The Eyewitness (19 page)

“I know I don't have to, but it makes me feel good,” said Montanaro gleefully.

“You wasted those years, Solomon. You think the public cares about prostitutes plying their trade? Most people would sooner have it legalised. At least then the hookers would be paying tax. And charging VAT.”

“I've heard the same argument a million times about drugs,” said Solomon.

“Drugs are different,” said Montanaro.

“No one ever died from an overdose of sex.”

“There's Aids.”

“Hookers don't get Aids, and if they do it's from drugs. Hookers know all about safe sex, Solomon. You won't find any of our girls doing anything without a condom. If they get Aids it's because they're screwing a dodgy boyfriend or sharing needles. And any punter who screws a working girl without protection deserves everything he gets. Prostitution is a victimless crime and in a few years the Government is going to recognise that and legalise it. Trust me.” He took a swig of Evian.

“Anything else I can help you with?” he asked sarcastically.

“If I showed you a photograph of the girl I'm looking for, would you tell me if she works for you?”

“Where's she from?”

“Kosovo. Near Pristina. She came through Sarajevo.”

Montanaro grimaced.

“Most of the girls we use in our agencies are from the EU,” he said.

“No immigration hassles that way. We use Thais and Chinese, but only if they've got valid student visas.” He chuckled.

“We've got Tony Blair to thank for that. Language students can legally work twenty hours a week, and Immigration aren't concerned about the type of work they do. Escorting is a valid job, so providing they don't get caught soliciting, they're not breaking the law.”

“You don't use girls from the Balkans, then?”

“A few, maybe. They have to speak good English because in our business they work alone. In the walk-ups it's different because there's a maid who can do the talking. And we need the cream of the girls because their photographs are on the website. With the walk-ups it's less important because by the time a punter's through the door he's usually too wound up to change his mind.”

“This girl's pretty,” said Solomon.

“And young.”

Montanaro nodded.

“Give the picture to the man outside, and a phone number. Someone'll be in touch.”

Solomon stood up and stretched out his hand.

“Thanks.”

Montanaro stared at the outstretched hand with a frown. Then he offered his own. The two men shook.

“I really don't understand you, Solomon,” said Montanaro.

“I'm not sure I understand myself,” said Solomon.

The big man was waiting outside with his clothes. Solomon took out a copy of the photograph of Nicole and scribbled his mobile phone number at the bottom.

“Mr. Montanaro is expecting this,” he said. The big man took it but said nothing. He watched silently as Solomon dressed, then showed him out.

Solomon caught a black cab to Bayswater and found an Internet cafe in a road off Queensway. He bought a double espresso and a bottle of water and sat down opposite a terminal in the corner. He drank half the bottle of water, then clicked on to Internet Explorer.

There were two dozen screens in the room, and all but a handful were occupied, mainly by foreign students tapping away at emails. Solomon turned his to the side so that no one could see what he was looking at.

He tapped in 'www.punternet.com', sipped his espresso and waited. The home page welcomed him to Punternet and offered him a list of services including Field Reports, Message Board, Service Provider Database and Amateur Photos.

Solomon clicked on the Service Provider Database link, smiling at the euphemism. It took him to a list of escort agencies and independent working girls, almost all of whom had their own websites. He clicked through to the website of a girl called Alison. It was professionally done, with pages devoted to the services she provided pretty much everything, so far as Solomon could tell her prices, and two galleries of photographs. She was a pretty girl, Latvian, with long blonde hair, long legs and surgically enhanced breasts. There was an email address.

Solomon clicked back to the Service Provider Database. There were screens full of entries. The agencies had names like Fine Date, Photogirls, AAA-Gal, Agency Provocateur, Legal Escorts, and Oriental Angels. Solomon clicked through some of the links at random. Most had a dozen girls or so on their books, but some had more than fifty. The websites differed in layout, but the content was pretty much the same. Pictures of girls, sometimes with faces obscured or blurred, but more often than not there was no attempt to hide their features. Descriptions of the girl, including the all-important measurements, the rates, the cost per hour. They didn't mention sex, just the cost for an hour of the girl's time. Montanaro was right: with no mention of sex on the site it would be difficult for the police ever to prove that agency owners were involved in prostitution.

