‘Hang on a minute. Where would I find her? Do you know?’
She paused. ‘I ain’t seen her around in a long while. Your best bet’s that pub down Chapeltown Road, the ‘ambleton. She used to drink there.’
My thanks were drowned by the screech of the sash window as the woman slammed it back down. I walked back to the car, shifted a large black and white cat which had already taken up residence on the warm bonnet, and set off to find the pub.
The Hambleton Hotel was about a mile and a half away from Moira’s last known address. It was roadhouse style, in grimy yellow and red brick with the mock-Tudor gables much beloved by 1930s pub architects. The inside looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since then. Even at half-past eleven in the morning, it was fairly lively. A couple of black men were playing the fruit machine, and a youth was dropping coins into a jukebox which was currently playing Jive Bunny. By the bar was a small knot of women who were already dressed for work in short skirts and low-cut sweaters. Their exposed flesh looked pale and unappetizing, but at least it lacked the bluish tinge that ten minutes’ exposure to the cold spring air would lend it.
I walked up to the bar, aware of the eyes on me, and ordered a half of lager. Something told me that a Perrier wouldn’t do much for my cover story. The blowsy barmaid looked me up and down as she poured my drink. As I paid, I told her to take one herself. She shook her head and muttered, ‘Too early for me.’ I was taken aback. Before I could ask her about Moira, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I tensed and turned round slowly. One of the black men who’d been playing the fruit machine was standing behind me with a frown on his face. He was nearly six feet tall, slim and elegant in chinos and a shiny black satin shirt under a dove grey full length Italian lambskin coat that looked like it cost six months of my mortgage. His hair was cut in a perfect flat-top, accentuating his high cheek bones and strong jaw. His eyes were bloodshot and I could smell minty breath-spray as he leaned forward into my face and breathed, ‘I hear you been looking for a friend of mine.’
‘News travels fast,’ I responded, trying to move away from his hot breath, but failing thanks to the bar behind me.
‘What d’you want with Moira?’ There was a note of menace in his voice that pissed me off. I controlled the urge to kick him across the bar and said nothing as he leaned even closer. ‘Don’t try telling me you’re on the game. And don’t try telling me you’re a cop. Those fuckers only come down here mob-handed. So who are you, and what d’you want with Moira?’
I know when the time for games is past. I reached into my pocket and produced a business card. I handed it to the pimp who was giving me a severe case of claustrophobia. It worked. He backed off a good six inches. ‘It’s nothing heavy. It’s an old friend of hers who wants to make contact. If it works out, there could be good money in it for her.’
He studied the card and glared at me. ‘Private Investigator,’ he sneered. ‘Well, baby, you’re not gonna find Moira here. She checked out a long time ago.’
My heart did that funny kind of flip it does when I get bad news. Two days ago, I couldn’t have cared less if Moira were alive or dead. Now I was surprised to find that I cared a lot. ‘You don’t mean … ?’
His lip curled in a sneer again. I suspected he’d perfected it in front of a mirror at the age of twelve and hadn’t progressed to anything more adult. ‘She was still alive when she left here. But the way she was pumping heroin into her veins, you’ll be lucky to find her like that now. I kicked her out a year ago. She was no use to anybody. All she cared about was getting another fix into her.’
‘Any idea where she went?’ I asked with sinking heart.
He shrugged. ‘That depends on how much it’s worth.’
‘And that depends on how good the information is.’
He smiled crookedly. ‘Well, you’re not going to know that till you check it out, are you? And I don’t give credit. A hundred to tell you where she went.’
‘Do you seriously think I’d carry that kind of cash in a shit pit like this? Fifty.’
He shook his head. ‘No way. Fancy bit of skirt like you, you’ll have a hole-in-the-wall card. Come back here in half an hour with a oner and I’ll tell you where she went. And don’t think you’ll get the word off somebody else. Nobody round here’s going to cross George.’
I knew when I was beaten. Whoever George was, he clearly had his patch sewn up tight. Wearily, I nodded and headed back towards the car.
The short drive from Leeds to its neighbouring city of Bradford is like traversing a continent. Crossing the city boundary, I found myself driving through a traditional Muslim community. Little girls were covered from head to foot, the only flesh on display their pale brown faces and hands. All the women who walked down the pavements with a leisurely rolling gait had their heads covered, and several were veiled. In contrast, most of the men dressed in western clothes, though many of the older ones wore the traditional white cotton baggy trousers and loose tops with incongruously heavy winter coats over them, greying beards spilling down their fronts. I passed a newly erected mosque, its bright red brick and toytown minarets a sharp contrast to the grubby terraces that surrounded it. Most of the grocery shops had signs in Arabic, and the butchers announced Hal-al meat for sale. It almost came as a culture shock to see signs in English directing me to the city centre.
I stopped at a garage to buy a street directory. There were three Asian men standing around inside the shop, and another behind the counter. I felt like a piece of meat as they eyed me up and down and made comments to each other. I didn’t need to speak the language to catch their drift.
Back in the car, I looked up my destination in the map’s index and worked out the best way to get there. George’s information represented the worst value for money I’d had in a long time, but I wasn’t in any position to stick around and argue the toss. All he’d been able to tell me was that Moira had moved to Bradford and was working the streets of the red light district round Manningham Lane. He either didn’t know or wouldn’t tell the name of her pimp, though he claimed that she was working for a black guy rather than an Asian.
It was just after one when I parked in a quiet side street off Manningham Lane. As I got out of the car, the smell of curry spices hit me and I realized I was ravenous. It had been a long time since last night’s Chinese, and I had to start my inquiries somewhere. I went into the first eating place I came to, a small café on the corner. Three of the half dozen formica-topped tables were occupied. The clientele was a mixture of Asian men, working girls and a couple of lads who looked like building labourers. I went up to the counter, where a teenager in a grubby chef’s jacket was standing behind a cluster of pans on a hotplate. On the wall was a whiteboard, which offered Lamb Rogan Josh, Chicken Madras, Mattar Panir and Chicken Jalfrezi. I ordered the lamb, and the youth ladled a generous helping into a bowl, opened a hot cupboard and handed me three chapatis. A couple of weeks before, their hygiene standards would have driven me out the door a lot faster than I’d come in. However, on the Smart surveillance, I’d learned that hunger has an interesting effect on the eyesight. After the greasy spoons I’d been forced to feed in up and down the country, I couldn’t claim the cleanliness standards of an Egon Ronay any longer. And this café was a long way from the bottom of my current list.
I sat down at the table next to the prostitutes and helped myself to one of the spoons rammed into a drinking
