Then he unbuttoned his trousers, and such a fearsome thing reared out that she screamed again. She had only ever seen a little boy’s penis, never a grown man’s, and although a girl at school had once shown her a drawing of one, she’d thought it was a joke.
‘He forced it into me, Fifi,’ she whispered. ‘I felt as if I was being split in two. I was trapped beneath him and the pain was too bad, like being burned with a red-hot poker. It seemed like hours he was ramming it into me. I think I may have passed out. I just wish I could have died there and then.’
Fifi cried with Yvette, as they held each other tightly and rocked together. All those questions she’d asked Yvette in the past, fishing as to whether she’d had a boyfriend or been married, and the jokes Dan made about the sexy French mistress, shamed her now. She wished she could find words to show Yvette that she not only fully understood her suffering but shared her pain.
Much later Yvette finished the story. She explained that she was one of many girls brought there. The brothel had been running for some years; most of the older girls had come to Paris to find work and had been lured by the promise of a bed and a meal. Some of them had not been little innocents; a few actually liked what they saw as an easy life. But the war had made it far easier for the owners to acquire much younger girls who were in great demand with their most decadent clientele. Desperate Jewish parents, terrified by the Nazis’ hatred for them, wanted to find a safe haven for their children until the war over, and it was all too easy for unscrupulous people like the Richelieux to take advantage and make money out of their fear. Yvette had heard that young boys were taken to another house and used in a similar way.
Orphans who lived on the streets were picked up too and several girls had been brought over from North Africa. The African girls were the most pitiful of all as they were often unable to communicate with anyone else.
New acquisitions were kept under lock and key, controlled by fear until such time as they accepted that they were now whores, and were grateful for their board and lodging. But for the Jewish girls there was an extra dimension of fear, for they were told daily what would happen to them if they didn’t please the men who came to use them. Enough information crept in from outside for them to know that trains left every day for Poland or Germany crammed with Jews being taken to labour camps.
In time, after many beatings and being starved and locked up naked in a cold room, Yvette knew the only way she would survive was to learn to smile and even pretend she liked what those terrible men did to her. Whether it was Nazi officers or slimy French collaborators she had to entertain, she stifled her feeling until eventually she felt she had none.
Most of the rooms had locked shutters on the windows, but not the attic rooms where the girls slept. Yvette would stand for an hour or more at a time staring out over the rooftops, looking for a landmark she recognized. But she couldn’t see the dome of the Sacré Coeur or the Seine, so she had no idea what part of Paris she was in.
Occasionally one of the newest girls would escape, but word always got back that she’d been shot or found drowned in the river. It wasn’t just trigger-happy German soldiers gunning down someone with no papers either; often the execution was carried out by one of the men who owned this place and others like it. So the girls didn’t dare trust anyone, not even one of their own, for anyone might be tempted to turn informer if it got them out of a night with one of the more brutal or perverted customers. Yvette became outwardly like all the other girls, docile, amenable, grateful for any little kindness.
‘But I was not like them in my ’ead,’ she said with a sharp edge of defiance in her voice. ‘I knew they would stay whores when ze war end, but not me. I kept it in my ’ead that I would come to England. In that house I did ze sewing, I knew I was good at it. If I had not had ze dream of England in my head I would have gone mad.’
Fifi could say nothing. She had profound sympathy and admiration for the inner strength Yvette must have had to live through such terrible experiences. Yet at the same time she could see that her friend hadn’t really won her freedom by coming to England. She had remained in a kind of prison, exchanging the men who ruled her life back in France for equally demanding women here whom she served by making their clothes.
She had no real life of her own. She went out only to visit her clients, and her cluttered flat was probably very similar to the apartment she’d shared with her mother back in her childhood. An empty life without any love or joy.
