franklin?"

I go over it all again. I tell them about my consultation with him, even down to the way he told me to undress, the way he felt my boobs without gloves. His manner. Then I say

"Someone I know described Franklin – Evans – as 'Peter Quint'."

Rainbow looks blank, but Pawan seems to be processing that information. She speaks.

"So – what do you understand by that name?"

"The book said he was a horror."

"A horror. An apparition, an uncanny thing, something that fills the beholder with terror. Do you know the story?"

"No."

"A governess – a private teacher – is assigned to two children living in a remote country house. She sees strange things, and begins to believe that the house is haunted, and the two children are possessed by Peter Quint and Miss Jessel, two former teachers. It ends badly, of course."

"And is it? Haunted?"

"That's one way to read the book, but there are other ways of reading it, as a sort of psychological memoir, or testament. The narrator is a troubled soul – she talks of 'disturbing news from home' and there are hints – the slightest hints – in her narrative that she is – mentally ill. One reading of the story is that she sees the children as innocents, but they are destined to grow up, of course. She sees this as being 'corrupted' – they will become adults, sexual beings, and follow in the footsteps of Quint and Jessel. Or, the evil in her mind is, as it were, projected, by her, onto the imaginary beings of Quint and Jessel. On that reading, the whole story happens in her head. In which case, Quint is maybe the evil in all of us."

"I'm not sure I understand all that. But I feel it, having met Mr Evans."

"Feel it?"

"Feel – a sense of – I don't know, I don't know." I hold my head in my hands, close my eyes. I see Evans's face. "Yes. I do know, Mrs Pawan. A sense of all that you could do – if you lived without rules. Seeing everything and everyone as your own personal plaything. Exciting, a sense of power. I can still feel a touch of that power, even now."

Her brown eyes gaze closely at me, but she seems to be speaking from faraway. "If you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you."

A minute of silence. I can tell Rainbow's losing patience. He asked for Pawan's help, I guess – but these ramblings are not what he wanted from her. His eye is on the clock. In just over half an hour, they will have to either charge me or release me.

**22 Tuesday 8 August**

It's gone midnight as I walk up Stroud Green Road. A clammy mist has come down: that grayness that I first saw in Green Park has eaten up our summer.

I think of the other times I've been here, my home streets, in the dark. One: after Wycherley died, when my angel guided me. Two: when I was walking home, and Krasniqi phoned me. Three: when the Audi came and Johnson and sidekick took me away and killed Krasniqi. And now, after being released by the police, charged only with possession of a Class A drug.

I open the street door, walk upstairs, unlock the door of my flat. That's odd: it's dark inside. I put the light on, call out.

"Jazz!"

No reply. I call again. Only an hour ago, I phoned her from the police station, told her they were letting me go. She said she'd wait up for me. I feel a chill as I call her mobile. Someone answers.

"We thought you'd call."

"Who – is – this?"

"We've met before, Holly. I told you that you and your friend were done for, if you spoke to the cops. And then, we saw you going away with them. We watched you, Holly, getting into a police car. So we knew, that she was left in the flat alone. We paid her a little visit."

"What have you done with her?"

Click.

I know where I have to go. I call a taxi, and it seem a lifetime, waiting the five minutes for it to arrive. At last, it's here. Camden Road, Regent's Park, Westway, Shepherd's Bush, Hammersmith, Barnes. Once past Camden, there's almost no traffic, but the suburbs are like a telescope opening out and out, going on and on forever. At last: the cab slows in the driveway of the Soames, I'm thrusting a wad of money at the driver, opening the door, stepping out.

I see Cheriton at the door of the Soames.

"Where is she, Giles?"

He looks genuinely surprised.

"Where's Jazz, you shit? You came to our flat, you stole our stuff, you bastard. Now what have you done?"

He steps back into the hotel lobby. "I thought you were in police custody." I follow him over the threshold.

"Wrong. They let me go. You got Ruby to plant coke on me, didn't you? Like so much of your dirty work, you get her to do it."

I hear another car, gravel scattering in the driveway.

"You're hardly the one to go round accusing me, Holly." I can see him, eyeing the other doorways off the lobby. He wants to run away from me.

The car engine stops. Movement behind me: a shadow falls across my back. A moment later, my upper arms are gripped, so hard I catch my breath. I kick behind me. Bad move. I'm pushed to the floor, my face in the carpet. The back of my head is held, pushing me down, crushing my nose sideways into the floor. I cry out in pain.

"Shall I kill her?"

"Yes."

Moments pass by. Out of the corner of one eye, I can see the floor stretch away from me, the pattern in the carpet. Cheriton's office door must be open: I can hear his clock ticking.

"Don't". Cheriton's voice.

"I'll phone them. I'll ask what we do now." Johnson's voice. So it must be his sidekick, McKay the cops said he was called, holding me down. I could never believe anyone could be so strong; just his grip on my arms is like burning. How can he shoot me, down here on the floor? Maybe he'll knife me. I saw what he did to Wycherley: in a few seconds, I'll look like that too. We're all just meat, I think.

"Is she injured?" That's Johnson.

"No." I have long sleeves on; God knows what this guy's grip on me would feel like on bare arms.

"OK."

An age passes by while I wonder what that "OK" means. I can hear Johnson saying "Yes... Yes... OK." into his phone. Someone is giving him instructions. Cheriton's shoes hove into my limited view. Why is he just standing there? I wrench my head, and manage to look up. I see Cheriton's white face, like chalk. He's looking down the barrel of the gun held by Johnson. Then my face is pushed back down again.

"You. Mister Hotel Manager. You listen to me."

"I'm listening."

"Do you backup to the cloud?"

"Of course not. I've been destroying records. The police, they've been here. But I was ahead of them, they didn't get our records. They'll never recover anything now."

"Anything you've not destroyed?"

"No. We're clear. The police..."

"I don't fucking care about the police. Nothing happened here, you didn't see us, right?"

"It's a deal."

There's a noise, one I've never heard before. I see Cheriton's legs crumple, and then his jacket, his torso, his flailing arms come into view as he falls. I can hear whimpering, then Johnson's voice.

"Deal. Don't fucking talk about deals. You do what we say, and be glad to be alive."

I wrest my head round. Johnson's rubbing the knuckles on the hand holding the gun, and I realise he's hit Cheriton across the face with the gun. I look back to Cheriton. One cheek is a mess of blood.

"Do – you – fucking – understand?"

More whimpering. "Yes". Crying to himself.

"OK, get her up." I can see that the gun's pointed at me, now. The grip eases, and I can stand.

"You come with us."

The gun's against my neck. Despite that, I'm not gripped or pushed now. My arms are sore, my nose hurts from the floor, but I'm unhurt, I think.

"What are you going to do with me?"

Johnson doesn't bother to talk to me. The gun does the talking: moving me towards the car, into the back seat this time. I can still hear Cheriton, crying properly now that the danger has receded. Johnson gets in beside me, and Cheriton's noise is suddenly shut off by the car door. The gun muzzle is under my chin now; if the trigger goes, so does my face. Would I still be alive, I wonder, if the bullet didn't go into my skull, my brain? If instead, it just blew my mouth and chin off? Would it hurt, or would I be unconscious?

The car's moving. McKay is driving us towards the city.

I hear an odd banging noise. I daren't move, not even angle my head. I listen intently.

Someone's in the car boot.

"Who is it? Who have you got there?"

"Just a woman."

She's still alive.

Would he shoot me right here in the car, for talking? No.

"Jazz, Jazz."

Johnson looks straight ahead; I can feel his grip on the gun tighten, but no, it's not worth it to kill me right now. If they shot me, the car would have to stop, they'd have to deal with Jazz too. They're driving along side roads where they can, but there's CCTV everywhere in London. They need to take me, without any incidents, to where they're going.

"JAZZ!"

"Shut up, you silly bitch. Her mouth is taped. So are her wrists and ankles. So you two can't chat to each other."

And you're taking us to somewhere – to kill us both together."

"No." He seems weary suddenly, as if he might as well tell me something. "We will deal with you. I'd be happy to blow your head off, I'd enjoy it. But that may not happen. You have an option."

"What?"

"You'll see. Then, once we have dealt with you, if you do what we say, then – she knows nothing. We may let her go. If you don't do what we say – we'll fucking burn this car, with her in it."

I can sense a lie in his voice; they don't really plan to let Jazz go, whether I do what they want or not. But I have to go along with this. I have to see what the next situation might bring, what chance it might throw up.

