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Chapters (49)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Book
  3. About the Author
  4. Also by Tony Parsons
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. PROLOGUE
  8. PART ONE
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. PART TWO
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. PART THREE
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. MAX WOLFE RETURNS IN 2018 …

‘She had been working at some kind of lap-dancing club just off the M25. Some scuzzy joint selling blow jobs with the beer. That’s where she was taken after being smuggled into the country. She didn’t elaborate on how she got in. She talked more about this place she worked. The Champagne Room. And how all the girls there were the same as her.’

‘You mean they were all illegals?’ Whitestone said. ‘They only used illegals at this place – the Champagne Room?’

Ginger nodded. ‘Nothing but,’ she said.

‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve lost contact with her, are you?’ Whitestone said.

Ginger’s right hand flew across her keyboard.

‘Asuman Ata,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an address for her. She’s Asuman Jenkins now. She’s married. To an Anglo.’

‘And why would that matter to me?’ Whitestone said.

Whitestone and Ginger stared at each other but I sensed that something had been resolved between them. Ginger had given us enough. She wasn’t going to be busted tonight.

‘This club,’ I said. ‘Why did they only like using illegals?’

Whitestone looked at me as if she should not have to explain these things.

Then she glanced at Ginger and let her answer my question.

‘Because illegals are easier to control,’ Ginger said.

4

It was close to midnight when I parked the old BMW X5 on Charterhouse Street. The city was closing down for the night but my neighbourhood was just coming awake.

At 77A Charterhouse Street, a former meatpacking warehouse, the clubbers were filing in to dance the night away at Fabric. Directly across the street a convoy of meat trucks was lined up outside Smithfield meat market. A roar of activity was coming from inside the majestic old building and it would not stop until dawn. On Charterhouse Street late diners lingered over coffee and dessert at Smiths of Smithfield, four floors of beautiful blasted brickwork, reluctant for the evening to be over.

But I was bushed and climbed the stairs to our top-floor loft with a bone-deep exhaustion. Mrs Murphy, who took care of us, had been asleep in an armchair but woke at the sound of my key in the lock and was getting to her feet, patting her immaculate white hair. Stan, our ruby-coloured Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, did not bother to get up but watched me with his perfectly round black eyes. Mrs Murphy waved away my apologies for the lateness of the hour.