Shap pulled out his mobile phone and began to dial. Then, to Janine’s surprise and amusement, spots of colour bloomed on his face. ‘Can I have a bit of privacy, or what?’ he said belligerently.
Shap shy. Who’d have thought it.
Chapter Sixteen
They waited down the street, in cars, watching the house for a few minutes, getting the measure of the place. Unremarkable; it looked like any of the other large semi detached houses. They were built of the brick so common in the city, with sloping grey slate roofs and bay windows. Each property had a garage at the end of a short driveway. Most of the gardens were neat. The one at the house had been concreted over – ultimate low maintenance, and a low brick wall replaced the iron railings or hedging of the other houses. But still there was nothing to betray its nature. Not until the door opened and a man walked briskly away, crossing the street diagonally and distancing himself from the place. Not exactly furtive but certainly fast.
‘Let’s go,’ said Janine.
They followed Shap, but were careful to leave enough of a gap so that whoever answered the door wouldn’t realise they were all together.
Shap pressed the buzzer for the intercom at the side of the front door.
‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice answered.
‘I’ve got an appointment,’ Shap answered, ‘it’s Mickey.’
The buzzer blared and Shap pushed the door open. Janine and Richard moved forward quickly, following him in. Behind them a clutch of junior officers, briefed to make sure no one left the building.
The blonde woman in the hall tried to bolt, darting for the stairs, but Richard caught her arm. ‘There’s nowhere to go,’ he told her. ‘Let’s just sit down and have a talk.’
While others searched the place, Janine and Richard went into a downstairs room which obviously served as a waiting area. The room was overheated and stuffy. It smelt of cigarette smoke, industrial strength perfume and gloss paint from the central heating radiator. A disconcerted client was escorted out to talk to Shap in the kitchen.
Janine introduced herself and Richard and they showed the woman their police ID cards.
‘Can I have your name?’ Richard asked her.
She hesitated a moment then seemed to resign herself to the situation. ‘Marta Potocki.’ Her English was heavily accented. She wore a flimsy blouse, a lacy black bra visible beneath it, a tight red mini-skirt. She was barefoot, hands and toe nails painted fire-engine red.
‘Are you Polish?’ Janine asked.
She nodded.
‘Marta, did you know Rosa Milicz?’
The woman closed her eyes for a moment, she swallowed and gave a jerky nod. ‘And you know Rosa has been killed?’ Janine said gently.
Marta nodded, biting her cheeks and compressing her lips.
‘I’m sorry’ Janine told her. She waited a moment. ‘We’re investigating her murder. Do you know anything about Rosa’s death?’
Marta shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Did Rosa live here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please can you show us her room.’
They followed Marta up the stairs and into a small, sparsely furnished room at the back. There were two small twin beds, shabby curtains, a white particleboard wardrobe and a mock beech vanity unit with a mottled mirror. Janine realised the girls slept here but would entertain clients in one of the other larger and presumably more comfortably furnished bedrooms.
Nothing to suggest that the murder had happened here, no blood splashes or missing carpets. But Rosa had been strangled – she might have been killed in one place, leaving little evidence behind, then moved somewhere else for the messy mutilation. They would have this place examined anyway.
There were few personal possessions: make-up and hair dressing items on the unit, an old magazine, a tatty pocket dictionary.
‘How long had Rosa lived here?’
‘About six months,’ Marta rubbed at her upper arms.
‘And was she working here?’
‘In the beginning. Then just the dancing.’
Janine looked round the room again, imagined the girl dividing her time between the Topcat Club and this place. No life of glamour. She moved to look out of the window. It overlooked the flat roof of an extension at the back and an unkempt patch of garden, a row of houses beyond.
‘When did you last see Rosa?’ Richard asked.
‘Monday. She went out about four.’
‘Where?’
‘She said she was going to work.’
‘She never showed up.’
Janine picked up the dictionary.
‘She thought maybe one day, to teach,’ Marta said, then bit her lip.
‘We’d like to talk to everyone who works here – down in the front room,’ Janine said.
There were just three of them, dressed similarly in sheer tops and short skirts. The youngest looking, who gave her name as Zofia, had a pair of pink, fluffy mules on her feet, the sort of thing Eleanor would wear. Petra wore shoddy gold sandals. Shap stood by the door, Richard near the window while Janine took one of the red velvet chairs that the girls were also sitting on. Janine established that they were all Polish and had no official papers. She explained why the police were there and that they would be asking them some initial questions about Rosa. After that they would be taking them to the police station where they would be interviewed by immigration authorities.
The girls were quiet and morose.
‘Has there been any trouble? Anyone bothering Rosa? Perhaps someone with a score to settle?’
Marta shook her head. None of the others moved.
‘Do you know this man?’ She held up a photograph of Lee Stone. She saw recognition in their expressions.
‘He brought us here. He drives the van,’ Marta told her.
‘From Poland?’
‘No, here. In UK.’
‘For Mr Sulikov?’ The name provoked a ripple of reaction. Zofia shifted her position, crossing her arms and legs. Petra flashed Marta a warning look. Marta didn’t say anything.
‘Konrad Sulikov?’
No one answered. They sat unmoving except for Petra who was swinging one foot to and fro, the sandal dangling and slapping against her sole.
‘Marta?’ Janine said.
Marta gave a reluctant, almost imperceptible dip of the head.
There was a noise outside and Richard drew back the corner of the net curtains. ‘Transport’s here,’ he said. ‘And scene of crime are on their way.’
Marta frowned and looked at Janine.
‘We’re still trying to establish where Rosa was killed,’ Janine explained.
‘But she went out. She never came back here.’
‘We have to make sure. Marta, did Rosa have a boyfriend?’
‘Only Mr Harper.’
Harper! Janine felt a rush of shock.
‘What?’ Richard exclaimed.
‘Harper?’ Janine said, struggling to absorb it. ‘Rosa and Harper?’
‘Yeah,’ Marta looked a little disconcerted at their reactions. ‘He takes care of this place.’
‘Harper!’ Janine looked at Richard, shaking her head with incredulity, her skin tingling. ‘I bloody knew there was something. I knew it.’
Once the minibus had left to take the girls to the police station, Janine, Richard and Shap clustered in the hallway.
‘He’s not just being economical with the truth – his story’s got more holes than a string vest,’ Janine said. ‘He was sleeping with her for God’s sake. He knew she was living at the brothel, he’s running the place. The woman’s dead and he doesn’t say a word.’
‘The pair of them kept it bloody quiet,’ said Shap. ‘No one at the club knew.’
‘You sure about that? Not just keeping their mouths shut?’ Janine asked.
‘Andrea rang in,’ Richard pointed out. ‘If she’d known Harper was seeing Rosa, I think she would have told us.’
‘She didn’t tell us about this place, not till she absolutely had to.’ She took in the striped wallpaper, the cheap nylon carpet, the tasselled shade on the ceiling lamp.