A huge black thing, like a giant tin can, looms up in the sky. It's a gasometer. Then Battersea Power Station slides into view from behind it. The four chimneys stand up against the sky like dead fingers. All the time I can feel the barrel of the gun on my neck. But it feels almost gentle, it doesn't press my skin. Like he doesn't want it to leave a mark. I wonder what's coming. I see Millbank Tower, Lambeth Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, and below them all, the river.

We're crossing Westminster Bridge, I see the glitter of lights reflected in the water, Big Ben rising up ahead of us. I think of Jack Downes. McKay turns the wheel, we curve right onto the Embankment. Cleopatra's Needle goes past my window. The car pulls over. We're under Waterloo Bridge.

The gun's still at my neck. "Get out." I open the door, step out, and all the time I can feel the muzzle on my skin. No chance to escape, even here at the very centre of the capital. It must be about 3am, there's no-one about. I glance around for CCTV, but I can see none. Gun to the back of my head, I walk away from the car, away from the helpless struggling I can still hear coming from the boot. We're in deep shadow where the road goes under the arch of the bridge. I know this place.

"Fucking move along." They're both out of the car now, shepherding me over towards the platform I saw before, where the tramps sleep. But we don't go up the steps. To the left of the platform, in the deepest shadow, is the stone wall, and below it, I know that there's that funny concrete alcove, the slime-covered step next to the water.

Gun still pointed at my head, I'm doing what they want me to do: I'm climbing over the wall, dropping down to the little platform, into blackness. As I drop I memorise the feel of the wall: a little ledge, maybe a centimetre wide, about five feet below the parapet. As my feet touch the floor they slide: it's every bit as slippery as it looked when I saw it with Rainbow. But now it's utterly dark, I can't see my surroundings at all, it's like I've got my eyes tight shut. I try to stand. I kick my shoes off: stockings give better grip. The water is higher than the other day: it laps the edge of the step. The soles of my feet are wet.

Johnson's been clever. Although they can't keep the gun trained on me, down in this square recess with its blank walls, I can't escape from them as they both half-slide, half-jump down the walls. The three of us are together in the concrete alcove now. The only light is out over the river: here and there an oily glisten on the sleek black water.

"Lots of suicides here."

I'm silent.

"You're going to be one too, Holly Harlow. Another body in the river. The cops already think you're in on those murders. So when they find your body, they'll guess that you chose to do this rather than face the trial. They can close their files on all this. Or, we can shoot you and push you in anyway."

I don't answer: I'm thinking.

"You see, this river is not that fast or deep. You have a chance to survive, if you can keep your head above water for a few hours. A very small chance. But better than a bullet."

I realise that they can see me, silhouetted against light from across the river, but I can't see them: they are standing against the wall in the blackness. All I can see of them is a dim sheen on the gun barrel, gesturing me towards the edge.

I realise: they won't shoot me. Because they can easily push me in, and this place is so slippery...

I dive flat onto the wet concrete between them. I feel for, and grab, one of their legs in each hand, and my body, flattened out, gives just enough grip in this treacherous, slithering place for me to pull hard: pull them both over. One of them punches for me but he hits the other one, who's fallen in front of him.

In front of me is the blank concrete wall, but I know that there, in the dark, is that tiny ledge: I feel for it, get my fingers on it, pull up. Stockinged feet give a good grip; better than their boot soles. My toes press into the stonework. I feel hands grabbing for me, but it's pitch-black, they can't see me, and their feet are slipping on the slime; they flail and miss me. I push my feet right into the wall, pull myself up, the effort feels like my guts will bust, but I've got a hand to the parapet. I pull, pull and as the thugs scrabble to their feet, I'm over the wall.

I run towards the car. This is it: my chance to open the boot. Maybe they've even left the car keys in: but no, the keys are gone and the boot's locked. Back door, get the back seats down? But then I hear the footsteps, I see them running back to the car.

"Forgive me" I breathe, as I take my one chance. I run for the shadows beyond the car, where the road runs back towards Westminster. There's a pavement, and dark beyond it: iron railings. Maybe four feet high. I'm over them in a moment. I'm in a little park. It must be the park near that café where I waited for Rainbow: the Embankment Gardens. Lots of bushes. I can already see Johnson and McKay, silhouetted at the railings, as I scrabble off into the undergrowth, away from the path that runs through the gardens.

I keep absolutely still and hold my breath. I can hear my thumping heart: it's a mad thought, but I'm scared they'll hear it too. I can hear then talking to each other.

I crane my head back. Behind me, the other side of the path that I've just come from, is a lighter shape, perhaps a gap in the trees, a way out? No, it's a human form: a statue. My eyes are adjusting to the light and I can now see, it's a memorial to some old bloke with a half-naked woman throwing herself in front of him. Even in this situation, I find myself thinking: same as it ever was – rich old guys, pretty women.

I can't move or make a sound. Fuck, they've got a torch. They shine it on the shrubs that hide me, the light nearly touches me. But when you shine a torch, you miss everything that it's not shining on. I'm only a few feet back in the bushes, and the beam misses me. Then the beam sweeps again, closer, but then further away. As it carries on swishing across the bushes, I think, for the hundredth time: _why, of all the escorts in London, did Wycherley pick me_?

My breathing's far too loud. Plus, I hear my question about Wycherley in my head, like a real voice is saying it out loud. _Why did he pick me?_ As if I'm hearing the question spoken for very the first time.

And it's like I'm hearing my own voice, answering the question. Yes, yes. I can explain it all.

Wycherley said "May I ask you a personal question?" I now know what that question would have been. I know what happened to Agnieszka, Klaudija and Lucy, I know how and why Wycherley was killed, why Cheriton got so scared of me, why Krasniqi was killed, and why Rainbow got so unsettled in that last interview. And I know what was said in Johnson's phone call at the Soames, and why these bastards were trying to kill me the way that they did, in the river.

I almost laugh out loud at the thought that I've finally put all the jigsaw pieces together, and they all fit, but no-one else will ever know, because I'll be dead.

The torch beam slides round, away from me: they're now searching through the bushes on the far side of the park, next to the statue. This is my chance. I shimmy one arm forward, checking that it makes no sound. Then the other arm, then one knee. I'm hugging the ground, covered in mud, but I'm moving. I glance back. They're still near the statue. I crawl a little further. Now I can see their outlines get bigger, they're crossing to this side of the path, back toward these bushes that hide me. The torch beam starts swishing about again. I crawl a little further, branches and roots jutting into my face, my boobs, my knees. Glance back again: they've not spotted me. The ground slopes upwards and I creep up it like a snake. Over the top of a muddy lip of ground. There are less bushes, less cover here, but the other side slopes down steeply to more railings, and I realise, the top of those railings is below me. Therefore, it's below their line of sight. I drop to the railings, swing over them.

Suddenly, I can see light; a lot of light. A huge, curving canopy of lights: glittering glass, brass, mahogany. Marble walls, maybe. I read huge letters: SAVOY.

It's the back door of the hotel: it's locked. I hammer on the glass, then I notice a bell, press it hard. Glancing back, the two guys are clambering over the railings, they're on the pavement now. Johnson is in front, he holds the gun out in front of him with both hands. I move from side to side: all I can do now is make it harder for him to aim. He's thirty, twenty feet from me now, getting closer. I hear a click; the muzzle points at my head. I look directly down the barrel.

"Holly?"

A man's voice behind me. A familiar voice. The door is unlocked: keeping my eyes on the gun, I step backwards through it. I look out at the two black shapes on the pavement, then I turn away, into the hotel. I feel something that's beyond any description: I'm going to live.

"Martin. God I'm glad to see you. But sorry, there's no time to explain. I need to make a call."

"Those guys – was that a gun? Shall I call 999?"

"No. Have you got your mobile on you?" I call Rainbow's number. It's the first time in my life that I'm glad to hear Rainbow's voice.

The police car is, I'm surprised to see, driven by Pawan. Rainbow's in the back seat, with another cop in uniform. Pawan beckons me to the front passenger door, I get in, look at her. Her seat's moved right forward so she can reach the pedals.

"Police Emergency Response Driver course. Top of class." She smiles and me, and I smile back. "And you've got a job, Holly, you're co-pilot. Chris has to be back seat driver today, because I need you in the front for the detailed directions when we get there."

"Mrs Pawan – "

"Geeta."

"You understand what I said on the phone, didn't you? Like I said then, I know exactly who is behind all this, and why they did it."

"You did indeed say that. I _believe_ you: I don't yet _understand_ you."