All at once Fifi felt a surge of shame that she had so often felt hard done by. She really had nothing to complain about – she’d never known hunger or real fear until now. Poverty, sickness, homelessness, she’d never experienced any of them, or even true loneliness. No one close to her had ever died, and she was born into a good, loving family. Then there was Dan, her friend, husband and lover, who would probably die for her if necessary. So maybe her mother’s disapproval of him was groundless, but mothers were the same the world over, they only wanted to protect their children.
Yvette’s mama had let those people take her child away to what she thought was safety. If she had been faced with the alternatives of Yvette dying with her on the train to Poland, or going into the brothel, which would she have chosen?
Chapter seventeen
Dan shivered as he walked down Dale Street to the phone box on Saturday morning. There was a distinctly autumnal chill in the air even though it was only just the beginning of September, and that heightened his anxiety about Fifi. He was at his wits’ end now; he had exhausted all possible places to look for her.
When he rang her office on Wednesday morning and found she had failed to turn up for work the previous day, and hadn’t phoned in either, he knew something had happened to her. She liked the job too much not to let them know if she felt unable to work.
He phoned to see if she was at her parents’ house, but she wasn’t there either, and he could tell that Mrs Brown wasn’t covering for her – no one could feign such anxiety.
After that he systematically asked everyone in the street when they’d last seen Fifi, and if she’d said she was going away. The last sighting was by Miss Diamond who’d seen her going off to work on Tuesday morning at eight o’clock. She said she was wearing a blue and white checked jacket and a navy pencil skirt, and she definitely wasn’t carrying anything other than her handbag.
That was when he went to the police, but the minute he admitted that they’d had a row over the weekend, the police seemed to think she had just taken herself off to a friend’s place. Even when Dan said she hadn’t taken any clothes or washing things with her they showed no concern.
On Friday Dan had gone up to Chancery Lane to Fifi’s office. He’d spoken to her boss, Mr Unwin, and to every single girl who worked there, but not one of them knew anything.
The only person he hadn’t been able to talk to yet was Yvette. And now he was getting worried about her too. Mr and Mrs Balstrode, who lived above her, hadn’t seen or heard her since Monday teatime, when she gave them a parcel she’d taken in for them.
He decided he was going back to the police station as soon as he’d telephoned Fifi’s parents. They’d said last night that if they hadn’t heard from her by this morning they were going to come up to London. Despite all the bad feeling in the past, Dan really wanted them here; he thought Mr Brown might be able to persuade the police to act.
As each day passed Dan had grown more frightened. Until John Bolton was found in the river and Fifi disappeared he had been totally convinced that Alfie killed Angela. He had never been able to understand why the police had been hauling in decent, law-abiding men like Frank and Stan who would never have crossed the threshold of that house. To him it had all been cut and dried, a hideous crime carried out by a maniac, and all the police needed to do was find the other card players and clear up the finer points like what time they’d left the house, and whether they’d seen any lead-up to the crime.
But in view of recent events he was now looking a
t all the many questions Fifi had raised in a different light, and wishing he’d taken her more seriously. While he still believed Alfie was the murderer, it was very clear that some other kind of criminal activity had been going on at number 11, and that John Bolton had known about it. If Bolton had been killed to silence him, maybe his killers believed Fifi knew something too.
The prospect of Fifi being murdered was too terrible to contemplate. She was his love, his life, everything. He’d said that last night to Mrs Brown, and broken down and cried. He wished he hadn’t now; the woman would probably come to view that as yet another weakness. But she’d been surprisingly comforting and even sounded as though she cared about him when she’d asked if he’d had any sleep at all. As if he could sleep when his beautiful wife was in danger!
Dan came out of the phone box, turned up his coat collar because the wind was so cold, and began walking to the police station.
Mr and Mrs Brown had said they were leaving home immediately and they would stay in a London hotel until Fifi was found. Patty wanted to come too, but they’d said she was to stay in Bristol with her brothers, just in case Fifi phoned.
Dan was finally shown into an interview room with Detective Inspector Roper, the same officer who had taken Fifi’s statement after she found Angela Muckle. It had taken Dan a while to convince the desk sergeant that this was the man he needed to see. Fifi hadn’t actually liked Roper much, but she’d spent quite some time with him, and Dan didn’t want to waste any more time talking to people who didn’t know his wife.