There must have been thousands of girls on the Punternet database, and Solomon smiled as Dragan Jovanovic's voice echoed in his mind: "A needle in a hay stick He clicked back to Punternet and ran down the list of names in the database. There was no Nicole. Two girls called Amy were working as independents and he clicked through to them. One was an overweight brunette with a penchant for anal sex -educated to A-level standard, as she coyly described it while the other was a black girl based in Bristol.

Solomon clicked on the link to the Message Board, where prostitutes and punters could leave messages for each other. Like scribbling notes on a lavatory wall, thought Solomon. He flicked through the message threads. Juvenile chat, mostly. Punters looking for hookers, prostitutes complaining about clients, inane poetry and juvenile rantings. Solomon clicked on to a message from a man using the handle "Wonderboy', who wanted advice on a rash that had appeared on his genitals. The general feeling among the Punternet community was that he should see his GP.

He clicked through to Field Reports, and called up all the ones that had been posted over the past seven days. There were just under three hundred.

He sat back, sipping his espresso. The search engine showed the name of the girl being reviewed and her location. He chose one at random. Helen of North London.

The report followed a standard template: the name of the girl, the name of the reviewer, the location, time of day, how much the experience had cost, how long it had lasted, and details of how to contact the girl, including a phone number. The reviewer who'd written about Helen used the handle BigTodger. The report was the sort of thing a schoolboy might have written, full of spelling mistakes. Big Todger described the flat where Helen worked, the state of the bedroom, what she looked like without her clothes, what she had done to him and he to her. It was more information than Solomon needed or wanted. But he could see what Montanaro meant: once a punter had read the review, there was no need for solicitation or importuning. Both parties would know exactly what was on offer.

He read a dozen reports, then used the search engine to see if there were any reports of a Nicole. There were none. He looked for reports on anyone called Amy and came up with several dozen from girls across the country. He read them all. None sounded like Nicole.

Solomon sighed. If he didn't know the name she was using, it would take for ever to find her.

His mobile phone warbled and he answered it.

“Jack Solomon?” grunted a man.

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Montanaro said I should call you.”

“Yeah.”

“This girl. The picture you gave Mr. Montanaro. She's not one of ours.”

“Right. Thanks,” said Solomon. The line went dead. Solomon slipped the phone back into his pocket. He waved at a waitress and ordered a second espresso. He might be looking for a needle in a haystack, but he could do it faster on the Internet than visiting Soho walk-ups. He clicked back to the Punternet database and started at the top, clicking through to the website of AAA-Gals. There were half a dozen pretty Oriental girls. Solomon sighed. One down, several hundred to go.

Colin Duggan buttoned his coat and walked out into the street, his shoulders hunched against the wind. He hated his job, but he was stuck with it until his retirement date, and that was three years away. If he left before then, his pension would be cut to ribbons. He was little more than a clerk, taking in lost items and keeping the office's computerised inventory up to date. The high spot of his day had been the young secretary who'd turned up to claim the mobile phone she'd left in the back of a black cab. She'd been wearing a low-cut top and, so far as Duggan could tell, no bra.

“Penny for them,” said a voice to Duggan's left.

“Fuck off, Solomon,” snarled Duggan, without looking round.

“Free country, last I heard,” said Solomon, lighting a Marlboro.

He shoved the packet under Duggan's nose. Duggan shook his head.

“What do you want?”

“The girl. Nicole Shala. Any joy?”

“If there'd been any joy I'd have called, wouldn't I?”

“Not in the mood you're in.”

Duggan glared at him.

“The way we left it was that I'd phone you if I found anything. I didn't phone you. You used to be a fucking detective, draw your own conclusions.”

“So there was nothing on the computer?”

Duggan stopped and stared at Solomon.

“I ran her name through CRO. Nothing. I got a mate to run her picture through the Home Office computer and she hasn't been deported. That's all I can do.”

Solomon blew smoke up into the air.

“Fancy a drink?”

“I'm going home.”

“One for the road?”

Duggan swore and started walking again. Solomon followed him. Duggan headed for the pub. He had nothing to rush home for: his wife had died ten years earlier, and even Solomon was better company than the television set and a microwaved dinner. Duggan pushed open the pub door, walked to a table and sat down while Solomon bought the drinks.

