No Way Home. Jack Slater

her skirt couldn’t have been a half-inch shorter without drawing an arrest warrant for indecent exposure, and her naked shoulder-blades above the low-cut vest top were decorated with tattoos that he’d glimpsed when he first saw her a couple of minutes ago on the corner of Queen’s Square, one hand on her hip while the other held a cigarette that she was dragging on like it was going out of fashion.

      As soon as she’d turned around and seen him, she’d pulled an attitude. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she knew he could haul her in if he wanted to.

      ‘All right,’ she said heavily. ‘What d’you wanna know?’

      It was ten o’clock. Trade would be picking up for her any time now. She didn’t have time for Pete and his questions and he knew it. He hoped that the fact she was in a hurry would force her to tell him the truth. ‘First, were you here last night?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Do you know a taxi driver by the name of Ranjeet Singh? Drives a grey Mondeo.’

      She shook her head with a grimace. ‘Nope.’

      ‘Have you seen a grey Mondeo taxi around here lately?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Sure?’

      ‘Positive. Is that it?’ She threw down her cigarette stub and screwed it into the pavement with the sole of her high-heeled shoe.

      ‘No. Is anyone missing from here tonight that was here yesterday? Or anyone here both nights but acting different tonight? Agitated? Nervous?’

      ‘People get agitated when they’re coming down off the gear. Or when they’ve got things to do and some bloke’s holding them up.’

      ‘True. We’re not picking on you girls because of what you do for a living. We’re looking for witnesses, that’s all.’

      ‘What, so, if I was a waitress in that hotel over there, you wouldn’t be asking me all these questions?’

      ‘Yes, we would. In fact, we already have.’

      ‘And had any of them seen anything?’

      Pete smiled. ‘The more witnesses we can gather, the clearer the picture we can build up and the more likely we are to get a killer off these streets you’re walking.’

      ‘Yeah, well – if they’re killing taxi drivers, I’m safe anyway, aren’t I? I don’t even drive, never mind taxis.’

      ‘So, you don’t give a shit.’

      She shrugged. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know the bloke.’

      Pete sighed. ‘All right. On you go.’

      His last hour and a half had been spent in similar conversations with mostly similar girls. A few had been older, a few significantly younger, but all had about the same attitude. It wasn’t their problem and they didn’t want to get involved in it.

      Yet, if something happened to one of them, they’d be up in arms, wanting protection and all sorts. There was no winning with some people. He lifted his radio and keyed the mike. ‘If we’re all done, let’s call it a night. We can scratch one possible pickup location off the list, at least.’

      ‘OK with me, boss,’ Dave replied from the far side of the hotel the hooker had mentioned.

      ‘I can’t see anyone I haven’t already spoken to,’ said Jane.

      ‘Nor me,’ Dick added.

      ‘Right. Nightcap’s on me.’

      *

      Forty-three minutes later, Pete turned into his drive for the second time that evening and stopped the car.

      ‘What the f…?’ He sat stock-still, staring at his white up-and-over garage door. Nearly three feet high, right in the middle of it, caught squarely in the beam of his headlights, was a drawing – a cartoon, really – in pink spray paint that, in places, had trickled into runs. A pig’s face stared out at him, underneath it the words ‘More bacon, Guv’nor?’

      ‘Who the bloody hell…?’

      He switched off the headlights and the engine, got out of the car and went up to the garage door. He could still see the image clearly in the light of the streetlamp across the road. He reached out a finger, although, even before he touched it, he could smell that the paint was still wet. Sure enough, his fingertip came away smeared with colour.

      ‘Bastards,’ he muttered and marched towards the front door. Letting himself in, he dropped his briefcase in the hall and stepped into the sitting room where Louise was curled up on the sofa, watching TV.

      An image flashed into his mind from a few short months ago, when all she seemed to want to do was just that. She’d barely been able to acknowledge either him or Annie. But now she looked up, a smile forming on her lips. ‘Hiya. Have you…?’ She stopped mid-sentence when she saw his expression. ‘What is it?’

      He held up his finger. ‘Spray paint. All over the bloody garage. Someone’s figured out what I do for a living and decided to make an issue of it.’

      Louise slumped. ‘Oh, God. Will it come off?’

      ‘I’ve got a can of brush cleaner in there. I’ll see if I can shift it before it dries. Little sods ought to be made to come back here and bloody lick it clean.’

      Louise couldn’t help a grunt of laughter. ‘I don’t think that idea would go down too well with the bleeding heart brigade.’

      ‘Then maybe we ought to go and spray-paint their garage doors and see how they like it.’

      ‘You’re a grumpy bugger tonight. Didn’t anybody want to play with you or something?’

      Pete shook his head. ‘I just don’t understand people’s attitudes sometimes. You’d think they’d want to help get a murderer off the streets. They’d feel safer for it.’

      ‘Yeah, but everybody’s too busy these days. Who’s got time to sit in a draughty corridor outside a courtroom for a couple of days or more, to help put someone away for not nearly long enough, who’s probably never going to be a risk to them anyway, eh? I mean, you can understand it really.’

      ‘You sound exactly like a lot of those girls I’ve been talking to tonight.’

      She shrugged. ‘I’m just saying, there’s two sides to every argument.’

      ‘Yeah. Like there’s two sides to that garage door and a can of brush cleaner on one that needs to be on t’other. I’d best go and deal with it, I suppose.’

      ‘You want a hand?’ She nodded towards the TV. ‘This is rubbish anyway.’

      Pete’s eyes widened as he recalled again the time when she’d sit there for hours, staring blankly at the TV, regardless of what was on it.

      ‘Or maybe it’s me,’ she continued, ignoring his expression. ‘I can’t concentrate on anything, knowing Tommy’s just a few hundred yards away now, and I can’t go to him.’

      Pete sighed, nodding. ‘I know. But tomorrow’s not far off. Then you can ring them and set up a visit.’

      ‘It’s just so hard. It’s almost worse, having him so close, than it was not knowing where he was. The need to see him, hold him, talk to him, be a mother to him is…’ She shook her head, unable to put her feelings into words.

      Pete reached for her hand. ‘Come on,’ he said, trying to pull her away from the brink. ‘We’ll do what we can out there, then a drink and bed.’

      She blinked. ‘Bed? I don’t know as I want to share a bed with you after you’ve spent the evening consorting with prostitutes.’

      ‘Huh. None of them even wanted to talk to me, never mind consort.’

      She stood up and