Deadly Secrets (Detective Erika Foster #6)(68)

As he walked up Rupert Street and into Soho, the derelict facade of the Raymond Revue Bar rose up in front of him. His heart began to hammer in his chest, and he felt his penis grow hard. There was always a frisson of excitement when he entered the sex district, with its garishly lit bars and sex shops. It was a place where one could be both anonymous and coveted, and in this small quadrant of streets, all vestiges of polite British upper-class reserve fell away. The gays felt they could hold hands; people could express themselves. As he passed the Prowler store a couple of young guys emerged and did a double take, admiring his height. He waited for a council road sweeping machine to rumble past, the brushes working frantically on the filthy street. He crossed the road, heading past the sex shop on the corner and along Walker’s Court. It was a narrow, pedestrianised street made dingy by the tall buildings rising up either side. Sex shops and lap dancing clubs packed each side, with gaudy neon lights illuminating the gloom.

Meltwater from the rooftops ran into a broken gutter and then spattered the floor next to a sex shop with blacked-out windows. A neon teacher’s cane with the word ‘SPANKING’ repeated in flashing rows, advertised the shop’s specialist sex gear and porno vids. T felt his excitement grow, and almost without noticing, put his hand down to his groin, feeling the leather through the thin material of his dark trousers. He always imagined that the street had looked pretty much the same two hundred years ago, just without the garish lights and blacked-out windows. Back then, young men or women could go missing, and little would be said about it. Life was cheap.

A small girl in a thick silver puffy jacket hung around outside one of the small lap dancing clubs, where music blared out. T felt the booming bass fizzing on his teeth and rumbling through his chest. He slowed as the girl made eye contact, and she opened her coat. Underneath she wore a skin-tight mini skirt and a cut-off black top which showed her emaciated ribcage. Her eyes were a piercing green, but dead, and her plump lips were dotted with cold sores.

‘You want some fun?’ she said, raising her voice enough to be heard at close range.

‘I want someone to model for me,’ said T, leaning down to her, his lips almost touching her ear. She moved back, looking from side to side, green eyes scanning the narrow street for police. A short, dark-skinned man with heavy stubble glanced over from his spot by the sex shop at the end.

‘Yeah? How much?’ she said.

‘Private work. Very private.’

‘A hundred quid for an hour. You have a hotel?’ said the girl, her eyes remaining dead throughout. Like an animated corpse. The loud music cut out, and then another track started, trance music, starting off with a low beat. The short man at the end was tilting his head towards the girl. T felt nerves growl in his stomach: this was both thrilling and worrying. This girl would give him consent, but he wanted to go far, and he didn’t want too many people to see her with him. The short guy at the end was her pimp, he was sure.

‘I’m going shopping,’ said T, tipping his head towards a sex shop further down. ‘I need a girl who’s not afraid to bleed, but I would make it worth your while. You also need to travel. My place is a little far out.’

‘It’s a hundred and fifty an hour if I have to travel, minimum three hours up front…’ The girl was so nonchalant. There was no fear or trepidation. She had the look of someone who was deep in drugs, perhaps in hock to a dealer or the short pimp.

She suddenly bolted away and down towards Rupert Street. T looked for the pimp, but he was gone. A couple of community support officers had entered Walker’s Court at the other end. They were deep in conversation, as community support officers always seemed to be, but their eyes scanned the street, which was clearing out. Shadows vanished into doorways.

T felt relief and picked up the pace, moving like a commuter, fast and in a rush. He breezed past the two community support officers and out into the fresh air at the other end, into a fruit market and away from temptation and excitement.





Forty-Nine





Erika and Isaac couldn’t get in and see Edward until early afternoon. Isaac said he would wait for her to go and see him first, and he hung back and grabbed a cup of coffee in the cafeteria downstairs.

The ward was on the fifth floor. Erika was buzzed in through a set of double doors and directed to a row of beds at the end. As she approached the row of beds, she couldn’t work out which old man was Edward. So many of them were asleep, lying on their sides, with identical grey hair.

She found him at the end of the ward, by a window overlooking the car park. He was tucked up under blankets. His face lit up when he saw her.

‘Erika, love,’ he said, lifting a bruised hand with a drip coming from it. The cabinet beside him was empty. She saw lots of the other old men had cards and fruit, and she wished she’d brought him something.

‘Hello,’ she said, reaching out and taking his hand. It was very dry. She pulled up a chair and sat close to the bed. ‘What happened?’

‘I had a fall. I got up in the night, and I don’t remember much else. The postman heard me shouting the next morning.’

‘You tried to call me, didn’t you?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘I didn’t know you had a mobile phone.’

‘I don’t usually use it, but me phone was cut off a couple of days after Christmas, and I couldn’t find out why. I always pay my bills…’ He sat up, agitated.