“These girls are prostitutes, for the most part, and many of them are illegal immigrants or asylum seekers. They can’t go through the National Health and they can’t afford our fees.”
“Pro-bono work, then?”
“You could say that.”
“What exactly do you do for them?”
“I handle the forms, the papers necessary to secure an abortion, if that’s what they want. If another doctor’s signature is needed, I get that too from someone at one of the clinics. They don’t ask me too many questions. It’s very easy and it harms no one.”
“Do you perform the abortions?”
“No. They are done elsewhere, at one of the clinics.”
“What do you do, then?”
“I examine them, make sure they are in good general health. There’s venereal disease to worry about. And AIDS, of course. Some girls have drug and alcohol problems. Many of the fetuses would be born with severe handicaps if they lived.”
“Do you supply drugs?”
Dr. Lukas looked directly at Annie. “No,” she said. “I understand why they might want to take drugs, the life they are living, but I won’t supply them. They seem to have no problem getting drugs elsewhere, though.”
“So if we were to check the drugs at the center against records, they would match?”
“If they don’t, it’s not me who’s been taking them. But, yes, I think they would. Besides, we have no need for the kind of drugs you’re talking about at the center.”
“How often does this happen?”
“Not very often. Maybe once, sometimes twice a month.”
“Why do these girls come to you? How do they know about you?”
“Many of them are from eastern Europe,” Dr. Lukas said with a shrug. “I’m known in the community.”
That sounded a bit vague, Annie thought – eastern Europe covered a large area – but she let it go. Now Dr. Lukas was on a roll it was better to get as much as possible out of her rather than belabor one point. “What about Jennifer Clewes? Did she know about this?”
“Yes.”
“When did she find out?”
“She’s known for a month or two. I didn’t realize she worked late sometimes, too. I thought I was alone there. You’ve seen how isolated my office is. The girls usually buzz the front door and I let them in myself. This time Jennifer got there first. She didn’t say anything, but later she asked me what was going on.”
“What did you tell her?”
“What I’m telling you.”
“And what was her reaction?”
“She became interested.” Dr. Lukas swirled the remains of her drink in her glass. “Jennifer was a truly decent human being,” she said. “When I explained to her about the girls and the situation they were in, nowhere to turn to for help, she understood.”
“It didn’t disturb her, upset her?”
“No. She was a bit uncomfortable about it at first, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, she was the administrator. She helped to protect me. Paperwork got lost, that sort of thing. I told her it would be best if she didn’t tell anyone, that not everyone would understand.”
“We think she must have told her boyfriend.”
Dr. Lukas shrugged. “That was for her judgment alone.”
“So Jennifer became involved in it with you?”
“Yes. We were both trying to help unfortunate girls. It’s not that this happened often, you understand. It wasn’t a regular thing. These girls would not have been able to come if they’d had to pay. And remember, they couldn’t just walk into the nearest NHS clinic. What do you think would happen to them? Do you think there are no longer back-street abortionists using rusty coat hangers?”
“So what went wrong?”
“Nothing went wrong.”
“Jennifer Clewes is dead.”
“I know nothing about that. I’ve told you what I was keeping from you, who the late girls are and how and why I helped them. I’ve told you Jennifer’s part in all this. There is nothing more. Once in a while a girl who needed help would come to me and I provided it. That’s all there is to it.”
“Did anyone else know? Georgina, for example?”
“No. At first it was only me, then Jennifer. She was the only other person who ever stayed late.”
Somehow it didn’t all add up, Annie thought. There were too many pieces missing and the ones she had didn’t fit together properly. “What about Carmen Petri? Was she one of the late girls? What was so special about her?”
Dr. Lukas seemed to tense up again, the lines on her forehead deepening, her posture stiffening. “I don’t know the name.”
“She was one of the late girls, wasn’t she? What happened to her?”
“I told you I’ve never heard of her.”
“Did something go wrong? Is that it?”
“I’ve told you, I don’t know anyone called Carmen.”
Annie took out the sketch that Brooke’s police artist had coaxed from Alf Seaton. “Do you recognize this man?” she asked.
“No,” said Dr. Lukas. Annie couldn’t be certain that she was telling the truth.
“About a week ago, Jennifer was seen leaving this building with a young girl. The person who saw them said that the girl looked pregnant. They were talking, then a man who looked very much like this one came over and the girl went away with him in a car. Do you know what that was about?”
Annie could have sworn that Dr. Lukas turned a shade paler. “No,” she said. “I told you, Jennifer sometimes worked late, too, saw the girls. Sometimes she talked to them. She was a very caring person and it’s a tragedy what happened to her.”
“It is,” said Annie, standing up to leave. “And I’m going to find out what was behind it, with or without your help.”
“Please, you don’t know…”
“Don’t know what?”
Dr. Lukas paused, rubbing her hands together. “Please. I’m telling you the truth.”
“I think you’re telling me part of the truth,” Annie said, “and I’m going to leave you to think over your position. When you’ve made your mind up you can call me at this number.” Annie scribbled her mobile number on the back of her card and left it on the coffee table. “I’ll show myself out.”
Well, you can’t win them all, Banks thought, after a wasted trip to Chelsea. One of the problems with paying surprise visits was that sometimes the object of your visit wasn’t at home, and such was the case with Gareth Lambert that wet Tuesday evening, though Banks had even hung around in a shop doorway over the street for about an hour waiting. Burgess had said that Lambert was elusive.
The humidity and damp clothing made the crowded underground carriage smell like a wet dog, and Banks was glad to get off at Green Park for the Piccadilly Line. The second carriage was half empty and he passed the short trip reading the adverts and trying to suss out the language of the newspaper that the person opposite him was reading. The letters were Roman, but it definitely wasn’t anything he recognized. Sometimes the depths of his own ignorance appalled him.
When he got to Corinne’s flat he was soaked and she gave him a towel for his hair, made him take off his raincoat and his jacket and hung them up in the bathroom under an electric fire to dry them out. His trousers were stuck to his thighs and shins and he thought of asking her to dry those, too, but she might get the wrong idea. Besides, it would be rather undignified carrying out an interview, albeit a friendly one, sitting around in his underpants.
“Warm drink?”
“Tea, if you’ve got any. No milk or sugar for me.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Despite, or perhaps because of, the rain, it was a close, muggy evening. Sweat filmed Corinne’s upper lip and forehead, and she looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. Her hair was tangled and her eyes had dark circles under them. So Roy had the power to make a woman feel this way, no matter what he’d done to her. What the hell was it about him? Sandra wouldn’t give Banks the time of day, and even Annie couldn’t get away quick enough if he talked about anything other than the case at hand. Banks also thought of Penny Cartwright again and her revulsion at the idea of dinner with him. She would probably have jumped at the chance if Roy had asked her.