“Good to fill a need.”

“I used to be in porn.”

She waited.

“Oh, you probably don’t recognize me. I was only in three films back when— Well, a girl has to keep some of her secrets. My most famous role was Third Wench in a scene with that famous Italian guy, Rocky or Rocco something. But for years I was a top-notch fluffer. You know what that is, don’t you? A fluffer?”

“I think I do.”

“Most of the guys, truth is, with all the cameras and lights and all the people watching, well, it wasn’t easy on them to stay, you know, hard. So that was what the fluffers provided. Offstage. Oh, it was great work. I did it for years, knew all the tricks, I can tell you.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“But then Viagra came along and, well, a pill was a lot cheaper than a girl. Shame really. We fluffers are extinct now. Like dinosaurs or VHS tapes. So here I am, back out working on the streets. Not that I’m complaining, am I right?”

“As rain.”

“Speaking of which, you’re on the clock.”

“That’s fine.”

“Some girls sell their bodies. Not me. I sell my time. Like a consultant or barrister. What you do with that time—and as I say, the clock is ticking—is up to you. So what are you looking for, handsome?”

“Um, a young man.”

That made the smile flee. “Go on.”

“He’s a teenager.”

“Nah.” She made a swatting motion with her hand. “You’re no short eyes.”

“No what?”

“Short eyes. A pedo. You’re not going to tell me you’re a pedo, are you?”

“Oh no. I’m not. I’m just looking for him. I mean him no harm.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked at him for a long moment. “Why do I believe you?”

Myron forced up his most winning smile. “My smile.”

“No, but you do have a trusting face. That smile is bloody slimy.”

“It’s supposed to be winning.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m just trying to help him,” Myron said. “He’s in real danger.”

“What makes you think I can help?”

“He was here yesterday. Working.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“So are you the one who killed those cockwombles?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” she said. “I would have thrown you a freebie for that.”

“This kid. He’s in real danger.”

“So you said.” She hesitated. Myron took out his wallet. She waved him off. “I don’t want your money. I mean, I do. But not for that.”

She seemed unsure what to do.

Myron pointed to himself. “Trusting face, remember?”

“None of the boys’ll be back here for a bit. Not with the coppers around. They’ll go to their other spot.”

“And where is that?”

“Hampstead Heath. They usually hang near the west end of Merton Lane.”

Chapter 5

Hampstead Heath,” Win said when Myron was back in the car. “Historic.”

“How so?”

“Keats walked its lanes. Kingsley Amis, John Constable, Alfred Tennyson, Ian Fleming—they all had residences there. But that’s not why it’s best known.”