I tell her a bit more detail, enough to show that yes, there's only one possible explanation for all that's happened. While she breaks every speed limit she listens, occasionally nodding: we weave through Soho, Marylebone, then past the Central Mosque, Swiss Cottage, Hampstead, Brent Cross, onto the North Circular and the M1. I hear Rainbow's voice constantly on his mobile, talking to others, directing, co-ordinating. Orange glow through the murk: a slow, misty dawn is coming up behind us as we leave London behind. I feel a hand touch my shoulder, turn round. Rainbow looks into my eyes, he's about to say something.

His phone rings. He answers it, and puts the call onto the car speaker. We hear a voice coming through from another unit.

"Raid on Home Croft in progress. Records and information being collected, two suspects arrested. Chief suspect is not on the premises, believed to be absconded."

It seems only five minutes, and we're at the village that I remember. The ducks. And yes, I'm needed. The police satnav doesn't show the right way, and I point out the little lane between the two thatched cottages. "We go up there. Then, keep right at a fork. About half a mile into the woods, we reach the top of the hill, and there's an iron gate there leading into the Home Croft grounds."

The woods, the fork in the road. Shreds of mist, like smoke, cling to the trees. We follow the road as it curves to the right, uphill, fast. My tummy feels like I'm on a fairground ride. And suddenly Pawan slams on the brakes, hard but not quite fast enough. A man appears from nowhere, from the undergrowth, straight in front of us. He's running downhill through the woods, across the line of the road, not looking where he's going. He catches the wing of the car. The braking's so strong that the impact is not hard: he falls back, he looks winded but not hurt. We all open the car doors. Rainbow gets out, takes a step forward.

"Mr Evans. I'm arresting you for the suspected murder of Klaudija Butkienė. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence..."

I look at him, try to recognise the man I met. I see only a middle-aged, gray-haired man, sweating, speechless, overdressed in pinstripe. Something's gone from his face, his manner. Whatever it was, that thing about him that gave me the creeps, has disappeared. We're all out of the car, but Rainbow and the uniformed cop are handling Evans, they're completely in command. Geeta and I stand back. But I have a question.

"Where was Evans running to?"

I look downhill. Geeta understands what I'm thinking.

"The other fork. I'll reverse the car."

She gets back into the car: I leave it to her. I'll use my feet instead. I've still got no shoes on, which is good: torn stockings give a good grip on the earth, the weeds and grass under the trees as I run and slide down the bank towards the lower road. In thirty seconds, I can see it below me. A black Audi A6 saloon. The boot is up.

I stop for a moment, heart-in-mouth. My eyes scan the car's driver and passenger seats. It's empty. Are they here, nearby? Then I hear the police car coming along the road, slowing to a stop, blocking the Audi's escape. Another car follows it, four uniformed cops in it. I can see Geeta getting out of the first cop car. She's looking hard at something... someone?

I step down the last bit of the slope onto the road, and then I see her, standing a few yards from the Audi.

"Jazz."

Her eyes are hunted, hollow as she looks at me.

"Holly."

"Jazz, the same thing has happened to us both. I never got the chance to tell you, but I had a phone call the other day, from a guy who told me he was just a punter, he just wanted a booking. But he lied. He's actually a murderer, and he's called Mark Johnson.

It happened to you, too. You had a phone call, too, didn't you? From a guy who told you he was just a punter, but like my guy, he was lying. Because he was interested in something else. He'd looked at a profile on GirlsDirect, but he wasn't really after sex. He was interested in you. Difficult.

But the difference between my fake punter and yours is that when yours rang, and asked for a booking, he didn't come up on your phone as an unknown number. He came up on your phone as a Contact – called, I guess, something like 'Lucy's Dad'. A contact from the time when you let a friend use your phone, to call her father.

And because you knew your caller's real name, you lied to him about your own real name. You told him you were called Holly. 'I'm the Girl Next Door, you said, thanks for reading my profile, hope you like what you see, honey. All you need to do now is make a booking with me. Go to my profile on the website, click on Book Now, fill in the details. Later on, you can add the outcall location you want me to come to, as soon as you know it, and I'll see you there. Can't wait to meet you, touch you, babe.'

And of course he believed you, because your phone number, the one he'd called, is listed along with mine on my GirlsDirect profile."

Her eyes don't change, as if she knew all along we would meet like this, that I would say these things to her.

I call over my shoulder. "Geeta, go over to the car. Our victim is still in the boot."

I hold Jazz's empty gaze. Geeta's at the Audi now.

"Hell, you're right, Holly. She seems OK, she's struggling to get free. Just tape on her wrists, mouth and ankles. I'm taking the tape off now. I don't think she's been hurt, and she's still fully clothed."

"Fully clothed. That's quite funny. Because that girl in the boot, she used to call herself PantiesOff."

**23 Saturday 23 October**

Well this is a treat. Geeta's letting me drive.

It's not official business. She's got someone she needs to visit, and I just fancied a day out. But mostly, we both want to chat over what we've been through. She's got the day off, and I've hired the car. An Audi A6 in fact. Joy of joys, it's got satnav. Which I'll need: I've never been to Bristol.

"It's Clevedon actually, Holly."

"Bristol, Clevedon, all the same to me. Postcode is in the satnav. The satnav lady's voice will tell me what to do. I just listen and drive."

"Before we set off, I've got something for you."

She hands me an envelope, with the one word 'Holly' scrawled on it. I open it. It's a card, picture of flowers on it. I read what's written inside.

"Holly. I wanted to say this in the police car on the way to Home Croft.

I'm sorry.

I admit it, I was prejudiced by your 'occupation'. I had a stereotype, based on no knowledge at all.

I thought I was doing my job, and sometimes that involves us being a bit hard on suspects. But in this case, at times I was less than professional.

Please accept my apologies – and also, my thanks for all you did for us on this case.

Chris."

It's half an hour later. We're onto the M4, heading out of London. A dull, murky day, spits and spots of rain now and then, but some people are still thinking of holidays: I'm overtaking a caravan, a big sticker, I ♥ Newquay, across its back window. I think of Mr Attwell. I wonder if he'll ever get Derek as far as Europe? Geeta waits while I concentrate on the road, then starts speaking.

"You said to me, Holly, that you put the pieces of this case together like a jigsaw in your mind. Now the whole jigsaw's nearly complete. You and I each have lots of pieces, but we need to share them to understand it all. And the first thing I want to know is, how you knew it was Jurgita Žukauskienė in the boot of that car?"

"So that's her real name, what a mouthful. Better name than PantiesOff though."

"Do you ever say panties? Sounds American to me."

"I say pants... or knickers. I get the odd john who talks about panties. Maybe it's a punter thing." I grin at her. "Anyway, the car boot – I was guessing when I said it would be her in there, but it was a confident guess. I'd given Jazz her address. Jurgita had visited us, Jazz had talked to her. Jurgita said that Jazz listened, a lot, in her usual caring way. So Jazz knew she was another Lithuanian orphan, just like Klaudija. No-one would care, hardly anyone would notice, that she'd disappeared. She was ideal for what they needed."

All the traffic's bunching into the fast lane. It's the usual: one lorry doing 57mph overtaking another doing 56mph, and everyone else has to get into the outside lane to get around them. I focus on the road for a bit, start speaking again once we're past them.

"I also guessed that they'd taken Jurgita before they got the alert that the police might raid the Soames – and could find evidence that would sink them all. Once they knew that, they had to hang onto Jurgita, to stop her talking. So they put her in the boot of the car."

"That fits with our reconstruction of events. While they still had Jurgita in the car boot, Johnson and McKay went to the Soames, to check what evidence the police actually had managed to get hold of. And it was at the Soames that Johnson and McKay bumped into you."

"Those two names. I'm starting to think of them as a double act on the telly. Like the Chuckle Brothers."

"Funny you should call them that. Like they're The Famous Five – but in this case they were The Crap Two. See, what makes detectives' work hard, usually, is not criminals being ingenious. Oh no. It's exactly the opposite: criminals who are the Chuckle Brothers, who are incompetent, who leave random bits of evidence, too many clues, all pointing different ways, so that you can't see the wood for the trees. Johnson and McKay were typical. Like that knife for instance. They thought they were being clever, they took great care there were no prints on it, but then they stupidly went and tried to hide it where we were pretty much sure to find it. To us, as the police, when we found it dumped among the hotel rubbish... it seemed sensible to assume that someone had thrown it there in a panic, simply because it wasn't disposed of properly. Their stupidity led us the wrong way. Finding the knife in the garbage, it led Chris, in particular, to believe that it was not a planned, pre-meditated murder. Which made us suspect you again, of course."

"Johnson and McKay were just doing a job, and taking their pay. That's my impression of them."

