Captives (6 page)

    Plummer owned six clubs in Soho, most of them providing live sex shows. Four also showed imported films and sold a range of soft and hardcore magazines. The shop upstairs at 'Loveshow' dealt in that kind of literature. It came in on containers three times a month, carried in by lorry drivers paid to smuggle the banned material in the cabs of their trucks. He also owned a couple of gaming clubs in Kensington (the more respectable side of his business) and he had just bought into a syndicate responsible for opening a large outdoor sports arena in Fulham. With an annual profit of over ten million pounds, Plummer was one of the underworld's wealthier barons. He disliked being compared to a criminal gang boss, though. He had men working for him, some of them armed, but he wouldn't have called them a gang. Associates was a word he preferred. He didn't own clip joints, he operated adult entertainment emporia. To Plummer this wasn't a lie. He saw himself as a businessman, not a crook. There were those on the other side of the law who would disagree.

    He had a criminal record, but the most he'd ever been charged with was possession of cannabis. That had been ten years ago. Now he made sure he went nowhere near the cocaine and heroin that had formed the bedrock of his little 'empire'. The passage of time had made him wiser, more cautious. More manipulative. Ray Plummer, in his own eyes, was an upstanding member of the community. For Christ's sake, he even had a firearms certificate for the Beretta automatic he carried in his car. It wasn't wise to cross the law.

    Besides, it cost too much to pay the bastards off.

    He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing down a piece that was sticking up.

    
Be careful or you'll have the whole lot in your lap,
thought Scott.

    Plummer got to his feet.

    'I've got to go, Jim,' he said. 'Other calls to make.' He shook hands with the younger man. A firm grip.

    'I'll walk out with you,' Scott said.

    'No problem; you stay here, finish your work. I might, have a look at the show on the way out.' He smiled. 'Maybe that Carol, or whatever her name is, will be on.' He winked and was gone.

    Scott glared at the closed door, then pulled the bottle of Southern Comfort towards him and poured a large measure. He downed it in one, bringing the glass down so hard on the table it almost cracked.

    Beyond the closed door the thud of the music continued.

    

    

    Zena Murray pulled off her stockings and balled them up, tossing them into the waste bin nearby. Then she took off her basque and G-string and sat naked in front of the mirror, taking her make-up off. Beside her, Carol Jackson was busy applying hers. The two women sat in front of the mirror which stretched the length of the wall in the dressing room. The term was rather grand for what was little more than an enlarged cupboard with lights and a mirror. Clothes were hung on hangers and suspended from hooks on the peeling walls. The lightbulbs which surrounded the mirror were flickering in places; some had blown completely. A drawer beneath the dressing table contained the girls' props, a selection of vibrators and dildos. There was a pay phone on the wall. One of the other girls had stuck a postcard of Mel Gibson on the side of it. There were other pictures sellotaped to the wall by the phone, cut from magazines. One of Jon Bon Jovi, another of Mickey Rourke.

    'I'll be glad to get home tonight,' said Zena, wiping eyeshadow from her top lid with a cotton ball. 'Did you hear what happened with that bastard earlier on? Ruined my stockings, then didn't want to pay.'

    'I heard,' Carol affirmed.

    'Scotty gave me the money for another pair. He's a nice bloke.'

    Carol smiled into the mirror. The gesture looked strained, artificial.

    'Are you still seeing him?' Zena wanted to know.

    'Sort of,' Carol said, applying the thick red lipstick she always wore when she worked.

    'Either you are or you aren't. You've been going out with him for a while now, haven't you?'

    
Too long.

    'It's not like it used to be between us, but I don't think Jim realises that,' said Carol.

    'Then don't you think you ought to tell him?' Zena said, looking at her companion in the mirror.

    'Tell him what? That I don't want to see him any more? It's going to be a bit difficult while we're working together.'

    'So you're going to keep the poor bastard hanging on? Thinking that you still feel something for him, just because it's not convenient for you to split up with him. Is that it?'

    'It's not as simple as that, Zena. I like him. He's a nice guy. But he's going nowhere and he doesn't even realise it.'

    'And where are you going, Carol?' She looked at her companion. 'Out in front of another audience, just like you do most nights. Just like you will be doing until your tits sag and your bum drops and you get fat and no one wants to come and see you any more. Then you'll probably start working the hotels and the streets full-time. Just like the rest of us.'

    'Are you telling me I'm wrong to want more out' of life?' Carol snapped. 'Do you honestly enjoy what you do here, Zena?'

    'No, but it pays the rent, and that's all that matters to me at the moment. Look, Carol, it might not be much of a life but it's all we've got.'

    'That's shit, there's more to it than that. There has to be.'

    Zena wiped some foundation from her cheeks with a moist tissue.

    'So, Scotty's only crime is that he's going nowhere. Is that it?' she said.

    'I don't know how to tell him it's over. I don't know how he'll react. I know he thinks a lot of me. He's told me he loves me. I don't want to hurt him, Zena.'

    'Well, you're going to hurt him a fucking sight more the longer you leave it,' Zena snapped. She got to her feet and started to dress, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, stepping into a pair of ankle boots.

    'Am I wrong to want more out of life?' Carol asked the other girl again.

    'No, but I think you're dreaming, Carol. I'm not sure there is that much more. And if there is, it wasn't meant for the likes of you and me.' She smiled thinly, then opened the door of the dressing room. The sound of the music was suddenly louder as Zena paused there.

    
'… skin tight leather on satin sheets…'

    'Don't hurt him, Carol. He doesn't deserve it,' Zena said, smiling.

    
'… Now she's got me surrounded…'

    Zena said goodbye and closed the door, shutting out the music once more.

