Bone Machine (11 page)

Katya nodded. ‘I … I do not want to be ungrateful. But …’ She sighed. ‘I feel … unsettled here.’

Donovan smiled. ‘I don’t blame you.’

‘The country is very beautiful and I love to walk, but I feel … like I am in limbo. Waiting for something to happen.’

Donovan nodded. ‘If you want something to do, I could use some help.’

Her eyes lit up. She turned to him. ‘With what?’

‘It’s work. I don’t know whether you’d want to or not. It might be a bit – I don’t know – unpleasant for you. Bring back some
bad memories.’

A cloud passed over her features. ‘Like what?’

Donovan told her about his meeting with Janine Stewart. The job he had agreed to take on, without mentioning Michael Nell’s
name. ‘The thing is, he claims that when
Ashley was being abducted, he was out visiting prostitutes. Or a prostitute in particular.’

Her voice rose in anger. ‘And you think this was me?’

‘No, no, I don’t. But I thought you might be able to help me. Point me in the right direction.’

Katya said nothing.

‘I know it’s not something you want to go back to. And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

Katya took a long time to answer. When she did, her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘They might see me. Come after me. Take
me back with them.’

‘They won’t,’ Donovan said. ‘You’ll be with me.’

She gave a harsh laugh. ‘You think that will stop them?’ She shook her head, stood up, paced the room. ‘You don’t know what
they are like, what they can do to you. They keep us in one room, give us one meal a day. Charge us to stay there. Charge
us to use knives and forks. Fine us if we do not … humiliate ourselves with men. Fine us if the men do not find us attractive
…’

She turned away from Donovan, composed herself again. Donovan said nothing. Katya continued, her voice small. ‘They tell us
we will have good jobs in hotel, in restaurant, then take our passports, tell us we owe them thousands of pounds. Make us
their property. Tell us to do as they say or they will kill our families back home.’ She looked straight at him. ‘They can
do all this, and you do not think they will find me?’

‘Trust me. They won’t. You won’t see them. I’ve got photos of the woman and the street where she works from. And what she
specializes in. She’s not Eastern European. She’s local. A home-grown girl.’

Katya relaxed. Very slightly.

‘I was just wondering whether you’d come across her, that’s all.’

Katya said nothing for a while. ‘What does she look like?’ she said eventually.

Donovan took out the envelope Janine Stewart had given him. He leafed through the photos, looking for one that wouldn’t upset
Katya. Or would upset her the least. He passed it across to her. Saw her flinch as she took it. It showed a woman, medium
height, hair short and dark, slight build. Frail-looking. The camera was above her, looking down. She looked up, eyes wide
and fearful.

‘She caters to the S&M trade mainly,’ said Donovan. ‘A taker, rather than a giver.’

Katya gave another harsh laugh. ‘All whores are takers. There to absorb men’s anger.’ The word was spat out like phlegm.

‘Not every man,’ said Donovan, feeling he had to say something. Katya shrugged. Unconvinced. Donovan continued. ‘Anyway, do
you know her?’

‘She looks familiar.’ Katya studied the photo, frowned. ‘Yes … her name was … Shirley? Sharon? Something like that. We were
not encouraged to mix with the other girls. We worked in shifts. I was taken to the house, dropped off, and they sat outside
and waited.’

‘Were you taken to just the one house? Or is there a chance you could have been to the one she was at?’

‘There’s a chance,’ Katya said, looking at the floor. ‘Describe it to me.’

He did. Katya slowly nodded. ‘I think I know that one.’

‘Do you know where it is?’

‘Perhaps. When I see it again.’

‘I imagine it’s the same set-up,’ said Donovan. ‘The landlord rents out the rooms to the girls, takes a cut. If there’s any
trouble or a raid, it goes no further than him. And he’s well paid for being a front, taking a rap. The big bosses who own
the houses are hidden by a papertrail.’

Katya’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know a lot about whores.’

Donovan shrugged. ‘Ex-journo. You’re right, though. Her name’s Sharon. Or at least that’s what the client was told to call
her.’ He sat back. ‘Look, I wouldn’t ask you if there was another way. I just might need you to talk to her. She might not
want to talk to me on my own.’

Katya said nothing.

‘So. What’s your answer?’

Katya looked at the screen. There was a barricade, civilians on one side, police on the other. Everyone was behaving with
impeccable manners and cheerful good spirits.

‘I will do it, Joe. I will try to help.’

Donovan smiled. ‘Thank you, Katya. I know this can’t be easy for you.’