"I shouldn't say this, Holly, but we've got information, we expect to catch those two goons within a day or two. We know that after abandoning Jasmine Cairns and the Audi in that woodland, they got to a nearby village, stole a car, and then they turn up on CCTV at Milton Keynes station, boarding a northbound train. We weren't able to trace where they got off the railway network, but of course it was easy to guess that they're lying low with their mates in Manchester. We've now got hard evidence of exactly where they're hiding. And once we've got them, and got information from them, we'll have our complete set of evidence to proceed against Evans and Cairns, and against a couple of other Home Croft staff who were working with Evans – but we expect those to plead that Evans put them under duress. Knowing what we do of Johnson and McKay, they'll be all too willing, once they're nicked, to drop Evans and Cairns right in it. So expect the trial soon. And, as you'll definitely be a witness – this conversation of ours – it isn't happening."

"Of course it isn't. But there's something I don't understand. What was the connection between Evans and our Crap Two?"

"Johnson has a conviction for a truly evil GBH, and McKay a conviction for battering a teenage boy. They met in prison, got out at about the same time, and used Johnson's connections to get work, enforcing protection rackets in Manchester. They had connections with football clubs too, visiting women – and sometimes men – who threatened to kiss-and-tell about the antics of various footballers. One of the footballers who used them, he broke both arms of a girl at the Soames, she was taken to Home Croft. We have a witness – a receptionist at Home Croft has come forward, and is willing to testify that Evans did the surgery on that girl. Anyway, it was after that incident that Evans got his first visit from Johnson and McKay.

You can guess what happened when those two went to Evans' house. What he said to them, we'll never know, but after that, Johnson and McKay spent most of their time working for Evans. As you know from talking to Elspeth Corr, over the past few years records have been changed, so that the struck-off, discredited Mr Evans has almost disappeared from all official information. That means that people have altered records, databases, files. People out there somewhere who were doing their everyday jobs, sitting at a computer, going home to their kids, but then they got a house call from two very nasty guys. So those people, whoever they were, they were scared for themselves and their families, they went into work, they changed the records."

"Threats, then, rather than actual violence."

"There's a funny parallel with what was going on at the Soames – all those vague threats that Cheriton dished out, Holly, to you and others. There was actually nothing to back it up. Even the rumours that a previous manager had disappeared... Cheriton started that story himself. So as to make his staff that little bit scared. Some of the members believed it too. But we've found nothing to show that the Soames was anything more than an up-market brothel. Cheriton owns it, you know – he's worth about ten million, and he's tied most of it up in that place, all for one purpose – so he can play his little games. He started it with his public-school connections, many of them became members, and it grew from there. It's not owned by any gangland boss, no thugs lurking in the background... just the rumour that they existed. And also, a bit like Krasniqi's ventures into pimping: his threats too were all bluff. Criminals: they gain much of their power by convincing people that they're more powerful, more capable, than they actually are. I watch detective stuff on the telly, and it annoys me: whenever I see some master-criminal skilfully laying false trails for the police, I think: nonsense. Even Johnson and McKay: once it came to carrying out a real, planned murder, they were very typical criminals. That is to say: they were crap at it."

"So it wasn't all one way then, with Evans and those two. Evans fooled them somehow into working for him – but they fooled him into thinking they were up to the job. He might be intimidating, and totally unafraid of violent criminals. But I guess even he had a weakness: he didn't have the knowledge or experience to know whether they were actually any good at what they did. Services?"

"Uh?"

"Motorway services. I could do with a coffee."

The Starbucks is quiet. The place is a mess: stains on every table, abandoned cups, cold, half-drunk. A girl in a daydream is pretending to clear one table in the far corner. My coffee's not that good: give me Brucciani's any day. Geeta has a tea, she's drinking it quickly. She casts her eyes round the tables. I can tell that she'd like to be gone from here, she's nervous about getting overheard, about our voices carrying. So I ask her about an innocent party. Ruby.

"Ruby. I feel sorry for her. She needed that job. You know, don't you, that Ruby is from Tower Hamlets? Two generations of her family were – still are – on benefits. She got herself to university, she was ambitious for a good career. She'd applied unsuccessfully for over a hundred jobs. She changed her accent, her style of dress. She got the job at the Soames believing it was hotel administration, then she found out she was merely" – she drops her voice – "the boss's Girl Friday at a brothel. I don't think it was so much a moral problem for her" – I raise an eyebrow at her, and she smiles back – "but it was another big dent in her confidence. She'd like to believe in herself – she tried to pretend that her job was a stepping-stone to a better future. But of course, she knew deep down that it wasn't, and that she was selling out to Cheriton, and her career was going nowhere at the same time. I think she veered between anger at Cheriton and bouts of trying to prove to him that she was highly capable. Anyway, Cheriton had a Man Friday too, of course. Michael Potter."

"What a sad man. He told me he was at school with Cheriton, but it had all gone wrong for him, he was broke, he needed work. Cheriton exploited that, enjoyed employing him as one of his little minions."

"Yes, he's pitiful. A lost soul. Maybe he'll be able to move on in his life after he gives evidence at the trial. Get the Soames out of his system, restart himself. The ancient Greeks, they had a word for it. Catharsis. Potter needs catharsis. He believes he's moral, but actually he was just massively jealous of all the sex and money and egotism that surrounded him, even though he could see how shallow it was. And every day Cheriton rubbed his nose in it. So the two of them, Ruby and Michael, they both hated what they were seeing – they shared their misgivings. Had lots of little secret chats together. They kept a record of everything they saw. But they needed to hold on to their jobs, neither dared to go to the police. They're both full of anger, but they lack courage. They even convinced themselves that when girls were getting hurt, it was better to hang on, keep pretending, keep adding to their records, rather than simply come to us."

"I guess you can put their records together with the other information you found at the Soames? Enough to put Cheriton behind bars?"

She looks around, and I guess she'd rather have this conversation in the car. I take another sip of my coffee, and decide to leave the rest of it. I pop to the skanky Ladies', then we walk back across the car park to the Audi. Satnav Woman says "Rejoin the M4 Westbound..." Geeta talks over her.

"We've recovered some of the information. Cheriton tried his best to destroy records. He lied to Johnson and McKay about that. The Soames did backup information to the cloud: he deleted it, but we've recovered it. But there's not a lot of useful information there. From the police point of view, the worst thing is that he burnt the hard drive of their office computer, and that was the only place, we think, that held their membership database. So we're reliant on Ruby and Michael's records, plus trying to track down some girls who've left. For instance, we probably won't have enough evidence to charge Josh Borrowdale with anything. _Green and Pleasant Land_ keeps pulling in the TV ratings, it's more popular than ever."

"No idea why. I thought it was shit even before I knew about Borrowdale's antics."

"That's why you're not a telly critic, Holly... Regarding the digital evidence, Cheriton told us that Potter, not him, had burnt the hard drive, but that's clearly nonsense, because Potter's been totally co-operative with us. But even though that disk is destroyed, the key evidence against Evans – on one of the two ipads which Cheriton stole from your flat... it's 100% OK. The essential information about what happened at Home Croft and the other murders is all there in full detail: we've been able to access the email accounts and everything from Cairns' ipad. Her emails to Evans and to Johnson and McKay, including instructions to kill Wycherley and to kill Krasniqi, plus full details about all the girls."

"I remember how Jazz behaved, after the burglary. She was always calm in any crisis – but when that happened, she was totally in shock. I know now that she was stunned because her ipad had been taken, was in someone else's hands. She knew that someone had now got the power to put her in prison for life. Even then, she thought on her feet – she told me that the burglary was a warning, in order to put me off the scent, and again she tried to make me believe that Krasniqi was behind it.

But what I'm thinking is, Geeta, how Cheriton would have known Jazz so well. That's what horrified him, when he threw me out of the Soames. He looked at my phone, saw Jazz's photo among my Contacts, recognised her, and it terrified him. The woman that he suspected was behind the disappearances of Agnieszka, Klaudija and Lucy. He'd sacked her after Lucy, because he was wondering about a pattern – Agnieszka and Lucy. At the time Lucy disappeared, he didn't realise that Klaudija was part of that pattern too, although I later found out that he was worried enough about her, too, to offer £10k to her old boyfriend to find her. When I had my bust-up with Cheriton, and he looked at my phone, he realised that all three girls had met the same fate – although he wasn't quite sure what that fate was – and he thought that Jazz and I were in it together."

"You mean – he thought that you'd started working at the Soames in agreement with Jazz?"

