Davy woke in a cold sweat. Confused, he stared at the white light surrounding the door. His heart pounded as his mind replayed the sound of a dead body hitting the ground. Again, he relived his wife's scene with another man—the sound of its foghorn as that ship approached.

While showering, he attempted to close his mind, but he knew his demons would haunt him for a long time. However, it would change nothing if he confessed to a bank robbery and killing a pimp.

On entering the kitchen, he saw an empty whisky bottle and a single glass on the table.

He made two cups of coffee and six slices of toast. Retracing his steps, he knocked on her bedroom door. To his surprise, Emma was awake, dressed and ready to face the day. Too much lipstick covered her lips, and dark circles shrouded her eyes.

"Hi, handsome. Is that for me?"

He nodded and handed her the tray.

"Thank you," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

***

When she arrived at her office in Southampton, Janice Porter found a package of Edinburgh and Fife newspapers on her desk from Hamish McCaig. The robbery and the lost men came back to her. She sat and scanned the pages. On a pad to her right, she had listed the missing men's names and the date of the robbery. Thick pencil lines joined them together and made sense. A question remained unanswered: three or six men.

A small article concerning a burglary caught her attention. The hint of something jumped out. Another piece gave a brief report on several youths who found a Royal Navy boat moored inside an old hulk. The North Queensferry Water Ski Club reported a stolen boat to the police. A beachcomber found a black plastic bag full of money on the shore. Janice shuffled the pieces while pondering a few obvious questions.

Who? The three missing sailors robbed the bank.

How? This took time to build. The Navy recovered their boat intact, but the stolen ski-boat joined the dots. She assumed they used two boats, leaving one behind to be collected later.

When? The date of the robbery was not in doubt. Why did these men, if they were sailors, want to rob a bank? She remembered a black and white Jack Hawkins film when demobbed and demoralised soldiers planned and executed a bank robbery using their skills. If these three sailors committed the crime, where were they? Where was the missing ski boat? Why men's clothes and two suitcases stolen? An intruder would have trashed the place: too many questions and not enough answers.

She called Hamish. After the third ring, she got an answer. "Hi."

"Hi, Janice – Did the papers help?"

"Yes, thanks for sending them."

"No problem, glad to be of help. What have you found?"

"Remember the bank robbery and three missing sailors? I'm sure they're connected, but..."

He interrupted. "But you want me to do the leg work."

"Well, we can share the story, and if there isn't, at worst, I'll owe you lunch."

"Okay, I'll get back to you if and when I find something."

Janice hung up, knowing, for the moment, it was the best she could do.

***

Davy arrived where he first met Pinkie at eight that evening. A dozen girls worked the street. It was a quiet night, and most chatted with one another. Two stood as bait for the punters driving past. He waited an hour and was about to leave when she appeared.

Covered in a one-piece skintight black leather outfit, she strutted towards Davy.

"Hello, darling, want a good time, or would you rather go home and screw your wife?"

He went to speak as she slipped her arm through his and pulled him to her. She whispered, "Shut up and let me do the talking. Do you want to go back to your place, darling? You want me to stay for the night. That'll cost you two-ton, cash in hand. "

They walked to the end of the street, where they stopped. She turned to face him and let go of his arm. "What you said last night, was it for real?"

"Sure, but will the girls go for it?"

"We'll pay twenty percent, but no more."

He held out his hand. "It's a deal."

Pinkie brushed it aside. "Come with me, and I'll make the introductions."

He followed, and one by one, she introduced the women by their working names.

Davy raised his eyebrows. "I've a question – how the hell do I protect you when you're away doing it? Here," he gestured with his right arm, "no problem, but if a nutter decides to smash your face in for kicks, what can I do?"

"You're a strange man. You appear to care, but while we're working, you can't stand and watch. The punters might object. Anyway, you can't be in ten places at the same time. Keep us safe on the street, and you'll get your money. You start tonight?"

"Okay."

Apart from a couple of drunks having a quick grope, the evening passed without incident.