Solomon put a tumbler of Bell's and ice in front of him and sat down.

“I went to see Montanaro,” he said.

Duggan spluttered into his whisky, “You did what?” He looked at Solomon as if he'd lost his mind.

“What game are you playing? You go to see him and then you come and see me. What is this? A fucking set-up?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Duggan leaned over and patted Solomon's chest, than ran his hand down his shirt to his stomach.

“I'm not wearing a wire,” said Solomon.

Duggan didn't say anything as he ran his hand around Solomon's back and up between his shoulders.

“Colin, for God's sake .. .”

Duggan removed his hand.

“Why don't you just sod off back to Bosnia?” he asked.

“Not until I've found the girl.”

“Well, keep the hell away from me. Haven't you screwed me over enough as it is? How's it going to look if you're seen with Montanaro, then spotted talking to me?”

“No one's following me. No one even knows I'm in town.” Solomon sipped his lager. He gestured at Duggan's now-empty glass.

“You want another?”

Duggan sat fuming until Solomon returned with another whisky.

“Why did you go to see him?” he asked.

“He controls a big chunk of the Soho girls. I wanted to know if he'd seen Nicole.”

“And had he?”

“Says not.”

“Believe him?”

Solomon looked pained.

“No need for him to lie, not now.”

“Maybe he just wanted you to piss off.”

“He'd be in good company, then,” said Solomon.

Despite himself Duggan grinned.

“He seemed pretty sanguine about getting into bed with the Albanians,” asked Solomon.

“The way Montanaro tells is, he's moving into the Internet escort-agency business and the Albanians are putting their girls into the Soho walk-ups.”

“Sounds right.”

“The Albanians are a mean bunch,” said Solomon.

“Who isn't, these days?” said Duggan.

“Yardies, Russians. Colombians London's full of tough bastards. The home-grown villains don't stand a chance.”

“Thing is, the Albanians aren't going to be happy with a profit-sharing arrangement. They went head to head with the Mafia in Italy and won.”

“Let me think if I give a shit,” said Duggan. He sat in silence for a few seconds.

“No, I don't,” he said.

“You don't want to see a gang war, do you? You're still a cop,” said Solomon.

Duggan smiled thinly.

“No, I'm not. I'm just marking time until retirement.”

“Bullshit,” said Solomon.

“Once a cop, always a cop.”

Duggan drained his glass.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“I'm working through the Internet sites. At least they've got photographs.”

“They're not all genuine. Same as the postcards in phone-boxes. What you see isn't necessarily what you get.”

“Is that the voice of experience?”

“I never went with a brass. Never have done and never will. Some of the guys didn't mind dipping their wick, but that's one line I never crossed.”

“I was joking.”

“Yeah, well, that sense of humour is going to put you in hospital one day.”

Solomon finished his lager.

“Another?”

Duggan shook his head, and Solomon stood up. Duggan watched him leave. Despite everything that had happened, Duggan liked Solomon. Not that he'd ever tell him not after the damage he'd done. He went to the bar and ordered another double Bell's and ice. He hadn't planned on drinking but, these days, once he'd started, he found it difficult to stop.

Solomon sipped his double espresso and clicked back to the Punternet database. He was about half-way through the list of escort agencies and independent girls and so far he had three possibilities. He was working his way alphabetically down the list and checking every photograph on the sites. The independent girls were easy to rule out, but the agencies took more time. They tended to have a page of pictures of all the girls on their books, and clicking on one of the individual photographs led to another page devoted to that particular girl with more photographs and a potted biography. Solomon could dismiss Oriental and black girls immediately, but he checked every page of Caucasian girls, blonde, brunette or redhead. Nicole was a natural blonde but she'd dyed her hair black when she went to Sarajevo and might have changed it again.

The girls who caused Solomon the most problems were those whose faces were obscured by computer-generated blurring or black strips across the eyes. Then he had to go by body shape and that was difficult because Nicole had been wearing a long dress in the wedding photograph: on the websites most of the girls wore the minimum of clothing and in many cases were naked.