"Yup. So that I could carry on whatever he thought she'd been doing there. No wonder he went wild and threw me out. He knew it was abduction, possibly murder, but he didn't go to the police, I guess because he has no heart and no balls. But he must have talked to Ruby, shared his fears with her, because that's how she got the information to come to you and report me."

"You're right – when she first contacted us, Ruby told us that she'd got her latest, most alarming information direct from Cheriton. But what we don't know, although it's not needed for the prosecution, is where Cairns met Agnieszka and Klaudija. Did she meet them through the Sexwork Helpline, and introduce them to the Soames? Or, did she first meet them because Cheriton was employing her to meet prospective girls for the Soames?"

"I haven't a clue. All I know is, about three years ago, Jazz had a bad spell – restless, discontented for a while. Then she seemed to cheer up, and at the same time she started being away from the flat, telling me about day-long outcalls in the country, and visits to Mum and Dad. But of course she was at the Soames, with her sports edition A-Class Mercedes not looking too much out of place in the car park. My guess is that she made sure that Cheriton noticed that she was clever and capable. He began to rely on her for little jobs. Much like he did with me. Something he once said to me makes me believe that he asked Jazz to take charge of their medical records. Plus, she could drive, so she sometimes got the job of going over to Home Croft instead of Michael or Ruby."

"Where she met Evans... And, although we don't know where she met Agnieszka or Klaudija, we do know about Lucy."

"Know what?"

"That Lucy went to Sexwork Helpline. When she disappeared from her parents' home, the Wycherleys, as you can imagine, kicked up quite a fuss. They guessed she'd gone to London. I got to hear of the case, everyone else just thought it was a standard missing persons, but – and I'm pleased with myself here – I had some instinct that this was different. And I thought of Sexwork Helpline. I went to their office in early June last year, but I never saw Cairns at that stage. I spoke to someone called Jean Rogers. Who was very helpful, and kept extremely full records. Rogers said yes, she had details of a 'Lucy Wilson', who matched Lucy Wycherley's description, and who had visited the Helpline office just a few days before me. She had booked to come in for a full advice session – but then never turned up for it."

"Jazz half-admitted that to me. But of course, she told me don't worry, don't talk direct to Jean, I'll look into it for you. Not."

"Lucy didn't turn up for her advice session because, of course, by then she'd met Jazz, who had taken her along for an 'interview' at the Soames. But the Helpline had no reason to believe anything was wrong, they deal with lots of people who come in once and never turn up again. Then, at the end of June, Wycherley himself reported to the police that Lucy had phoned him, she was still alive, she was fine. The case was closed, forgotten. But then, January this year, he contacted us again, told us that she'd stopped phoning him. Of course, we didn't reopen the case, things like that happen all the time. Perhaps our lack of action was what prompted Wycherley to investigate himself. Six months later, Wycherley turns up murdered – Chris was asked to take on the case. He's actually a really good copper, you know. The chief – she discussed it with us both, she took the view that there was probably no connection. I argued that we should look into that angle, a disappearance and a murder in one small family within a few months of each other, it was too much of a coincidence. On the other hand, there was no hard evidence to tie the two cases together. So the chief told Chris to lead on Wycherley's murder, and I was allowed – after some argy-bargy – to make some more investigations about Lucy. As if they were separate cases, although of course we could pool information. So you see, when I heard of the burglary, and that your flatmate was involved in the same charity that Lucy had used..."

"You visited our flat and did your Florence Nightingale bit."

"That's a new name for me."

"It wasn't me that first called you that."

"What's important – critical in fact – is that when I visited, you gave me the names – Soames and Home Croft. At that time, I had nothing else to go on, I couldn't justify any action, but I started investigating the Soames' accounts. A private membership club, with an amazingly high annual membership fee... and it seemed to spend a fortune on staff salaries. It rang alarm bells, I talked it over with the chief. She said it wasn't enough evidence to justify action. The last thing she wanted was some high-profile raid which later turns out to be groundless. We're all affected by Yewtree, you know. Raids, charges, trials which later turn out to be a waste of public money, and appear to victimise celebrities for no other reason than that they're in the public eye. I was warned off.

But then a few days later, Ruby Birch turns up at the door of Kingston police station and says, I work at an up-market brothel called the Soames Hotel, I'm here to report it, I didn't want to be part of it, I've kept a record of what I've seen – but something much more serious is going on too, girls have disappeared, my boss is very worried, and someone called Holly Harlow is mixed up in it. Because you'd already volunteered the names Soames and Home Croft to me, I thought: you can't be mixed up in it. Chris, I must admit, thought differently. He thought you were guilty as hell."

"Yes, I got that impression... it wasn't very nice, being on the receiving end of it. Did he give my address to Krasniqi?"

"Of course he didn't. That would be completely out of order."

"Well someone did."

"He didn't actually deal much with Krasniqi. Jackie Simmonds, she took his statement..."

"And? ... did you see them together?" I can guess what's coming.

"Mmm."

"Let me guess. They were flirty with each other. He turned on a bit of charm with her, flattered her. I could tell, first time I saw her, that she'd be the type to respond to that."

"I'm sorry. Do you want me to look into it?"

"No, of course not. But... yes, do have a quiet word with her. For her sake. It might stop her doing that sort of thing again. But nothing official, please."

"OK. Point taken. But – with Ruby's evidence, and you mentioning both organisations in the same breath – I went back to the chief, discussed our suspicions. And after some discussions, she said OK, go to the Soames, get hold of their records – but in the case of Home Croft, she would only be willing to authorise a raid if more evidence turned up. But at least we were poised to act against Home Croft, and we put the local police on alert. Your phone call from the Savoy Hotel, you telling us that Evans and Cairns were in it together, abducting girls – it gave us that evidence, the information we needed to go ahead immediately with the Home Croft raid. Without your call, those two would have had the time to escape."

London was gray, but blue skies are coming up from the West. Traffic's a bit lighter too, now.

"I've known Jazz for eight years. She's clever and ambitious, but she chose to work as an escort. The car, the designer clothes, and all her do-gooding – somehow, they were all parts of the same thing. I think our day-by-day life in Finsbury Park, Sunday morning shopping at Sainsbury's and so on, was a kind of slow despair for her.

Then she meets Evans. A man who seems to have it all – material success and limitless confidence. And he's done it by sticking up two fingers to the law, and to all ideas of right and wrong. He says to her "Work with me, be my partner in this, you and me, we'll make millions." After those eight years... can you imagine the effect on her? Like someone once said to me, it must have seemed like she'd won the Golden Ticket."

"Enough to turn her into a murderer?..."

"I guess we all pretend to ourselves, sometimes. We mistake one emotion for another. Jazz was desperate to feel successful, and she had tons of energy. Like Sexwork Helpline. She accidentally-on-purpose kidded herself that all her energy was the same thing as actually caring for those girls. Every girl they helped – in her heart of hearts, it was just another tick in the box, another great achievement by that unsung heroine, Jasmine Cairns."

"When I visited you – my impression was, she cared. Maybe she just believed her own acting."

"Maybe. It would explain why the punters loved her – they genuinely thought she enjoyed being with them. Guys will pay silly money to feel like that. Or, the Soames. Jazz told me in her best Guardian-reader voice that it should be shut down, it sounded like a brothel for up-market Jimmy Saviles. She convinced me that she really felt like that, and in a way she did. But of course, she herself had worked willingly at the Soames for a long time, up until Lucy's disappearance. Like I say, ambitious: if Cheriton had appointed her manager, she'd have grabbed it with both hands."

I grip the steering wheel with both hands: some tosser's just pulled out in front of us. Now he starts braking. Then he weaves into the outside lane. More brake lights are coming on, far ahead.

"Brake lights, Holly. Jam ahead."

The traffic slows, grinds along, then halts. I'm looking at the arse-end of a 44-ton lorry.

"Jazz had so many ideas, too, and for years, there was usually only me – an uneducated dimbo – to share them with."

"Dimbo?"

"Yes. That's not fake modesty. She was attracted to big words, big ideas. She read books, she even had that Screw book with Peter Quint and Miss Jessel in it. She couldn't share those things with me: another frustration for her. Brains are like computers or phones. A good computer is not just about that microchip thingy that does the fast processing. You also have to have all the good apps loaded onto it. The only app that ever got loaded onto me was a St John's Ambulance course. Maybe that's a good thing. I've seen what Evans – and Jazz – have done with the education and the opportunities they've had. Killing people in order to get what they want... I think I'm lucky not to have the life-and-death powers that Evans seemed to enjoy. My crimes are confined to shouting and swearing at people occasionally, and I'm glad it's like that."