Katya put her mug down, her face serious. ‘But there is a condition.’

She told him.

One phone call and an argument with Sharkey later, Donovan had her agreement.

The rain slapped down on the west end of Newcastle, crackling and fizzing, turning the night to white noise and static, coating
the roads and pavements with a greasy, oily sheen. The streets were almost deserted, people out only if they had somewhere
or nowhere to go. Pedestrians hurried by, drivers got out of cars and ran into houses. In a metal-shuttered newsagent’s doorway
a small gaggle of hoodied youths, all nasty-looking, brutal and short, huddled desultorily in shelter.

Donovan sat at the wheel of the car, engine still idling, and scanned the street in front of him. A row of old red-brick houses,
in a run-down area, their doors opening directly on to the street, no front gardens. Just as it had been described in Michael
Nell’s statement. Just as Donovan had described it to Katya.

‘This look right to you?’ he said.

She stared intensely at the house. ‘Could be.’

‘Why not ask those youths over there?’ said Jamal from behind them, leaning his arms across the backs of the front two seats,
pointing to the shop doorway.

‘I hope you’re joking,’ said Donovan.

‘Man, you’re so prejudiced,’ the boy said sulkily.

Donovan ignored him.

The rain showed no signs of stopping, sliding and rolling down the windscreen in jelly-like waves. Donovan refrained from
putting the wipers on. Thought the sound of them in a motionless car one of the most depressing sounds there was.

Donovan checked the street for the Peugeot he had seen parked outside the house they had rescued Katya from. There was no
sign of it.

‘Coast looks clear,’ he said. ‘Are you OK about coming in with me? I think she’ll talk more freely with another woman there.’

‘An ex-whore, you mean?’

Donovan looked at her. He didn’t know what to say.

Katya smiled. ‘I am sorry. That was unkind.’

They resumed looking out of the window.

‘You better take Katya, man,’ said Jamal.

‘Why?’ asked Donovan.

‘’Cos, man, gettin’ outta this car on his own got john written all over him, you get me?’

‘Suppose you’ve got a point,’ said Donovan.

‘You know I have,’ said Jamal. He looked around the interior, shook his head. ‘This is one borin’ car, you know that? Man,
you need to do somethin’. You need to pimp this ride.’

Donovan didn’t even look at him. ‘Pimp.’

‘Yeah, man. Pimp. Give it some style. Put a good sound system in, get that bass pumpin’. Maybe some DVD screens, fridge wi’
Kristal in the back. Alloy wheels, fur trim.’

‘Jamal.’

‘Or purple.’

‘Jamal.’

‘Or purple fur.’

Donovan just looked at him.

Jamal sighed. ‘You know what I mean.’

Donovan tried to hide his smile. ‘This car’s for work, Jamal. It’s meant to look anonymous. Blend in. You know that.’

Like an adult sick of imparting unheeded wisdom, Jamal shook his head wearily. ‘Job done then, bro. Job done.’

‘Right,’ said Donovan, ‘we’re going. You know what to do, J?’

‘Sure, man,’ Jamal said, as if affronted. ‘Keep a lookout for any other cars givin’ undue attention to the house you’re at
when you’re in it.’

‘And?’

Jamal sighed. Like a child repeating instructions by rote. ‘Give you a call on the mobile.’

Donovan smiled. ‘Well done. We’ll make a junior detective out of you yet.’

They opened the car doors, stepped out into the rain. Donovan pulled the collar of his leather jacket close about his neck.
Katya was wearing a suede jacket and a baseball cap, both oversized, both lent to her by Donovan. She huddled her thin frame
within.

Donovan grabbed her hand and they ran across the street.

Unaware that they were being watched.

They reached the front door. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other door in the street. Donovan tried the handle.
Locked. He knocked on it. They waited. Rain dripped off his face. Off the brim of Katya’s baseball cap.

‘I remember now,’ said Katya. ‘The man here, the landlord, his name is Noddy.’

Donovan looked at her. ‘Noddy?’

She nodded.

‘Nice.’

The door was opened.

A man’s face, moon-like and greasy, poked out. Seeing Donovan, he was fine. Seeing a female shape next to him, he looked wary.

‘Yeah?’ he said. His oily voice matched his skin.

‘My name’s Joe Donovan. I’m working for Janine Stewart, a solicitor.’ He produced a business card of hers, handed it over.
It was reluctantly accepted by stubby, dirty
fingers. ‘We need to talk to one of your girls. Can we come in, please?’

