In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(180)

“It takes violence, I'd assume.” Lynley marveled at Reeve's hubris. How could the pimp not know he was digging his own grave with every sentence he spoke? Did he actually think he was ameliorating his position with his declarations?

Reeve went on. He'd begun paying visits to his employees during the afternoon, he said, surprise visits that were designed to reinforce his authority over them. He appropriated their bank books, diaries, and bills with the intention of comparing them to his own records. He listened to messages on their answer machines to learn if they'd encouraged their clients to bypass Global Escorts when booking a session. He went through their wardrobes checking for clothing that revealed a higher income than he was shelling out to them. He examined their supplies of condoms, lubricating jellies, and sex toys to see if everything matched what he knew of each girl's clientele.

“Some of them didn't like what I was doing,” Reeve said. “They complained. So I straightened them out.”

“You beat them.”

“Beat them?” Reeve laughed. “Hell no. I f*cked them. That's what you saw on my face last night. I call it fingernail foreplay.”

“There's another word for it.”

“I didn't rape anyone, if that's where you're heading. And there's not a single one among them who'll say that I did. But if you want to bring them in—the three I f*cked—and grill them, go right ahead and do it. I've come to give you their names anyway. They'll back my story.”

“I'm sure they will,” Lynley said. “Obviously, the woman who doesn't is inclined to experience your brand of … What did you call it? Straightening out?” He got to his feet and ended the taped interview. He said to DC Budde, “I want him charged. Get him to a telephone, because he'll be howling for his solicitor before we've even begun to—”

“Hey!” Reeve jumped up. “What're you doing? I didn't touch either one of those cunts. You've got nothing on me.”

“You're a pimp, Mr. Reeve. I have your own admission of that on tape. It's a decent start.”

“You offered a deal. I'm here to collect it. I'm talking and then I'm clearing out to Melbourne. You put that on the table for Tricia and—”

“And Tricia may collect it if she chooses to do so.” Lynley said to Budde, “We'll want to send a team from vice back to Lansdowne Road. Phone over there and tell Havers to wait till they arrive.”

“Hey! Listen to me!” Reeve came round the table. DC Budde grabbed onto his arm. “Get your f*cking hands off—”

“She's probably had time to pull together enough evidence to hold him on a pandering charge,” Lynley told Budde. “That'll do for now.”

“You *s don't know who you're dealing with!”

DC Budde tightened his grip. “Havers? Guv, she's not in Notting Hill. Jackson, Stille, and Smiley're doing the search. You want me to track her down anyway?”

Lynley said, “Not there? Then, where—”

Reeve struggled against Budde. “I'll have your butts for this.”

[page]“Steady on, mate. You're not going anywhere.” Budde said to Lynley, “She met us there and handed over the warrant. Do you want me to try to—”

“Fuck this shit!”

The door to the interview room swung open. “'Spector?” It was Winston Nkata. “Need some help in here?”

“It's under control,” Lynley said, and to Budde, “Get him to a phone. Let him call his solicitor. Then get on the paperwork to charge him.”

Budde danced Reeve past Nkata and down the corridor. Lynley remained by the table, fingers on the tape recorder for want of something to ground himself through touch. If he did anything else without taking time to consider the consequences of every possible action, he knew he'd regret it eventually.

Havers, he thought. Christ. What was it going to take? She'd never been the easiest officer to work with, but this was outrageous. It was beyond comprehension that she'd defied a direct order after what she'd already been through. Either she had a death wish or she'd lost her mind. No matter which it was, though, Lynley knew he'd finally reached the end of his tether with the woman.

“—took some time to track down which clamping unit works the area, but it paid off big,” Nkata was saying.

Lynley looked up. “Sorry,” he said. “I was miles away. What've you got, Winnie?”

“I checked Beattie's club. He's in the clear. I went on to Islington,” Nkata said. “I did a talk with the neighbours at the Maiden girl's old digs. No one matched up any visitors with Beattie or Reeve, even when I showed them pictures. Found one of each bloke at the Daily Mail by the way. Always helps to have snouts in the newspaper offices.”

“But no joy from that direction?”

“Not to speak. But while I was there I saw a clamped Vauxhall sitting on double yellow. Which got me to thinking 'bout other possibilities.”

Nkata reported that he'd phoned all the London wheel clamping agencies to see which of them served the Islington streets. It was a shot in the dark, but since no one he'd spoken to had been able to identify either Martin Reeve or Sir Adrian Beattie as visitors to Nicola Maiden's bed-sit prior to her removal to Fulham, he decided to see if anyone clamped in the area on the ninth of May might match up with anyone connected to Nicola Maiden.