He could rule out a lot of the girls by age. Nicole was nineteen and he dismissed anyone who described herself as twenty-five or older.

Of the three on his short-list, the faces of two had been obscured electronically. Both were blondes and worked for agencies. One was using the name Savana, the other Bianca. The third girl was an independent, based in Earl's Court, and was calling herself Nikita. Her face wasn't blurred or blacked out, but in all the photographs it was turned away from the camera.

He'd obtained colour printouts of the three girls from the young Arab man who ran the Internet cafe. The first time the guy had grinned knowingly and winked, but Solomon had given him a withering look and the second and third had been handed over without comment.

Solomon clicked on to a website run by an agency called Legal Escorts. The home page showed a pretty brunette smiling slyly at the camera. Beneath the photograph was a warning that the site contained information of a sexual nature and anyone under eighteen should click on a red 'exit' button. Solomon clicked on 'enter'.

The next page was a group of thumbnail photographs of girls, more than twenty in all. No names, no details. Four were Oriental and two were black. One by one Solomon clicked on the Caucasian girls and went through to their individual pages. The sixth girl he clicked on was called Amy, and when her page filled the screen Solomon knew he'd found Nicole. There were eight photographs on the page. In most her face was turned away, but in one she was facing the camera. She was wearing a school uniform with white knee socks and her hair was tied in two pigtails. She was sitting on a bed with an ornate wooden headboard, her legs apart.

Below the photographs was a list of prices and out call only'. That meant Solomon couldn't visit her at her flat: she had to come to him. The agency charged 200 for an hour, and up to 1500 for an all-night stay. There were two phone numbers, both mobiles.

Solomon clicked on 'print', then went over to the cash desk to collect the sheet of paper and pay for his session. He stared at the picture. Nicole's hair was dark brown, several inches longer than it had been in the wedding photograph, and her breasts looked a little fuller, but her smile was an exact match. A little sly, mischievous, nervous.

He read through her details. The biography said that she was from Italy, but he decided the agency owners preferred to advertise their girls as being from the European Union rather than the Balkans. He folded the sheet of paper and slid it into his inside pocket. It had been a needle in a haystack, but he had found her.

Solomon sipped his Kingfisher as McLaren rattled off the order without consulting the menu. The Indian waiter was equally casual, not using a notebook.

“And two more Kingfishers,” said McLaren.

“Large ones.” It was just before nine and the restaurant was almost empty. The real trade started as the pubs closed but McLaren hadn't had any lunch so he'd been eager for an early dinner. Early for McLaren, anyway he didn't usually eat until midnight. His eating habits went against all medical advice but in the years Solomon had known him he'd never had a day off work and there wasn't an ounce of fat on him.

“I need a favour,” said Solomon.

“Sure,” said McLaren.

“I need to borrow the flat,” said Solomon.

“You know you can stay as long as you want.”

“It's a bit more specific than that.” Solomon slid the printout of Nicole's web page across the table.

McLaren scanned it, then grinned.

“Outcall only,” he said.

“Yeah, so it's either your place or a hotel.”

“So my flat's going to be a knocking shop, is that it?”

“I'm not planning to have sex with her. Cross my heart.”

“Wouldn't blame you if you did, mate. She's a little cutie. School uniforms always do it for me.”

“Stupid thing to ask, right?” said Solomon.

McLaren raised his glass of beer in salute.

“You go for it,” he said.

“You sure she'll come to a private address?”

“It says she visits hotels and homes in Central London. You know you're going to have to be out?”

McLaren grinned.

“Threesome's out of the question, then?”

“I'm serious, Danny. If there's two guys in the flat, it'll spook her.”

The waiter brought over a plate of poppadums and pickle tray. Danny pressed his fingers into the centre of the stack, then dipped a shard into the mango chutney.

“What time were you thinking of?”

“Dunno,” said Solomon.

“They charge by the hour, right, so she's not going to be there overnight.”

“You know how much it costs for her to stay overnight?” McLaren raised an eyebrow.

"One and a half grand, said Solomon. McLaren gasped.

“Back in Sarajevo it would set you back a hundred quid.”

“The girl did good.”

“Not necessarily,” said Solomon.

“If she's got a pimp, she might not be seeing any of the money.”