"Fortune and fame... not all they're cracked up to be, is that what you mean, Holly? Well, even without the apps, you've managed to do a Miss Marple on this case."

"The old lady on the telly? Oh yeah, I'm just like Miss Marple. Except I go to work naked."

"We all go to work. I think that's what Chris didn't quite understand about you... at first."

"Well, he is a man." I smile at her. "I forgive him."

I see other drivers around me, tapping their fingers on the wheel, impatient, annoyed. There's no explanation for this jam. Hopefully we'll be moving soon.

"I tried to read that Screw book, after everything that's happened. You may understand it differently, Geeta – but to me, the woman who tells the story, and Miss Jessel, Quint's sidekick, were both under Quint's spell, although in the book Jessel appears as a ghost. Maybe she even was the woman who's telling the story, appearing to herself, like in a mirror. She says at one point that she was sitting by a pond, with a little girl, and she becomes aware of a third person. Miss Jessel, looking back at her across the pond. Like I felt when Chris and I walked under Waterloo Bridge. I felt someone was there, behind us, and of course someone was. Jazz herself, watching us. Chris has been at our flat, he'd come to see me, but I was at the Soames. As I wasn't at home, he'd talked to Jazz. I guess she overheard his phone call to me, and when he left to meet me, she followed him to the Embankment. Just like when she followed me to Krasniqi's house, then she went back to that café in Wood Green and pretended to me that she'd followed me out of concern."

"What you felt – when you were under the bridge. It's something that happens to climbers, they say, high up on the mountains, when they're exhausted, scared. Two climbers hallucinate together that there is a third person climbing with them. Sometimes they even share their food into three portions. There's a line about 'who is that, the other side of you?'"

"A line from...?"

"T. S. Eliot. _The Waste Land_."

"Never heard of it. But I've read the Slimmer's World sequel. _The Waist Land_."

She smiles at my terrible joke. I hear cars going into gear all around me, and the lorry in front of me grunts forwards.

"Looks like we're on the move at last, Geeta. You know, when I was thinking it over, that last night after you interviewed me at the station, I was silly enough to start wondering if Ruby might be Evans' Miss Jessel. Elspeth Corr told me she saw a tall blonde, from behind, at Home Croft: I thought: Ruby, it was part of her job to ferry people over to Home Croft. But of course the jigsaw wouldn't fit together that way, the pieces don't match: Ruby's not the type to fall for Evans. Like me, she's too ordinary."

The clouds have all gone now, there's sunshine: autumn trees either side of the motorway like lines of gold. I ask Geeta to get my sunglasses out for me.

"Thanks, that's better. This sun is a nice change, isn't it? Like I say, when Jazz met Evans, she saw her escape hatch. She crossed some kind of boundary in her mind. Evans told her there was a market for organ transplants, if she could..."

"Supply the donors. Yes, I guess you're right, Holly. That's how her mind worked. Lizzie Bennet syndrome."

"Meaning?..."

"The heroine of _Pride and Prejudice_ gets asked when she first fell in love with Mr Darcy. She says something like 'I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley.'"

"Grab the money and the man, while you still can... Once, just once, Jazz's mask with me slipped, and she said "Life's a time-bomb, Hol." She thought this was her last throw of the dice. I can see all that. But what I can't imagine, Geeta, is what happened inside her brain, in order to plan and do what she did. My mind's not capable of it. Like I said to Chris once, I can't even bear to see a spider stuck in the bath, I rescue it with a piece of toilet paper. If I could imagine how Jazz actually felt, I'd scare myself. Like you said in the police station interview, I'd be looking down a big black hole."

"I'm glad you can't imagine how that might feel. Neither can I. Interviewing either of those two – I was chilled to the bone, just being in the same room with them." She smiles at me, like we're sharing something that we'd rather not think about. I glance back at her, then concentrate on the road. The traffic's crawling along, we're into the roadworks themselves now. Signs flash up for "Average Speed Check 50mph". I wish. Three miles of cones and crawling before we can start to motor again. She carries on.

"As you say, Jazz handled the Soames medical records, including blood group details. All you need for a liver donor is for them to be in really good all-round health, and to be a compatible blood group with the recipient. Or Blood Group O-, universal donor. So she had all the information, and access to foreign, friendless girls who wouldn't spark a major police operation if they disappeared – but were also medically certified as healthy. Girls who were invisible in society.

Meanwhile, Evans was already using Home Croft to do operations on the quiet for the super-rich. Their so-called management were clueless about what he was actually doing, half the time. But he wanted to do even more. They were all liver transplants, the girls. Jurgita was to be the donor for another one."

"And that was Evans' specialist area?"

"Yes. He got struck off because of liver operations. As a top NHS surgeon, he was doing both orthotropic – that is, a whole liver from a dead body – and living donor transplants. Of course, a living donor – unless you're at Home Croft under the knife of Mr Evans-aka-Franklin – has to consent, and they have to survive the operation. In order that the donor survives, only part of the liver is taken, the rest regrows over time. Like Prometheus."

I'm keeping an eye on the lorry's bum, but I glance across at her. Like I did once with Cheriton, I say "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Greek myth. Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to men. Zeus, king of the gods, punished him by chaining him to a mountain. A vulture came each day and ate his liver, which then regrew each night."

"Bloody hell. And I thought Anne Boleyn came to a nasty end."

"Sorry. I just say stuff like that. The burden of a classical education. Anyway – the blood vessels in the liver are like the trunk and branches of a tree. A surgeon who cuts into a consenting live donor has to cut, as it were, a major branch off the tree but leave the trunk connected to the donor, so that the main part of the liver remains with the donor. Then the cut-off branch is sewn to connect into the recipient's tree-trunk. But sometimes the branches in the donor liver are tangled. Taking off one branch becomes risky and difficult. The surgeon needs to evaluate images of the donor liver before the operation, and err on the side of caution."

"You mean, cancel the operation?"

"That's right. Sometimes the surgeon even needs to stop in the middle of an operation and sew the donor back up, because it's too risky to try to cut away one branch. Evans was blasé and cavalier in making the image-based assessment, and hugely over-confident during surgery. He operated in practically every case, regardless of tangled blood vessels in donors' livers. Juniors who challenged him were belittled and bullied. His liver recipient patients had brilliant recoveries – but several donors had really slow, difficult recoveries: two died.

Evans was got rid of as quietly as possible. Although orthotropic transplants are better – assuming, of course, you can get dead but fresh donors – the NHS can only hope to meet the demand for liver transplants by encouraging live donors. A splash of news about deaths of liver donors would be –

"Counter-productive, is that what they say?"

"Exactly. I've looked at the records of those cases now, and I think Evans was lucky to get away without a manslaughter charge. But he didn't get away scot-free – this country does have freedom of information. At first, there was plenty of information on the Net about him, the disciplinary charges and his striking-off, if you knew where to look for it. But given the fact that he thought he was God in the operating theatre, he wasn't going to give up surgery for some desk job and a mediocre salary. Hence his work at Home Croft, his bogus claims to have qualified in the States, his false name."

"And I guess, as long as the true information remained in the public domain, Evans' position at Home Croft was at risk. So he used Johnson and McKay. I guess after a while, he started to feel safer again, wanted to try his hand."

"There's several million pounds to be made on a single operation, because of the demand for livers massively outstripping supply. Waiting lists are long everywhere in the world, and you only even get into the queue if you're pretty badly ill. In the States, nearly a third of the people in the queue will die before it's their turn for the surgery. Although, you can put yourself onto more than one queue. Have you got your iphone with you today, Holly?"

"Sure."

"So have I." She gets out the shiny, desirable little gadget, like a Show-and-Tell. "Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple, needed a liver transplant in 2009. He got the operation earlier than he might have done, because he was on two waiting lists, one in California and one in Tennessee. He had the operation in Tennessee, even though he lived in California almost all the time."

"Was that illegal, then?"

"No, although it sparked off an ethical debate about the rich being able to get onto multiple queues. It's only an illustration of the extent to which demand outstrips supply, and of the fearful limbo of waiting in a liver-transplant queue. The much more sinister issue, of course, is if you've got money, and you're willing to ignore moral considerations, you may want to seek a private option to jump the queue altogether. In fact, you want the surgery before you even become as ill as the people in the queue."

"So that's where Evans saw his market."

"An incredibly lucrative market. As well as the queue-jumping, donation of a whole liver is much the best option for the patient. The surgery's simpler and less risky, and the recovery is quicker and more certain. Basically, you're getting a whole, fully-functioning liver; you can get better surprisingly quickly. Especially if the person it's taken from was still alive on the operating table."