When the punters vanished from the street the girls paid their dues and caught a taxi home. The street was empty when he left. As he walked along, he considered his options. Stay where he was or move on? For him, this was a different world. Here his past did not matter. The memory of that fat slob smashing the face of the girl made up his mind. Protecting these women gave him a purpose in life. They trusted him, but it worried him that when they were out of sight. The girls placed themselves in danger every night. How could he change what for them was the norm?

When he arrived at Emma's, the house was in darkness. On tiptoe, he climbed the stairs. A smile filled his face when he saw her in his bed. As much as he tried not to make a noise, she woke.

"What's the time, and where have you been?

As he slid naked between the sheets, he kissed her and mumbled, "Work."

Her body was soft and warm, and without a word, they made love.

Later, much as he tried to sleep, his past's bitter memories refused to leave. Six nights a week, he returned to the street. He wrote the number plate of every car that passed through his patch for what it was worth. Trouble remained restricted to the occasional randy drunk and a few local hard men.

One particular evening as he strolled along, he heard shouts and screams. For a moment, he froze, his eyes searched the street, settling on two girls fighting. He yelled to catch their attention. They turned to see him hurrying towards them. "What the hell are you two playing at?"

He stopped in front of them, pulling one from the other. They broke free of his grasp and lunged at each other.

The peroxide blonde screamed, "That bitch told my boyfriend I'd got a dose of clap."

"No, I fucking didn't. The clinic told him. From what he told me, shagging you was like flicking peas up the Blackwall tunnel."

They thrashed as dying fish on a hot beach.

He released them and let them battle. They fell onto the pavement, pulling, punching, and scratching—their language stronger than a London docker after a few beers.

"Enough," he roared, hoisting them both. They kicked out to hit each other, but his grip held. Their energies wasted, he dropped them to the pavement.

With wildness in their eyes, they stared at him. "Right, both of you get your arses in gear and fuck off. If you come back on the street tonight, I'll throw a bucket of water over both of you."

Stunned, they staggered to their feet.

Not waiting for either of them to think, he shoved them hard in opposite directions.

He stood with his arms folded. "Women can't live with them and can't live without them."

Most of the trouble he dealt with by being there. Another evening a commotion at the far end of the street caused his heart to race. He ran to the noise. An acne-faced youth, smaller than him, struck the diminutive Caribbean named Maggie in the stomach.

Davy's left fist smashed the assailant's face as he followed with a punch to his nose. The man spiralled backwards and fell to the ground."

"How tough are you now?"

The man stared at him.

Davy stamped hard on the back of his right hand. "Don't bother."

He turned to Maggie, who was holding the top of her dress. "You okay?"

"That bastard tried to grab my tits and ripped my dress. It cost me twenty quid."

Davy remained calm. "Now mate, what's your problem? I'm sure we can agree. You want to pay for the torn dress, don't you? What did you say, Maggie, thirty quid?"

The youth grunted. "My mistake. I thought the bitch shortchanged me, but I was wrong. For Christ sake, take your foot off my hand."

He removed his foot and, gripping his arm, lifted him, "Now, apologise and pay her."

With his free hand, the youth pulled out his wallet and mumbled, "I'm sorry, miss."

Davy grabbed it, and Maggie removed the money. "Louder, or I'll break your arm."

"I'm fucking sorry."

Davy threw the wallet back at him and whispered, "Touch any of these girls again, and I'll get nasty and cut your balls off and shove them down your throat. Now fuck off."

He watched the man stagger along the street, holding his hand, shouting, "I'll get you, you fucking bastard."

Jay arrived as the youth departed, "I warned you."

***

Emma became used to Davy being around. His working schedule intrigued her. Every night at six, he left the house and returned late in the morning. One evening, curiosity got the better of her. She followed and watched from the shadows as he chatted to the women on the street. From that moment, she realised that he was either a pimp or a minder. For another two nights, she watched.

***

Janice received a call from Hamish and agreed a visit to Edinburgh might be helpful. "That's perfect timing. My husband is in Rosyth and attending a cocktail party. I'll pack my posh frock and surprise him."

"I'm sure you will. Okay, give me a bell when you arrive, and you can buy lunch."

She lifted a pen and made notes in a file.

Low cloud and heavy rain delayed Janice's flight for two hours. The airport taxi dropped her at the Forth Bridges Hotel.

