Alzbetha was woken by an almighty fart from the fat man in the bed beside her. Shivering, she realised that he had taken almost all of the duvet from her and she was left uncovered. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up, listening to his calm, regular snoring. Her body ached all over, her head felt fuzzy and there was a strange foul taste in her mouth that she didn’t recognise.
As the clock on the table flipped from 1:11 to 1:12, she stood up and tiptoed over to the small pile of clothes lying on the floor. Slowly, noiselessly, she pulled on her jeans and her pullover. Where were her trainers? She looked under the bed, but couldn’t see much in the dark. The man coughed and pulled the duvet over his shoulders. Was he about to wake up? She decided that she could do without the shoes.
Padding out of the bedroom, she walked down the hallway to the front door of the flat. Holding her breath as it clicked open, she listened for any further signs of movement from the bedroom. Hearing nothing, she stepped out on to the landing. Leaving the door open, she ran down the stairs.
Two floors down, the night porter dozed fitfully at his desk on the ground floor, an almost empty half-bottle of Highland Park blended whisky resting snugly in the pocket of his jacket. A talk radio station burbled quietly in the background. Alzbetha surveyed the scene and walked briskly across the foyer, hitting the big green button that allowed you to exit the building. The glass door was heavy but, grunting with the effort, she managed to open it just enough to squeeze through. On the wet pavement outside, she turned left and started running.
After several minutes, Alzbetha began to feel safe. She slowed to a walking pace and started looking around. She had no idea where she was, but that was no surprise. Apart from the Palace, nothing in this city had ever looked familiar. The streets were empty of people, but there was still a steady stream of traffic moving past. Standing on the kerbside, she counted one, two, three cars go by. Waiting until a fourth was almost upon her, she walked resolutely out into the middle of the road, her eyes closed against the glare of its headlights.
Rose Scripps sat on her couch with a large glass of Chardonnay and gazed vacantly at the television. Louise had finally gone to sleep and she now had some time to herself. Taking a sip of her wine, she tried to focus on the programme — yet another BBC costume drama but with extra shagging in an attempt to keep everyone interested. However, after a few minutes of watching women running around in bonnets, she could feel her eyes glazing over. With a sigh, she took the remote control from the arm of the sofa and switched off the television.
Getting up, she wandered over to the tiny dining-table. There, along with the wine bottle and her mobile, lay a small notebook open at the page where she had copied the name and number scribbled on the back of the London Eye ticket that she had rescued from the bin. The ticket itself had been logged at the station and filed along with her report. As she had promised, the latter contained a suitably sanitised version of the fiasco down by the river.
Rose wasn’t sure how best they should proceed from here. She had arrived home assuming that it was something to be discussed with Merrett in the morning. Now, however, she didn’t want to wait any longer.
After another mouthful of wine, she put her glass on the table and picked up the phone. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Rose dialled in the number from the ticket and waited for the ring tone. It seemed to take forever to get a connection. As she looked at the handset, checking that there was a signal, the number eventually started ringing. She could feel her heart beat faster, but still no one answered. After what seemed like an eternity, the voicemail kicked in: This is Warren Shen’s mobile. Please leave a message and a number that I can get back to you on.
Warren What? Shed? Zen? Shen? What kind of a name was that? Without leaving a message, Rose ended the call and scribbled down the possible variants on this name. Placing the phone back on the table, she finished the last of her wine and refilled the glass. Then she took her laptop from the sideboard and powered it up.
After firing a few blanks on Google, she typed in Warren Shen. There were 795,000 results. Rose clicked on ‘news’: 12 results. Scanning down, she found Police close Central London lap-dance bar. Clicking on the link, she went to the short story on the Daily Mirror’s website:
A West End lap-dancing club used as a brothel where rich clients could buy sex and drugs has been shut down by police. Vice Squad detectives arrested seven people accused of helping to run the basement Capricorn Club and seized cocaine and cash. ‘It is hard to believe that in the middle of a busy neighbourhood, these shady dealings were blatantly going on,’ said Detective Inspector Warren Shen of the Metropolitan Police. ‘This type of criminal activity is a nuisance and a blight on the community and we will continue to root it out wherever it occurs.’
Rose sat staring at the computer screen for a long time. If this was the right Warren Shen — and it was an unusual name, so how many of them could there actually be? — what did that mean for the CEOP investigation? The only conclusion to be reached was that she had no idea. Anyway, there was nothing more for her to do tonight. The wine was now making her feel sleepy. Yawning, she switched off the computer and headed for bed.