    Carol turned back to the mirror and studied her own reflection. She ran both hands over her breasts.

    Starting to sag yet.

    She reached for a cigarette and lit it, sucking hard, allowing the smoke to burn its way to her lungs.

    There is more. There has to be.

    The clock on the wall ticked soundlessly, the hands crawling around inexorably. Showtime.

    She would tell Scott it was over. Zena was right. She shouldn't hurt him. She would tell him.

    Eventually.

    The phone rang.

    For a moment Carol was startled by the ringing, then she turned and picked up the receiver.

    She recognised the voice immediately.

    'Hi. I'm just about to go on,' she said.

    'I know,' the caller said. 'Where shall I pick you up tonight?'

    'Same place as before.'

    'Same time?'

    'Yes. Look, I'd better go.'

    'See you later.'

    She hung up.

    

    

    In the back of his Mercedes Ray Plummer was smiling as he replaced the car phone.

    

    

    Scott was still in his office when 'Loveshow' closed. He had some paperwork to finish but decided it could wait until tomorrow. He glanced at his watch, saw it was just after 11.30 and rubbed his eyes. He had to take the money from the bar and the hostesses round to the night safe and deposit it before he went home. The money taken at the door and that collected from the sale of books and videos upstairs in the shop was kept in the building until the next morning. Best not to bank the whole lot at once.

    The bar takings were laid out before him, as was the money taken by the hostesses. Over eight hundred pounds in cash, all neatly arranged in piles according to denomination. Scott wound the piles securely with elastic bands and put them into the bag intended for the night safe.

    Don Lloyd, the barman, stuck his head around the door and said goodnight. Scott waved and smiled, then looked at his watch again. After a moment or two he got to his feet and wandered down the corridor from his office towards the dressing room.

    He knocked and waited.

    'Come in,' a voice from the other side called and he poked his head in.

    One of the other girls, a tall dark-haired young woman he knew as Lynn Fraser, smiled at him. She was completely naked, unconcerned by his presence. Scott was similarly uninterested in her state of undress; his attention, was drawn towards Carol, who was removing her make-up.

    'How did it go tonight?' he asked.

    Carol shrugged. 'Same as usual,' she said flatly.

    'Well, my Rob's going to be overjoyed when I get home,' said Lynn, reaching for a tissue from the box nearby. 'I'm as horny as hell.' She wiped some of the moisture from her vagina with the tissue. 'Gets you like that some nights, doesn't it?' she continued, looking at Carol.

    'I suppose so,' she replied unenthusiastically.

    'Half an hour with a vibrator stuck up you,' Lynn cooed. 'I can think of worse ways to pass the time.' She giggled and began to dress. 'I hope Rob isn't banking on a good night's sleep.'

    'Can I have a word with you when you're ready, Carol, please?' said Scott. 'In my office.' He smiled at Lynn and retreated from the dressing room before Carol could answer him. Behind him he could hear the dark-haired girl still giggling.

    Scott went around flicking off lights. He waved goodnight to Lynn as she left hurriedly, chuckling. Then he made his way back to his office.

    He sat down on the edge of his desk and waited.

    
Come on. Come on.

    Carol finally appeared looking a little pale.

    Scott smiled broadly at her.

    'Ready?' he said happily.

    'For what?' she said, somewhat bemused.

    'I thought we could get something to eat. You said we could talk…'

    She cut him short.

    'I didn't say that, Jim,' Carol sighed. 'I don't feel too good. Maybe it's the time of the month.'

    'Are you coming back to my place tonight? If it is the time of the month we don't have to…'

    'I just want to get home.'

    
Tell him. For Christ's sake, put him out of his misery.

    'I'm very tired, Jim.'

    He clasped his hands together and nodded, the smile fading but still flickering on his lips.

    'Maybe another night,' he said. 'Tomorrow, perhaps?'

    She nodded.

    
That's it, just keep him dangling.

    'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I just feel a bit rough.'

    
Lying bitch.

    'You go home and get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow,' he said. 'You'll feel better then and we can talk.'

    
About what? About how it's all over?

    She turned to leave but he crossed to her, put one hand on her shoulder and made her turn around. He bent forward and kissed her, aware once again that she was keeping her arms by her sides. He took one arm and draped it over his shoulder, then repeated the action with her other.

    'Not too painful, is it?' he smiled.

    She smiled back.

    
Don't hurt him.

    They finally parted and she said goodnight. He told her he would see her tomorrow, he had some things to do before he left.

    

    

    Carol closed the office door and made her way down the corridor. As she drew level with the dressing room the payphone inside began to ring. She opened the door, walked in and picked up the receiver.

    'Hello,' she said wearily.

    Silence. Only the odd pop and hiss of static.

    'Hello,' she said again. 'Can I help you?'

    'Carol Jackson.' It was a statement rather than a question.

    'Yes,' she said after a short pause. 'Who's this?'

    'I'm watching you.'

    She held the receiver away from her ear for a moment and glared at it, as if her anger could somehow be transmitted down the line to the caller. When she pressed the receiver to her ear again she could hear soft breathing.

    'If you're going to do it then do it properly, you useless bastard,' she hissed. 'Heavy breathing, it's supposed to be.'

    'I'm watching you.'

    'Then what am I doing?' she asked.

    'You're about to leave and I'll be waiting for you.'

    This time her response wasn't quite so swift.

    Other girls had received calls like this. It was almost an occupational hazard. She was about to speak again but the caller got there first.

    'I'm waiting.'

    There was a click as the phone was hung up and she was left with just the buzz of a dead line in her ear. Slowly she replaced the receiver. Then, wrapping her coat around her, she climbed the steps to street level and stepped out onto the pavement.

    It was still raining, a thin, miserable mist of drizzle.