A knock on the door interrupted her. "Who is it?"

As she opened the door, he said, "Your husband. Were you expecting someone else?"

"Of course not. Come here and kiss me before I put on my lipstick."

"You'll have to shift yourself. I've a taxi waiting, the meter's still running, and I hate being late."

They arrived on time at the Officers' mess, HMS Caledonia. Inside, the Royal Marine band played background music, and the women dressed in their finery chatted to each other. The men in mess undress uniform propped up the bar or chased brownie points talking with senior officers.

Later that evening, Adrian pointed out Lieutenant Jamieson, the Commanding Officer of HMS Highbury.

Janice left Adrian, discussing with his colleagues the merits of minesweeping against mine hunting. She took a glass of cheap champagne from a passing steward and strolled through the crowd.

"Lieutenant Jamieson?"

"That's me, but how do you know my name?"

She smiled. "I'm Janice Porter and, for my sins, a journalist. Your name's not a secret. I saw your interview on national television concerning three absent sailors. Besides," she pointed to Adrian, "my husband told me. To be honest, I'd enjoy a chat as regards your missing crew. Let's get a refill and find a cosy corner."

Jamieson followed.

Janice put her arm through his and, ensuring his glass was full, guided him to a quieter part of the room. "Now, these missing men? Any idea what happened?"

"I'm told they may be implicated in a bank robbery. At the moment, they are absent without leave."

"As far as you're concerned, everything was normal that morning?"

"Yes, they were three reliable senior ratings undertaking engine trials. Why I, or any of my officers, might think different? They were doing their jobs."

"Yes. You're right, of course, and I'm sure my husband might say the same."

Their chat continued but revealed nothing more.

"Thank you for your time, Lieutenant. Please excuse me. I must find my husband."

Much later, she and Adrian left the party. On the way back to their hotel, Janice discussed with Adrian her chat with Jamieson.

"Will Jamieson get another command?"

Adrian shook his head. "That I don't know. Did you learn anything?"

"Zilch, and he's a bit of an arse."

"You may well be right."

The taxi stopped outside their hotel, and Adrian paid the fair, including a generous tip.

Janice waited for her husband, who was a handsome figure in his naval uniform. He turned, held her hand as they made their way to their room.

"We both have a busy day tomorrow," said Janice.

Adrian lay on his side of the bed, watching as she undressed. "Not that busy, I hope."

She grinned, got under the blankets and snuggled close.

***

Dark clouds dotted the sky when Janice left the hotel for her appointment with Hamish. Her husband was already in Rosyth Dockyard. This morning she was in good spirits as she descended the hill towards the Clydesdale Bank in South Queensferry. She waved on seeing Hamish standing next to his old M G, his tall, wiry frame wrapped in a well-worn tweed overcoat. In any crowd, his red hair and full beard distinguished him from any other. Together, they made a formidable team.

"Good morning." He pointed towards the stone steps that led to the foreshore. "That's where the escape boat waited and on the day in question. It was cold, and the mist thick. I did wonder if their craft went up or down the river."

A cold north wind funnelled its way up the narrow passage and dashed spots of rain on the ground. Janice shivered as she peered across the river. "Were there any other shipping movements?"

"Why?"

"Perhaps they didn't make it."

"I'll have a word with the river pilots."

"You do that," she said.

"I'll do it later. First things first. Come with me."

He drove to the far end of South Queensferry and parked. From the boot of his car, he removed a pair of waders.

As they walked, she asked, "Why do you need those?"

"It's a notion, but I want to check something."

A mile along the water's edge, they stopped.

"Well, Hamish, you take me to the nicest of places. I enjoyed the walk, and it's a great view, but why are we here?"

"The problem is we'll have to wait until the tide's right out."

"Can't you tell me what?"

"If I could, but I can't."

They waited and chatted as the tide ebbed. The sea in the distance appeared calm.

"Quite beautiful," said Janice.

Hamish kept a close watch on the receding water.

He clambered into his waders, hooking the braces over his shoulders. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

She watched as he pushed his way through the black slime. Although she could not be sure what he was doing, he appeared to be pulling something out of the mud. After a few minutes, he retraced his steps.

"What did you find?"

