The Outcall Read online

  4Monday 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, punter
s 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 GirlsDire
ct 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.