Donovan began to move towards the door, opening it as he went. He felt resistance.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said the moon-faced man. ‘Go away. Piss off. This is a private residence.’

‘Fuck off, it’s a private residence,’ said Donovan, almost smiling. ‘Come on, Noddy, you really think I believe that?’

The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously behind his glasses. ‘How d’you know my name?’ Panic was creeping into his voice.

‘I know lots of things, Noddy. Now don’t fuck me about and I won’t fuck you about. It’s pouring with rain out here and we’ve
both got jobs to do. Sooner you let me talk to your girl, sooner we’ll be gone.’

Noddy thought, decided to bluff it out. ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’ His voice muffled from behind the closing
door.

Donovan put his hand out to stop it, wedged his foot in the way. ‘You want to fuck about? OK. We’ll leave you. But we’ll go
straight to the law and bring them back with us. That suit you better? Up to you, Noddy.’

The man looked at the card, at Donovan, at Katya’s obscured face. Reluctantly opened the door.

‘Thank you,’ said Donovan.

They stepped into the hall. It was blandly decorated, minimally furnished. Nothing gave away its true purpose. Nothing gave
it any character. Noddy closed the door behind them. He was wearing filthy, stained tracksuit bottoms that had seen the inside
of a kebab shop more times than the inside of a gym, or even a washing machine, a similarly filthy red T-shirt and a pair
of old slippers. He stank of sweat and other bodily secretions Donovan wanted to draw a discreet veil over.

‘What’s this about, then?’ Noddy said. ‘You’re not coppers. You don’t have to threaten me with them.’

‘Like I said, we’re working for a solicitor. We need to speak to one of the girls who works here.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t tell you, I’m afraid. Client confidentiality.’

Noddy pulled himself up to his full height, puffed out his chest in what Donovan assumed was meant to be a threatening manner.
He moved in close to Donovan. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

‘Tell me or you’ll get no further. I’m in charge here. I make the decisions. Nothin’ happens in this house that I don’t know
about. You want somethin’—’ he stuck a pudgy thumb in his equally pudgy chest ‘—you go through me.’

Donovan took a step backwards. Noddy took this as a sign of fear. Donovan just wanted to give his sense of smell a rest.

‘Well,’ said Donovan, trying not to smile, ‘maybe you’re the person I need to talk to. It’s to do with a murder inquiry.’

Noddy flinched. Audibly gasped. ‘Murder?’

Donovan nodded. ‘That’s right. And since you’re in charge here, and nothing happens in this house that you don’t know about,
and since everything goes through you, you might be called on to give evidence in any trial.’

‘Evidence?’ The man’s future seemed to race across his face. He didn’t like what he saw. He started to sweat.

Oh, no, thought Donovan, taking another step back.

‘What d’you mean?’ said Noddy. ‘There hasn’t been a murder here.’

‘I didn’t say there had been. One of your girls’ names has been mentioned in connection with a murder inquiry. We need to
talk to her.’

‘Which girl?’

‘Sharon Healy’s her real name.’

‘Sharon Healy?’

‘Calls herself the Queen of Misrule.’

Noddy frowned, giving the impression of thinking hard. Donovan and Katya could almost hear it happening. His brow unknit,
and a look of what he believed to be sly cunning eventually appeared on his face. ‘She’s not one of my girls. She’s freelance.
Rents a room off us. That’s all. Nowt to do wi’ me.’

‘Which room?’

‘Upstairs at the back. Second one along.’

‘Is she up there now? Is she working?’

Noddy shook his head.

Donovan gestured to the stairs. ‘Can we?’

‘Aye, aye. Up you go.’

Donovan smiled. ‘Thank you.’ He looked at Katya. ‘After you.’

Katya went up the stairs.

‘You’ll have to pay, though. Time is money.’

Donovan turned to Noddy. Risked moving in close to him. ‘You going to make me?’

Noddy thought about it. He shook his head.

‘Good. And don’t think of calling anyone while we’re up there. I’ve got someone outside watching the house. First sign of
trouble, he’ll be in here like a shot.’ Donovan shook his head. ‘And you wouldn’t want that. Believe me.’

Noddy swallowed hard. He believed him.

Donovan turned, went up the stairs.

Katya was waiting on the landing. She glanced around nervously, looked pleased to see Donovan.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘This door,’ she said, pointing, then looked across the landing. ‘I was in that one.’

Donovan looked at her. He didn’t know what to say.