"A body or what's left of it, and the battered remains of a stolen ski boat. Your hunch might be right. Use your mobile and call the police. I'm sure they'll be interested in our find."

She took her phone from her pocket and tapped in 112, the direct number for emergency services.

"Which service?" asked the operator?

"Police, please." Janice waited.

"Lothian Police. Can I help you?"

"Good morning. I'm near Crammond or a mile along the river from the old car ferry ramp in South Queensferry. I've discovered the remains of a body in the wreckage of a stolen ski boat." "Is this a hoax, madam? It's an offence to waste police time."

Annoyed, she answered, "My name is Janice Porter, and I'm a journalist. I'm, give or take a hundred yards from the wreck."

"Thank you, madam. Can you remain where you are, and I'll have someone there as soon as possible? It may take some time, so please be patient."

"Yes, of course, I'll still be here... and tell them to bring their welly boots. They'll need them." She returned her phone to her pocket, muttering, and "Bloody morons."

"Problems?" asked Hamish as he removed his waders and pulled them inside out.

"No comment."

"We might as well sit and wait for the local plod to arrive."

Fifteen minutes later, the local police sergeant arrived. "Are you Janice Porter?"

She stared at this overweight, lumbering man. "Yes, I made the report. What's left of a body is in the remains of that." She pointed. "It's on the low water line, so you'd better hurry, or the tide will start coming in, and you'll have to wait twelve hours."

The sergeant glanced towards the wreck and trudged across the mud. In less than fifteen minutes, he returned.

"I can't shift it. I'll have to get the divers in. Who found it?"

"I did," said Hamish.

"I'll need a statement."

Janice sat on a nearby seat while Hamish told his story. The sergeant wandered back to his car, and Hamish came and sat alongside her.

"Finding a body wasn't the best part of my day. How did you know?"

"Curiosity. The other day I came here and noticed the wreck of a black-painted boat. Today was pure speculation."

Janice frowned. "One more clue. I don't have any real evidence, but I'm convinced those missing sailors carried out the robbery. The burglary, where's the house?"

He pointed. "Half a mile downriver."

"Someone survived. I just can't be sure how many. One, two, but with what you found, not three. My guess is their boat hit something."

She paused. "Unless the others drowned."

They began walking to the ferryman's cottage. On reaching it, Janice knocked on the door.

A young woman opened the door, holding a small child. "Can I help you?"

Janice held up her ID. "Sorry to bother you. My name's Janice Porter, and my friend is Hamish McCaig from The Scotsman newspaper. You had a break-in a few weeks ago, and I wonder if you'd mind answering a few questions?"

She smiled and nodded. "Please come in."

The main room had low wooden beams and a large open fireplace. She pointed to the sofa and asked if they fancied a cup of tea. When they both answered yes, she gave the child to Hamish. The infant did not seem to mind, snuggled against his chest and fell asleep.

"What did they steal?" asked Janice.

"Not much." She paused, placing a hand over her mouth for a second. In a subdued voice said, "A quantity of my husband's old clothes, a pair of welly boots and two old cases."

Janice smiled at Hamish, who appeared content holding the baby. She wondered, why take two suitcases?

The day over, she bought Hamish lunch in the local pub.

He drove her to the hotel, where she thanked him. One hour later, she met Adrian at Waverley Station, from where they travelled to York. At the risk of damaging her credibility, she told Adrian her thoughts. He agreed her tale contained a few elements of merit. Brian, Adrian's business manager, met them at the station and drove them home.

Housekeepers, Mr and Mrs Duke, were as always waiting for them to arrive with dinner ready to serve. Whilst they ate their meal, Adrian grinned at his wife. She noticed his silly expression. "What have you been up to?"

"I have a surprise." He sat back in his chair, smiled, stood, crossed the room and opened his briefcase. From inside, he removed a large envelope, returned to the table, sat and gave it to her.

She removed the contents. "Where did you get these?" In her hands were up-to-date photographs of the three missing men and copies of their full-service histories, along with home addresses and next of kin.

He winked. "I have friends."