“But how long's she going to be in the flat?”

“I'm going to pay for an hour, but I'm hoping she'll talk to me for longer. I'm going to ask her to go back with me to Sarajevo.”

“At one and a half grand a day, that's going to cost you,” said McLaren.

“Her family were murdered, and she must want that avenged.”

“So why's she in London?” asked McLaren.

Solomon didn't reply. It was the one question he couldn't answer. But maybe Nicole could. The currys arrived, with two fresh beers. McLaren reached over and clinked his bottle against Solomon's.

“Just be careful, yeah? You've already had one run-in with a pimp.”

“Two, actually.”

“What?”

“It's a long story.”

Solomon sat down on McLaren's sofa and studied the notebook on the coffee table. He had written down the number of the pay-as-you-go mobile that he was using, the name he was planning to use to book Nicole, McLaren's address and "AMY'. He rehearsed in his mind exactly what he was going to say, then tapped out the number on the mobile.

A woman answered, middle-aged with an East European accent. She didn't give the name of the agency, just asked if she could help.

“Is that Legal Escorts?” asked Solomon.

“It is. How can I help you?”

“I'd like to book Amy for an hour today. Is that okay?”

“Have you used the agency before?”

“No, I haven't.”

“What time would you like to see Amy?”

“Six o'clock,” said Solomon. It was just after four.

“And your name is?”

“Richard Williams.”

“And what is the name of your hotel, Richard?”

“Er, I was wondering if Amy could come and see me at my home. In Bayswater.”

“Of course. I'll have to confirm the appointment with her and call you back. What is your number?”

Solomon gave her the number of his mobile. Then he paced up and down until the woman called him back. She confirmed the appointment for six and wrote down his address.

“The fee for an hour of Amy's time will be two hundred pounds,” she said.

“She might ask you to contribute towards her taxi fare, but that is your choice, Richard. Thank you for calling.”

She cut the connection. There had been no mention of sex, no discussion of the services Amy would offer. No solicitation, no importuning. A totally legal transaction so far.

The intercom buzzed and Solomon jumped. He picked up the receiver.

“Yeah, hello?” he said.

“This is Amy,” said a voice.

“Amy, come on up,” said Solomon, and pressed the button to unlock the street door. When the flat bell rang, he took a couple of deep breaths, then opened the door. His face fell when he saw the girl standing there. It wasn't Nicole.

She smiled brightly at him, showing crooked teeth.

“Hi, I'm Amy,” she said. She was tall, an inch or two below six feet, with long brown hair, parted in the middle, her eyes a blue so deep that he was sure she was wearing tinted contact lenses. She was wearing a grey fake fur coat with the collar turned up, tight black trousers and high-heeled black-leather boots.

Solomon said nothing. He stood where he was, his hand on the door, staring at her. He'd asked for Amy and there had been only one girl called Amy on the Legal Escorts website. The girl in front of him was taller, older, with a squarish jaw and a more prominent nose. She was pretty, striking even, but she wasn't Amy. The girl's smile tightened a fraction.

“Aren't you going to ask me in?” she said.

Solomon forced a smile and opened the door.

“Sorry,” he said.

She walked past him, took off her coat and tossed it on to one of the sofas.

“You have my money?” she asked.

He took a wad of ten twenty-pound notes from his back pocket and gave it to her. She counted it, then pulled a Nokia mobile from her bag.

“I'm just going to call the agency to let them know that everything is okay,” she said.

She turned her back on him as she made the call, talking to the woman at the agency in what sounded like Russian, then turned back to him.

“Can I use your bathroom, please?” she asked.

Solomon nodded and showed her where it was. She smiled, blew him a kiss, and closed the door. He heard a tap running.

His mind was in a whirl. The last thing he'd expected was the wrong girl to turn up. If he told the agency he wanted the girl on the website instead, they'd wonder why. He'd already told the woman on the phone that he'd never met Amy. He'd paid this girl two hundred pounds for her time, so if he didn't have sex with her she'd suspect something was wrong. He grabbed his mobile and called McLaren, saying a silent prayer that he wasn't out of the office or on another call. His luck was in his friend answered on the second ring. Solomon spoke quickly, keeping his voice low.