‘Here was no good. They moved me to the other house. Watch me better there.’

Donovan grabbed her hand, squeezed. She returned it, tried to smile.

‘So that’s Noddy, eh?’ he said.

‘Yes. An unpleasant man. But not worst. I have met worse.’

‘I’m sure. You think he recognized you?’

‘I don’t think so. I kept my hat down. I could feel his eyes on me, though.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

Donovan released Katya’s hand. Reluctantly, she let go, giving him a brief, hesitant smile.

‘This door?’ he said. She nodded. ‘Come on, then.’

They walked up to it, knocked. Waited. From down the hall came the sounds of reluctant bedsprings, unenthusiastic copulation.
Beyond that, the rain. The door was opened.

‘Sharon?’ asked Donovan. ‘Sharon Healy?’

The woman who had answered the door looked like the ghost of the woman in the photos. She was all monochromatic contrasts:
white face, dark hair. Not tall, but round. Overweight. It gave her facial features a round, cheerful look that her eyes contrasted.
Black bobbed hair. Pale skin, dark bruises. White or once-white terry dressing gown over glimpsed black underwear. She managed
to summon up a look of expectation for Donovan that quickly died when she noticed Katya.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ she asked, her voice stronger than her looks would have suggested.

‘My name’s Joe Donovan, and this is an associate of mine. I’m working for a solicitor. It’s about Michael Nell. Can we come
in and talk to you?’

‘Who?’

‘Michael Nell. He was a client of yours. He took these.’
He handed over the photos. She took them, opened the envelope. Flicked through them.

‘I remember him.’ She sketched a ghost of a smile. ‘I come out well, haven’t I?’

Donovan had looked at the photos of Sharon Healy, naked and bound, humiliated and hurt. ‘Well’ wouldn’t have been the word
he would have used.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Really good. He’s captured something there.’

‘Ee, he’s talented, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yeah. He’s talented. Can we come in, please?’

Sharon Healy looked at him. Caught what was going on behind his eyes. ‘You don’t like these photos, do you? Not into it. Wonder
how I can do it. What I get out of it. Besides money, that is.’

Donovan could feel his cheeks reddening.

Sharon’s face changed. A kind of sick power floated behind her eyes. She almost smiled. ‘And you’ll never know.’

She opened the door, let them in. The room was as depressing and bare as the rest of the house. S&M concessions had been made:
tools of the trade hanging from B&Q picture hooks on the walls. A paddle. A whip. A restraint. On the bedside table a couple
of vibrators and dildos. More for pain than pleasure. In a corner on the floor and out of place next to everything else was
an electric kettle plugged into the power point with a plastic bottle of milk, a homely mug and a box of PG Tips next to it.
Items sparsely spread out, juxtapositioned. Could have been an art installation.

‘Shouldn’t this be in a dungeon?’ asked Donovan.

‘Cellar got flooded,’ said Sharon with a shrug. ‘Burst pipe. Had to move up here.’

Donovan caught Katya shuddering. Resigned himself to being as quick as possible.

‘So who is he, then, this lad?’ asked Sharon, sitting on the
edge of the bed. She seemed stronger, more in control. ‘I thought he was a student.’

‘He is,’ said Donovan. ‘Photography student. He’s been visiting a few —’

Sharon smiled. That look of sick power in her eyes again. ‘Prostitutes. Like me. You can say the word.’

Donovan, not looking at Katya, continued: ‘Yeah. He’s been visiting a few prostitutes in the city. Taking photos. Doing what
he does. He says he was with you two weeks last Tuesday. Here, taking those photos.’

‘Two weeks?’

‘The seventh.’

Sharon shrugged. ‘He mighta been. I’m here every night. It coulda been that one. I don’t know. I don’t give receipts.’ She
looked up from the photos, studied Donovan. ‘You’re not a copper.’

‘No.’

Sharon pointed to Katya. ‘And you’re definitely not.’

Katya shook her head.

Sharon kept her eyes on Katya a beat too long, then turned back to Donovan. ‘So what’s he done?’

‘He’s being questioned in connection with a murder.’

‘Murder?’ Sharon dropped the photos like they were hot, threw up her arms. Her robe fell open, sleeves rode up. Donovan saw
the scars on her forearms. Cuts. Some old. Some not so old. The bruises on the tops of her breasts. Small circular burns.
New on old. He tried to ignore them, concentrate his words on her face.

‘And you’re his alibi,’ he said. ‘Have the police contacted you yet?’

She shook her head.