***

On arriving at Southampton, Janice chose to go straight to her penthouse instead of the office. On opening the door, she picked up her mail and went to her bedroom. She placed her suitcase on the bed, undressed and had a hot shower. She settled herself with a nice cup of tea at the picture window in a pair of jeans and a sloppy sweater. She loved her flat. It was a refuge, her private space away from the world, but she also missed Adrian's love and company. One thing they had often discussed was her retiring from work.

She lifted the phone and called her editor.

Henry Chapman answered right away.

"Henry, I'll be working from home today unless you need me."

"No, probs. See you tomorrow."

She replaced the receiver, sat at her PC, and removed the manila envelope containing the Royal Navy records on the three missing men from her briefcase. The first folder detailed the career of David Jenkins. She read every page, building an image of the man who might have committed a robbery. She typed, Warrant Officer David Jenkins, an orphan, age thirty-three, height six foot one, and from the photograph, he appeared attractive with blue eyes and black hair. His commanding officer's reports stated he was of exemplary character, sometimes outspoken although easy-going, good-natured, full of energy, enthusiasm and recommended for a commission. She took out a pen and noted the file she was holding: leader and survivor. This done, she profiled the other two men. Weapons Artificer First Class Jack Watson, age 37. His reports were average, but one comment stood out. Believed to have financial problems. Petty Officer Diver Chris Page, age 27. Hard-working and a team player. Constant marriage difficulties have caused financial distress.

She stood, wandered over to the window and thought of the robbery. The pieces fitted; one man was dead, but where were the other two? Hamish McCaig had delved into the lives of the missing sailors.

It had not been hard; sailors talk to anyone after a few pints. HMS Highbury crew referred to them as the three musketeers. Witnesses placed them in North Queensferry the night the Mirage went missing. The river pilots were definite; several large vessels traversed the Forth at the time of the robbery. Even a senior pilot suggested the men could have perished with their craft.

Now essential that she talk to somebody not involved but expert enough to have an opinion. The choice was obvious. She pressed the memory button on her telephone and waited.

An unruffled voice answered. "Holt speaking."

"Chief Superintendent, I have a table booked at the Dorchester for tomorrow at one. It's an offer you cannot refuse."

"I'll come if you're paying. How are you, Janice?"

"Good. That's settled. I'm fine. See you tomorrow – must dash – bye."

Janice sat, scanning the menu as Ian entered. She studied him as he walked towards her. At forty-five, he had been in the force since leaving university. Always slim and immaculate, today he wore a charcoal-grey single-breasted suit, a white shirt and his old university tie. His thinning, fair hair exaggerated a long, narrow face. His appearance belied he was a tough bastard, but he always rewarded those junior to himself, providing they were loyal. He had no time for the backstabbing brigade.

She stood; he kissed her on the cheek and seated himself.

He smiled. "Shall we discuss why you want to see me, or are we eating first?"

She placed a file on the table. "Your thoughts on this, please."

Ian sat back, opened the file and read her précis of the robbery and three missing sailors.

"What do you think?"

He stopped reading and stared at her. "A bank robbery and three men are missing. You have nothing. If you can find me one of those men and give me half an hour with him, two and two may make four. In a court of law, you have to make it tighter than a duck's arse. Fail, we get sued for wrongful arrest, and the villains receive an apology with compensation."

Janice sipped at her wine.

"Now, can we eat?" asked Ian.

"Of course, and thanks for your opinion. I promise I won't mention it again."

***

The sky appeared to darken as strange restlessness overwhelmed Davy. As he leant against a wall, bitter memories flooded back—images of Chris and Jack, their bodies struggling in the water. The picture faded.

A few days in hiding had turned into months; was this how the rest of his life might be? For a while, he mulled over an idea. Approaching footsteps caused him to lift her head.

"Are you okay?" asked Jay. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine."

"That's good. You're a decent man, Davy Jones." She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek.

Later that evening, when business was quiet, he talked to her. "I've been thinking. I have a proposition you might find to your liking?"

Together, they walked to the nearest bar. Whilst he went for the drinks, she sat. He returned with a pint and a gin and tonic and sat facing her.

"What's on your mind?"