The detective’s suit was still as crumpled as it had been that day in August, and Dan wondered how such a small man had got a job as a policeman. He didn’t look more than five feet seven, and he was in desperate need of a haircut and a dentist. His hair looked as though he’d had an electric shock, and his teeth were brown. But on the plus side, he did have a commanding voice and a firm handshake, and he had agreed to see Dan.
‘I understand your anxiety, Mr Reynolds,’ Roper said after Dan had explained that since last contacting the police he’d spent his entire time trying to trace Fifi without any success. ‘But you said yourself you had a row and you walked out. You were gone the whole weekend! She could just be giving you a taste of your own medicine.’
‘I might believe that of any other woman, but not Fifi,’ Dan retorted. ‘She isn’t a tit-for-tat person. She wrote to me and begged me to come back. Why would she do that if she was going to run off?’
‘To frighten you?’ Roper suggested.
Dan shook his head. ‘She isn’t like that. She left for work on Tuesday morning but never showed up. She took nothing with her. Do you know any women who skip off for a few days without even taking their toothbrush?’
‘She may have set off for work, and then changed her mind,’ Roper said. ‘She might have suddenly got it into her head to have a bit of a break to think things through.’
‘You’ve met my wife,’ Dan said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You must have formed an opinion about her?’
‘Yes, a very caring young woman. Intelligent and forthright.’
‘She’s all those things,’ Dan said. ‘She’s also nosy and impulsive. But above all she’s a person who needs people and when she’s troubled she likes to talk. She’d no more take off to some strange guest house on her own than fly to the moon!’
Roper shrugged. ‘I’ve been called to see men who have been married for thirty years or more, then one day their wife just ups and goes without a word. Every one of them has always been convinced she’s been killed or abducted. But the truth almost always turns out to be that the wife just got fed up or found a new man. I find that women are not as predictable as us men.’
‘Fifi isn’t predictable at all, but she’s too caring to just light off without a word,’ Dan retorted with indignation. ‘And another thing! The Frenchwoman at number 12 has disappeared too. Of course that could be just coincidence, just like John Bolton’s body being hauled out the Thames, but she hasn’t been seen since Monday night.’
‘Is she a friend of your wife’s?’
‘Yes, but then Fifi’s everyone’s friend.’
‘Could they have gone off together?’
‘Yvette never goes anywhere overnight,’ Dan snapped, irritated that Roper hadn’t even risen to his sarcasm about John Bolton’s murder. ‘Fifi might like Yvette, but she’d hardly be her choice of partner for a little holiday. The woman’s a recluse; she’s frumpy and a lot older than Fifi.’
‘Has anyone been into the woman’s flat to check it?’
‘No. They’d have to break in. But you could do that.’
‘Okay, I’ll get someone round there. There is something I wanted to ask you, Mr Reynolds. The man your wife saw near the council depot last Friday – did you ever see him?’
Dan didn’t know what Roper was talking about and said so.
Roper appeared surprised, then related how Fifi had come to the police station on the previous Saturday morning to report what she’d seen and been told at the depot. ‘Apparently as she was leaving she saw a man in a red Jaguar, whom she had seen going into the Muckles’ house with John Bolton some weeks earlier.’
‘She didn’t tell me about any of that,’ Dan said in puzzlement. ‘But then I suppose she thought I’d be angry she’d been down there poking her nose in.’
Roper nodded. ‘So we have some proof she doesn’t tell you everything,’ he said dryly.
Dan ignored that little dig for a thought was flashing through his mind. ‘This man! He could’ve been there at the last card party, one of the ones you haven’t found yet. If he discovered Fifi saw him, he’d want her out the way, wouldn’t he? And maybe Yvette knew him too, and that’s why they’ve both disappeared!’