"And one operation would have netted Evans millions?"

"It did. He received nearly five million after the operation in which Agnieszka died. Which I guess he promised to Jazz to share with her, although she never saw that money. It sat in a bank account in Switzerland while she dreamt about it. Her Pemberley. Evans carried on with the operations, once every few months, depending on the supply of donors from Jazz. I suspect he carried on because of ambition and arrogance rather than greed. He enjoyed doing what he was doing, and he was also cocking a snook at the NHS who had regarded him as 'too risky'."

Out of the roadworks at last: my favourite road sign; white circle, black diagonal. National Speed Limit. Thank God for that. I get past the lorry, and the road's clear ahead. I ask a question that's been rolling round in my mind for the last couple of months.

"I wonder if Jazz wanted them to stop, after the first operation?"

"It would be nice to think that. She claims that she thought that only part of the liver was taken, that she didn't intend the girls to die. She blames Evans totally, and claims she didn't really understand what was going on. She'd like us to believe that she was under his spell completely. You never know, if she puts on a good act in court, they might be taken in by that story. I don't buy it, though. In her bedroom we found a sales brochure for a mansion in the Cayman Islands, price £20 million. That's the kind of money she was after, and it must have seemed possible to her. And Evans wasn't totally in charge: Cairns had the power to supply or not supply donors. So Evans was dependent on her. I think they're equally culpable. But even if Jazz evades murder convictions for the three girls, we have emails and texts that prove that she instructed Johnson and McKay to kill Wycherley and Krasniqi. And Johnson will, we hope, confirm the phone call in which she instructed him to kill you, and exactly how to do it."

Neither of us speaks for a moment. Despite what I saw in Room 412, and what nearly happened to me, it's those that died at Home Croft that keep haunting me. Like I do at night, when I can't sleep, I try to find ways in my mind to lessen the horror. I say "At least with Agnieszka and Klaudija..."

"I know what you're thinking, Holly. They thought they were going to Home Croft for cosmetic surgery, they both had the anaesthetic willingly. They were probably feeling positive, excited even. They didn't know that they were going to –"

I say it. "Be murdered." Wish I hadn't; the word tastes nasty in my mouth. I start speaking again. "Do you know who the transplants were done for?"

"There are names on the ipad. The most recent one, the one Jurgita was lined up for, he lives in Russia. He was at Home Croft when we raided, but we didn't have grounds to detain him, and he got on the next flight home. He's ridiculously rich and powerful, we don't know if he realised they were using a live donor, I suspect from what we know of him that he did. But there's no dice pursuing him. The other two names on Cairns' ipad are fake names, we'll probably never know for sure who they are. They could be from anywhere in the world, they could be British gangland bosses, they could be celebrity household names."

The motorway is getting busier again: we're approaching Bristol.

"But Vennery – that wasn't planned ahead, Geeta. He was with Lucy when he collapsed. He wanted to have sex with her, to spite her lover."

"Her lover, who is? ..."

"Someone known to George Vennery. Who asked Cheriton not to put Lucy with anyone else, and paid him. Cheriton took the money but ignored the request, because lies are his stock-in-trade. When Vennery showed an interest in Lucy, Cheriton was happy to let him have sex with her, and pocket the money he'd been given. If you absolutely have to have the man's name for the investigation, then I guess you can compel me to. But in this conversation, in this car, you don't need to know, and I'm not going to tell you."

"You've got me curious now."

"Well, you'll have to stay curious. Anyway, the way I see it is: Vennery collapses at the Soames, while he's with Lucy. Jazz was around; she takes him to Home Croft, Lucy goes along. Whether that was Jazz's plan, or just bad luck for Lucy, I don't know. Evans says: we could treat this man with drugs, but his liver's failed, eventually he'll die, or..."

"But, the records we found show that a liver transplant was already planned for Vennery. Liver disease, it's a long-term thing. He was ready for an operation – Evans was just waiting for Cairns to provide the donor."

"That may have been the plan. But then Vennery has a sudden collapse, he's at Home Croft on a trolley in front of Jazz and Evans, dying. They both look at Lucy, young, healthy, standing there. Jazz maybe already knows that she's Blood Group O-, universal donor. That's what Elspeth Corr saw through the crack in the door."

"Take the next exit..." Satnav lady again. Like my autopilot, that night. I concentrate on listening and getting in the right lane. It's busy, traffic is jostling for position as we change motorways. Once we've got onto the M5, I carry on talking.

"Time passed, and Wycherley didn't hear from Lucy. He hadn't got her phone number, because she wanted to be able to call him whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on – but she didn't want him to be able to contact his runaway daughter whenever he liked. So she regularly used a friend's phone to call him. That friend was Jazz.

"Daughter-father relationship."

"Something, I guess, in those phone conversations between them led Wycherley to suspect that Lucy had become a prostitute. I guess that, when he didn't hear from her for ages, he got to wondering... so he used the only thing he had. He tried something that I once tried, and it worked. He typed the friend's phone number into Google. One result came up: the profile page of a hooker called GirlNextDoor. Like I said, Geeta, the question that came to me while I was hiding in the Embankment Gardens: why did Wycherley pick me? And another question, too: if Krasniqi wasn't involved in the murder, how was it known to the killer that Wycherley would be in Room 412 of the Excel hotel at that time? But actually, those two questions have the same answer.

Mrs Wycherley, I guess, didn't want to look for Lucy, I don't know why. Maybe you'll find out today. I guess people react in different ways when a child runs away from home."

"And, we don't know what the state of the Wycherleys' marriage was."

"Mmm... well, a few months passed, the phone calls to Daddy suddenly stopped. A few more months passed. Mrs Wycherley went off to Vietnam to find herself, do some trek in the jungle. Maybe that was her way of coping. She was away for weeks. Jonathan Wycherley took the opportunity to travel to London, stay for a few days, to try to find Lucy. He visited the Soames, and he got nowhere there. But also, thinking he was phoning Holly, the GirlNextDoor, he called the phone number he had, which was one of two numbers on my profile.

The two numbers are there, because Jazz and I cover for each other. I was when I thought of that, as I hid in the bushes in that park, that I realised – it had to be Jazz, behind all this. _It couldn't be anyone else_. She wasn't in the boot of that Audi under Waterloo Bridge: she was pulling all the strings."

"So it was only that? That made you realise it was her?"

"Well, I guess you cops would call it process of elimination. Funnily enough, it was Jazz herself who talked me through it, soon after the burglary. She talked me through it, I guess, partly to check out whether I suspected her, and partly to try to put me off the scent."

"So what's this process of elimination then?"

"It goes like this, Geeta. Four people knew, or were in a position to find out, that Wycherley was going to be in Room 412 at that time. First person was me. Wycherley himself was the second, and OK, it's possible that he told someone else. But knowing that he'd come to London alone, that he was doing a private investigation, that he was married, a family man, a doctor, and so on – I thought it was very unlikely he'd have told anyone else that he was meeting a prostitute.

Third, there was Krasniqi, but like I say, I knew he had no connection to Lucy, or the Soames – and after what happened to him, I knew he was out of it.

Which leaves only the fourth option. It only occurred to me there was a fourth option when I was shit-scared, hiding in the Embankment Gardens. And once I realised there was a fourth option, I knew it couldn't be anyone else, it had to be her. Jazz, my occasional stand-in GirlNextDoor.

There were a couple of other things, once I realised that it was Jazz, that fitted, that suddenly made sense to me. The cocaine – obviously, she had opportunity to put it in my bag, far more than Ruby. Anything to try and make me look guilty, to distract attention from herself. But that was only a detail. The other thing was that I'd just been thinking, minutes before, when I was climbing down that slimy wall by the river: why go to all this bother to try to drown me?

And when I was in the bushes I realised: they needed to make it look like suicide, so all the ends appear to tie up nice and neat, put the blame on Holly.

You see, when I phoned Jazz's number, Johnson answered the phone, told me they'd taken Jazz hostage. That was a deliberate ploy, so that everyone would believe she had been abducted. She could disappear, and everyone would think she was an innocent victim, at least for a few days. Giving her the chance to escape. It was a shaky, desperate plan to try to make her look like a victim, and me seem like the criminal.

But as for trying to make me look like the Suicide Blonde – I thought: the Thames is hardly Niagara Falls. It's a chancy way to kill someone. Unless you know that Suicide Blonde can't swim. And only one person in the world knew that about me."

I see a motorway sign for Bristol Zoo, and think of Tiger for a moment. Silly.

