‘Aye,’ chorused another man, ‘their used condoms!’
‘And we,’ the first speaker continued, ‘have had enough.’
So saying he began to bang his fists rhythmically on the side of the van. One by one the other men joined him, until the drumming noise from its metal sides was ear-splitting, loud enough to wake the dead.
Detective Sergeant Alice Rice was surprised to get a call from Annie Wright on her mobile, until she remembered that she had, a couple of months earlier, given the woman her number. Listening to her breathless tones, she soon realised that the incident would be no more, in all probability, than a breach of the peace, something easily dealt with by whatever uniforms were in the area. But the concern in Annie’s voice, together with the vague disquiet that Alice still felt for persuading her to give evidence in the rape trial, was enough to make the policewoman change her mind. After all, she was already on the Shore, not so far from the main coastal road and the rundown streets around it.
Turning down Bernard Street she put her windscreen wipers on. Urgent flurries of snow were flying down and obscuring her view. Carron Place was one of the roads off to the left, and she peered down each one until, at last, she found it.
She heard the rumpus long before she saw it. Angry men were thumping the panels of the yellow van, the air vibrating, their crashing rhythm drowning the moaning of the wind. Gathered by the bonnet were the prostitutes, resolute. They were asserting simply by their continuing presence on that freezing night their right to come to this meeting point, the only organisation in the whole of the city concerned with them and their welfare.
A stand-off had been reached, and now both camps seemed to consider that they had made their point and were only too glad, on seeing the police car, to leave the chilly site. One group to return to the warmth of their hearths, the welcome of their wives, and the other to disperse into the darkness, searching for trade elsewhere along Coburg Street, Dock Street and their other dank haunts.
Catching sight of a peroxide blonde in the group, Alice waved her over and, reluctantly, the woman left her companions and came to the car.
‘Irena,’ Alice said ruefully, ‘the last time I saw you – well, you’ve got an ASBO out against you, haven’t you? You’re not supposed to be here, in this area, I mean.’
The girl shook her head, replying in broken English.
‘No madam. I am allowed… allowed… em… to come to van.’
The plump woman, aware of Irena’s limited ability to speak any language other than Russian, joined Alice and began to explain that any of the ASBOs served on the girls still allowed them to attend the SPEAR van.
Looking the newcomer squarely in the face, Alice realised that she recognised her straight brow and broad cheekbones. But it could not be the person she was thinking of, surely! All those working for SPEAR were ex-sex workers, she knew that. Everyone knew that. It gave the organisation its strength, distinguished it from all the other charities.
‘Is your name Ellen?’ Alice asked, tentatively.
‘Yes.’ The woman looked blank.
‘Ellen Barbour?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Well,’ Alice began, ‘I think we know each other. From school.’
2
Later that same evening, threading their way through the crowded pub, they spotted an empty table in the corner. It had a view of the canal, the lights of Ronaldson Wharf sparkling and dancing on its inky waters.
Alice took a sip of her white wine, and after a short, uneasy silence, Ellen spoke.
‘So, Alice, where did it all go wrong? How on earth did you end up walking the streets – as a policewoman?’
‘Well,’ her companion replied, head bowed in shame, ‘after my application to join the order was turned down by Reverend Mother…’
‘No!’ Ellen gasped, eyes wide with shock. ‘You… you wanted to become one of them? A nun?’
Laughing, Alice shook her head, delighted with Ellen’s unexpected gullibility and her horror at the very thought of a celibate vocation. After another quick swig from her glass, she described the short path which had led her straight from university into Lothian and Borders Police. She hesitated only when asked the reason for her career choice. The truth would likely sound so po-faced, so self-righteous, that she was reluctant to voice it. She flirted, briefly, with telling an outright lie, before finally, confessing that she had wanted an interesting job, one filled with variety and that allowed her to use such intelligence as she had. For a split-second only she contemplated telling the whole truth. That she also had wanted to do something worthwhile, something that might actually help people. The admission would have sounded unbearably corny, pious even, particularly in present company. She left it unsaid.
‘And you, Ellen, the last time I saw you, you were clutching the art prize and swithering between going to art college or straight into business.’
Before answering, Ellen swept the drapes of straight hair back from her face with the tips of her fingers, revealing for the first time her features in their entirety, and took a long draught from her whisky.
‘It’s a bit of a story,’ she began. ‘You’ll know about S.P.E.A.R., eh? The Scottish Prostitutes Education and Advice Resource. Have you heard of our unusual job qualification?’
Alice nodded. She knew only too well, and was eager for the narrative to continue. And, taking her time, Ellen Barbour told her tale. It had all begun, mundanely enough, with a massive debt following the collapse of her jewellery business in Bruntsfield. She had been determined, she said with emphasis, determined not to let her small suppliers down by being declared bankrupt. She also wanted to avoid the stigma associated with bankruptcy. Nothing to that associated with prostitution, thought Alice, remaining silent, baffled by the strange logic.
Ellen went on to describe how she had agonised for weeks seeking a solution to her predicament, and, ultimately, alighted on prostitution. Her next-door neighbour in Granton, Louise, had worked in a sauna for a couple of years, and that was what had given her the idea. Louise knew about ‘escort’ work too, a more independent option, which appealed to Ellen’s entrepreneurial instincts. It soon became apparent that as an ‘escort’, easy money, good money, could be made.
As it happened, she turned out to be very talented at her chosen profession. In constant demand, she said with pride. Obviously, she had invested in her new business venture, in fine clothes and other necessary accoutrements, and as a result she had mixed with the best and seen the world. Within less than four years all her creditors had been repaid but, by then, she had become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, to hand-made shoes and fine wines. And she had nothing left to lose by continuing. There was no way back to respectability, even if she had given up the business. Self-respect was all she needed anyway.
‘You two lovely ladies lookin’ fer company?’ enquired a watery-eyed drunk, hovering about their table expectantly and winking indiscriminately at each in turn.
‘Be off, grimy chancer!’ Ellen said imperiously, and they watched as, undeterred, he turned to face another table of lone females and began to try his luck with them. The same line in use again.
‘Go on,’ Alice prompted, gripped by the narrative. ‘Why and when did you stop?’
‘Oh, I carried on for about another eight years. But one day I found that the effort required in being nice, I mean constantly nice, all the time, to every single client, had become too much, even for the money I was making. I simply couldn’t listen to any more paeans of praise to Margaret Thatcher and remain silent. So, instead of biting my tongue yet again, I let rip, giving a client the benefit of my actual views on the woman. Well, I knew it was the end then, so I retired from the game, and now devote my not inconsiderable energies to better causes.’