‘Hold on, Mr Reynolds, I think you are getting carried away. As soon as your wife told us about this man, we followed it up. We have established that there are no employees at the depot who fit the description she gave us, and none of the men could confirm any such person had called there that day. Your wife might have been mistaken that he drove into the depot.’
‘What about this Frieda woman who made the complaint about Stan? Have you checked her story out?’ Dan asked with a touch of belligerence. It seemed to him that Roper wasn’t doing anything much at all.
‘We established that the woman is unreliable,’ Roper said.
‘Unreliable!’ Dan exclaimed. ‘I’d call her a bloody liar. But why did she make all that up if it wasn’t to get the Muckles off the hook? Someone must have put her up to it.’
Roper shrugged. ‘Believe me, we have checked her out thoroughly. We know now that her allegations were totally false, but so far it appears that she was acting on her own, a purely spiteful act against Mr Stanislav because he rejected her. But you didn’t answer my question about whether you saw the man your wife described to us.’
Dan shook his head. ‘Fifi’s the one that watches out the window, not me.’ He paused as another thought came to him. ‘After Fifi came to see you, did you contact John Bolton about this man?’
‘He was out when we called late on Saturday afternoon. Sadly we didn’t get to speak to him before his body was found.’
To Dan that was confirmation. ‘So he was killed because he knew the man’s identity!’ he exclaimed heatedly.
‘Calm down, Mr Reynolds,’ Roper said reprovingly. ‘There is no evidence to support such a theory. As I’m sure you know, Bolton associated with dozens of shady characters and we are in the process of sifting through them right now. Go on home now, we’ll send someone round later to check if Miss Dupré really is missing.’
Dan didn’t like Roper’s dismissive tone. ‘I want you to start an investigation to find Fifi,’ he said forcefully. ‘Don’t tell me to calm down either. My wife comes in here and tells you she recognizes a man who has been at number 11 and suddenly his mate is found dead, my wife disappears, and so does another neighbour. If that isn’t enough to alarm me, I don’t know what would be.’
r /> Roper had a ‘you’re over-reacting’ expression on his face.
‘You must start an investigation,’ Dan ordered him, putting his fists on the desk between them and leaning towards Roper. ‘You can’t let it just drift on. I know perfectly well she isn’t tucked away making me sweat a bit. Someone’s holding her.’ He broke off as emotion got the better of him and his voice began to quaver and his eyes filled with tears. ‘Please find her,’ he begged. ‘Before they kill her. Her parents are on their way here, at least let me be able to tell them you are pulling out all the stops to find her.’
Roper’s expression softened then. He got up and came round the desk, putting one hand on Dan’s shoulder. ‘Okay, we’ll start an investigation. We’ll call in on you later to pick up a photograph of your wife. Do you have a recent one?’
‘One from our wedding,’ Dan said shakily, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
While Dan was at the police station, Martin was just waking up in a small hotel in Nottingham. Del was still sound asleep in the other twin bed. They hadn’t got in till nearly three in the morning, and as the man they had been sent to sort out hadn’t surfaced last night, they would have to stay here until he did.
Martin hadn’t got a toothbrush, razor or clean shirt with him, but he could go and buy those things. What really worried him was Fifi. A sinking feeling in his gut told him the boss wouldn’t bother to send anyone else out there to take the women food or water. Del insisted he would, but Martin wasn’t convinced.
When he first started working for Trueman Enterprises six years ago, it was nearly all debt collection work. As most of the people they had to make pay up were toerags and weasels he’d never felt bad about what he did. But in the last six months there had been several jobs he felt uncomfortable about. He and Del were sent to torch a warehouse out at Dalston, and the night watchman Del clobbered ended up in hospital and would never work again. Then there were the Jamaicans in a house in Westbourne Grove that they had to evict. The poor devils were just chucked out on the street with their babies and small children. That was a scam and a half; they’d all been made to pay ‘key money’ to get the place, and they thought they were secure for years. God only knows where they ended up, they hadn’t got any money, and most of the landlords in that area were every bit as unscrupulous as Trueman.