But step away from the bright lights and into the dark, dimly lit backstreets and a new world awaits. Drifting in and out of view like ghosts are the whores and the crack dealers. Sometimes you don't even see them. Their disembodied voices reach out from the doorways and alleys and the questions they ask are always the same: 'Need any gear?' 'Looking for a good time?' Sometimes you can feel their eyes boring into you, trying to work you out, looking for your weaknesses, maybe deciding whether or not you're worth robbing. Cars ease idly by, sizing up the scene. If you look at them, you'll see that most of the time the occupant is a single, middle-aged man and they never return the look. They always turn away. These are the businessmen searching for their illicit thrill. Some of them are just frustrated, and need a quick fuck to bring them fleeting satisfaction. Others are perverts, people who want to do things to a woman their wives and girlfriends would never countenance. People who want things done to them that you and I couldn't countenance. And somewhere among them are the psychopaths, rapists and killers sweeping the area in their constant hunt for prey. This other world exists fifty yards from King's Cross station, but unless you look for it you'll never see it, and unless you see it you'll never understand the sickness that keeps it going.
It was a mild night with a strong wind. In my raincoat pocket I clutched a small cosh I occasionally carry about with me, purely for emergencies. It's less than a foot long and easily concealable on a winter's day. I've never used it in anger before and I'd never think about wielding it while on duty – it's more than my job's worth – but I was glad I had it now.
Two ageing prostitutes, their faces cracked and wrinkled like old leather, stepped out of the darkness and into my path. They wore ridiculously short skirts and pantomime make-up. 'How about some, love?' said one, forcing a leering smile. 'With a real woman.'
'I'm a police officer,' I said, pushing past her as politely as possible.
'So? Even coppers need a bit of fun,' she shouted after me. But her enthusiasm had faltered.
I didn't say anything. What was there to say to that?
I felt sorry for her. I felt sorry for them both. According to some of the other guys on the case these older girls were bitter about the competition provided by their more youthful counterparts like Miriam Fox and her friends, which was no great surprise. It's difficult enough to compete with newer, better, different models, and even worse when they undercut you. This rivalry had resulted in a number of incidents where older prostitutes had attacked the young ones, and several where they'd actually called the police to tell them about underage activity in an effort to get the girls off the street. Now the two competing groups tended to keep apart, but it was youth that had the most success.
It was quiet tonight, a result no doubt of the investigation, but business would soon return to normal. In the end, nothing gets in the way of capitalism. That's what's always annoyed me about the British attitude to paying for sex. It's all well and good having a big moral stance against prostitution, but that doesn't stop it happening. It doesn't even curtail it. Far better just to regulate the trade so that the girls are clean, pimp-free and safe, and the red light districts become tourist attractions, not drug-infested no-go areas like the one I was walking through now. Girls like Miriam Fox would almost certainly still be alive if they'd worked in Amsterdam or Barcelona, or wherever they were sensible enough not to attempt to change the laws of nature.
The scream came from somewhere behind me.
I didn't even register it the first time. You expect a scream on a street like this. Then it came again, louder and more desperate. It sounded like a young girl – a teenager – but whoever it was was pleading for help, the voice growing increasingly hysterical, and I knew straight away that something was badly wrong.
I swung round fast. A car was in the middle of the road about thirty yards away with its lights on and engine running. The driver, who I couldn't see very well, was leaning out of the passenger side and holding on to a girl who was struggling violently with him. There didn't seem to be anyone else around.
A part of me didn't want to get involved. Ahead of me were the bright lights and security of the Gray's Inn Road. I might have been a copper but I was off duty, in my own time, and I could be taking a big risk coming between those two. If it was a domestic she wouldn't thank me, they never do. I could end up with a knife in my gut or a gun in my ribs, all for being charitable.
But that part of me's still in a minority, thank God. I pulled the cosh from my pocket, ran into the road, and sprinted towards the car. The girl was now half in and the screaming was getting louder and louder as she realized how close she was to being abducted. Her thin, bare legs flapped wildly as inch by inch they disappeared inside the vehicle, which was now slowly moving forward.
I don't know if he heard me coming or not. I didn't make any noise – there's never any point advertising your presence if you don't have to – but my footfalls on the concrete were loud enough. As I got there, the car shot forward, but not before I'd grabbed the girl round the legs and pulled. For a moment the driver held on and I had this terrible fear that he was going to drag me along the tarmac. I stumbled and half fell but held on for dear life, somehow managing to keep my feet. That was it for him. The game was over, he wasn't going to get his prey, so he let go and she flew out the door, landing in a heap on the road. The momentum knocked me over too and all I could do was watch while he made his rapid getaway with a screech of tyres, turning a corner before I could focus on his numberplate.
I got to my feet, putting the cosh away, then helped her up. 'Are you all right?'
She looked at me for the first time and I recognized her instantly as Anne Taylor, the girl who'd been outside Coleman House when we'd arrived there the previous day. She looked a lot less full of herself now, though. Her eyes were tear-stained and her make-up was running. The shock on her face was clear.
She nodded slowly, checking her skirt and top for any damage. 'I think so… Yeah, yeah, I'm all right.'
I took her by the arm and moved her onto the pavement. 'Did you know him?' I asked.
'Probably just some pervert,' she answered, without looking up. 'I've never seen him before.'
'What did he look like?'
This time she did look up. 'Look, I'm not interested in pressing charges or nothing like that.' She shook herself free of my arm.
'You know, a thanks might not go amiss. I mean, I have just helped you out of a difficult situation. Anything could have happened to you then.'
'I know how to look after myself.'
'Yeah, sure.' I took out my cigarettes and offered her one. She took it and I lit it for her, lighting one for myself at the same time.
'Look, thanks. It was good of you.' It was given grudgingly, but I suppose it was better than nothing. What is it with kids these days? The little bastards have never got any manners.
'Do you want to grab a quick coffee somewhere? Calm yourself down a bit?'
'No, I'm all right. I'm fine.'
'Come on. I'm buying.'
I could tell she was thinking that a sit-down and a hot drink might be quite nice. The problem was the company. 'I don't want to sit there with you going on at me about this and that, and questioning me. I ain't got time for that.'
'Look, just a coffee and a cigarette. I could do with one myself. I'm not used to that sort of exercise.'
She gave me a dismissive look. 'Yeah, I can tell.'
We found a cafe on the Gray's Inn Road not peopled entirely with lowlifes. I bought two coffees and we found a booth at the back.
'I'm surprised you're out on the streets so soon after what's happened,' I ventured.