"Anyway, Wycherley naturally phoned GirlNextDoor on the number he already had – so of course, he didn't get me: he spoke to Jazz. He came up on her phone as Lucy's Dad or something like that; Jazz knew who he was, and she was scared. So she spoke to him, but made no arrangement to meet. Instead, she told him to make a booking via the GirlsDirect website, while she thought about what she could do. She told me her mother had broken her ankle and she had to go to Watford, a total lie of course. She needed to be away from the flat, talk it over with Evans, put together a plan, contact Johnson and McKay, offer them money to kill Wycherley.

Meanwhile, Wycherley made the GirlsDirect online booking with GirlNextDoor, thinking: this is Lucy's friend, I'll meet her, pretend to be an ordinary punter, go through with the sex, then talk to her, find out what I can. He saw Krasniqi's pop-up on the website, offering to arrange rooms, so he did that, and then added the details of Room 412 to the booking form."

"And Cairns could see all those booking details."

"Of course. We both had each others' GirlsDirect passwords, so we could cover each other's bookings if needed. She could see every detail of the GirlNextDoor booking."

"Confidentially, I can tell you that she's confessed to offering Johnson and McKay £50K each. She says Evans pushed her into it, of course, and of course Evans says it was all her idea and that he's never heard of Wycherley."

"And, while you're telling me all this confidential stuff – what about what happened in Room 412?"

"Well, I'm in contempt of court now, so I might as well tell you more. Timing, first of all. They got there at 11.00."

"When they thought the booking would be ended... that I'd have already left. Because the change of time from 10.00 to 10.30, it wasn't on the GirlsDirect form. Wycherley texted me because of a delay on the Underground."

"Exactly. It's a bit like what I said about the fantasy of master criminals committing perfect murders. There's another fantasy, which you see on telly every week, about planned murders going like clockwork. It's like when you're having a baby, and the hospital tell you to write a birth plan. As if you had some control. The one thing you can guarantee is: it won't go to plan.

In this case, what went wrong – which resulted in you being still in Room 412 when Wycherley was killed – was a combination of a simple delay to Wycherley's journey on the tube, and a natural assumption. Johnson and McKay got their information from Jazz, who of course had exactly the same information as you. She knew nothing of Krasniqi's little scam – so, like you, she assumed that Wycherley was staying in that hotel room overnight rather than travelling there for the booking.

So Cairns would have told them: this is an outcall, the booking will happen on time at 10.00, it's for one hour – so if you go into the room a few minutes after 11.00, you'll find Wycherley alone. They had no idea that Wycherley was travelling to the Excel, and that he'd been delayed. They waited at the end of the corridor from 11.00, confident that they'd see you leaving at that time. When you didn't appear out of 412's door, and a few minutes had passed by, they assumed that you'd left the room before they arrived, that Wycherley was now on his own. So they went into action.

Forensics shows that only Johnson entered Room 412. I guess that McKay probably hung around in the corridor to check no-one came along, ready if he was needed. If Wycherley fought back too much. My guess is that they planned it as a quick knifing. But of course, there's no training courses in these things. Practically every murderer is a first-timer: a clumsy virgin. They botched it, just like they botched their attempt to get you to look like a suicide case. Like you told me, when they found you at the Soames, McKay gripped your arms hard, held you down on the floor. But then the instructions came in from Jazz about trying to make your death look like suicide. Cairns probably got the idea, by the way, of where to kill you, when she followed you and Chris, that really hot day. But anyway, if we'd fished you out of the river, Forensics would have spotted bruising on your arms, that someone had used force on you. As killers, our Crap Two are pretty useless. Victims rarely die as cleanly as the murderer expects. Wycherley reacted quickly, he fought back, creating a lot of noise, but unfortunately for him, because the other rooms were empty, there was no one around to hear it. And the only other person to enter 412 was, as you deduced, Krasniqi."

_I_ was there to hear it, I think. Could I have done anything? I guess I'll always ask myself that. I concentrate on the road, we're crossing a really high bridge. Wide views: I can see what must be the Severn estuary, away to my right. We're nearly there.

"'Deduced' is a bit of a grand word for what happened, Geeta. I was terrified at Krasniqi's house, my only hope was to do some hard thinking. And Jazz was to blame for that situation too, in a way. Once Jazz realised that I'd been in Room 412 when Wycherley was killed, and that I'd been seen by a member of the hotel staff, she guessed that that same member of staff might have seen Johnson and McKay. Maybe they'd really fucked it up, and other staff or guests at the hotel had seen them too – but the obvious risk to Jazz, the one she knew about, was the guy who'd seen me. When I told her about him, she thought the problem through, straight away. She did what she had to do: egged me on to meet him – in order that she could meet him.

I, and Krasniqi, both thought that he was sussing us out – but in fact the idea, and the purpose, of that meeting was hers: for _her_ to find out about _him_.

When the three of us met, he asked me to go with him to his place, which was the perfect result for her. She followed me, although she needn't have; I later told her where his house was anyway. So a couple of days later, she torched it, or got McKay and Johnson to torch it – not to threaten him, but to try to kill him. To eliminate the one witness who could provide information that might lead to her – but while the finger of suspicion was still pointing at me."

"Forensics don't show us which of them burnt the house. We'll probably never know. But what about Jazz and you, Holly? How did she feel about _you_ , do you think? On the one hand, it looks like from the start, she must have been happy for you to go to prison for murdering Wycherley, and maybe Krasniqi too. On the other, under her instructions, Johnson started by trying to frighten you off, rather than kill you. As if Jazz didn't want you to be harmed, then she reluctantly decided that you had to be got rid of, because there was no alternative?"

"Maybe she only wanted to keep me alive in order for me to take the rap for what she was doing."

"Well, that would fit with their attempt to fake your suicide."

"I realise, though, that it doesn't matter to me what she felt about me. Because the Jazz I knew was an act. The person behind the mask, the person who played that part – I don't know that person, at all. I lived with that act for years, talked over the most intimate stuff with her, trusted her. She pretended to care for all those girls, the Helpline. I watched while she talked to Jurgita – she seemed so thoughtful, sympathetic – anyone would have thought she cared deeply. No-one would guess that what was in her mind was: here's another one that we can kill. She was pretending to care, when she didn't. But I guess we all do that, sometimes. Are we always truthful, even with ourselves?"

I'm pulling up to the pavement next to the driveway of a detached house. It's the sort of place a doctor might own, I suppose. Big front garden where I guess Lucy played, long ago. Trees and ivy hug around the house, and all its windows look blank. As if the house has died.

"Phone me when you're done, Geeta, and I'll come and pick you up." I see her walk up the driveway, knock at the door. A thin woman opens the door, lets her in. I drive on, just a few yards, until the car is no longer visible from the house, and park the car.

I sit behind the wheel, imagining the conversation going on right now inside that house. But after a few moments I find myself undoing my seat belt, opening the door, getting out. There's something I need to find, and I might as well do it here as anywhere. It's such a bright day, clear light, like glass. I start walking. My feet crunch new-fallen leaves on the pavement, crispy shapes of yellow and orange, glowing in the sun. The air smells fresh, like the whole world's been cleaned, and I breathe deeply, filling my lungs. I walk two blocks, and suddenly I'm out on the seafront.

Lots of little waves glitter, stretching ahead of me. It's not like London: the sky is huge here, a blue curtain dropping to a line of purple hills across the water. The big horizon, going on and on, makes me think: life is full of possibilities. I've hardly begun to explore yet.

I open my bag, and get out a small brown envelope. I'm not used to seeing my own handwriting: it looks like a child's. But that's as it should be, I think, for this letter. My writing says: Birth Parent Enquiries, General Register Office, Smedley Hydro, Trafalgar Road, Southport, Lancashire PR8 2JD. I've found what I was looking for: a postbox. I push the letter in, and look out at the sea.

The End

(but there will be more, one day, from Holly Harlow...)

Also by Evelyn Weiss on Smashwords

Murder on the Titanic

_The Outcall_ Copyright © 2015 Evelyn Weiss

Cover image used by kind permission of, and copyrighted to, Aurora Violet and Kev Robertson.

ISBN: 9781310917363

Licence and copyright statement

Hi, I'm Evelyn Weiss, and I assert all my legal rights as the author of this book, including my right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this book.

I reserve all legal rights to myself. No part of this book _The Outcall_ may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without my prior permission.

_The Outcall_ is total fiction. I invented all the events, entities and people described in it, and I didn't intend any likeness of any event, organisation or character in it to anyone or anything. But I thank the Shenavall Library.