Jay sipped her drink, and Davy drank his pint. He hesitated before speaking, "Jay, every night, you and the girls risk everything to make a few bob, and you get away with no harm done. Moreover, Jack, the Ripper, has recreated himself several times. On the continent, they have safe and organised brothels. Why can't you use such a house?"

She leant across the table and took his hand - "you're a lovely man but sometimes a bit naïve. We're working girls. We have good and bad weeks. And you need a ton of money to buy a property or even rent one?"

"I've got an idea. If I can organise it, would you be interested?"

She nodded. There was no doubt in her mind that Davy had their interests at heart. "Let me know if and when you sort it out, and I'll answer your question. Right now, I'm not making any money sitting here. Let's go." They finished their drinks and left.

Davy wandered up and down the street, chatting to the girls.

***

Davy woke alone, slid out of bed, walked across, and glanced out of the window. His mind was clear; he either asked her today or forgot the idea. He stroked his beard in front of the mirror, suits me, and the gym days have dumped the fat.

When Davy arrived in the kitchen, Emma was drinking coffee. He ate his breakfast in silence.

"What are you doing in the red light district?"

He sat back in the chair, thinking.

Elbows on the table, she tilted her head. "Let's cut out the crap? What are you into, drugs?"

Angry, he said, "No, and I'm not a pimp. I'm a minder for ten girls, and it bothers me when they disappear into the graveyard for a quickie. One of these days, one won't come back, and no one gives a shit."

Emma leaned towards him. "Who cares? They have a choice. What they do is up to them. It's a tough game. They know the risks."

Davy eyed her warily; he wanted to appear organized but, in the end, blurted out, "How much for this place?"

"What?"

"Will you sell me your house?"

"Why? I'm happy here." She stood, went over to the window and peeped through half-drawn curtains. She returned and sat close to him, placing her right hand on his crotch. "For the right price. Three hundred and fifty thousand.

Davy glanced at his watch. Almost nine-fifteen. "Will you sell if I get the money?"

She appeared to study him. "If you can arrange the finance, we'll talk."

"It'll be cash, and you'll have the deeds transferred to me. I'll even pay the legal costs. You won't get a better offer."

She leant closer and flashed a beaming smile. "Whatever. I'd expect a lot more than the money for my co-operation."

"Emma, I can get the money. So have we an agreement?"

She waved her arm towards a huge Welsh dresser, stocked with an array of drinks.

She stood and removed a bottle of whisky. "Of course we have, lover. Let's drink to our future and the money it will bring."

Not a morning drinker, he took the offered glass.

"To us and the future," she said, downing the liquid in one.

Davy finished his drink, went upstairs and changed his clothes. He retrieved his jacket from the back of a chair and removed the left-luggage ticket from the inside pocket. For a moment, he wondered if he was doing the right thing.

"I must go out. I'll be back in half an hour."

"I'm not going anywhere, be here when you get back."

The walk to King's Cross Station took fifteen minutes. As he collected his suitcase and wished like Harry Potter, he could vanish into another world. Twenty minutes later, he was back in his room. For the first time, he counted the bundles of notes. It totalled over four hundred thousand pounds. He removed the price of the house plus ten thousand pounds, placing the rest in the case.

Emma sat in the kitchen with a full glass in her hand. She jumped when he placed the money on the table. Gob-smacked at the sight of so much cash, she leaned across and said, "You stupid bastard. I gave you the credit of intelligence, but like most men, your brain dangles between your legs."

He raised his hand. "I don't understand."

She swallowed half her drink. "Of course, you don't. Common sense is unimportant when your balls are doing the thinking. This money is hot. I should call the police?"

"W-why?"

She pointed to a chair. "Park your bum and listen. I don't know where you came from but before you open your mouth, engage your brain. I thought you were arranging a loan, not robbing a bloody bank. No one carries cash unless it's dirty. Start at the beginning. Tell me the truth or fuck off. I'll give you half an hour before I call the police."

Davy regained his self-control, said, "You won't call the police. Your eyes fell out when you saw the money. Yes, and I could have died. It's mine, and I'll decide what I do with it. You wouldn't believe me."

She gave him a piercing look. "Try me."

"Emma, after what's happened to me, I don't give a shit. Call the fucking police. I won't stop you."

"Well, if I phone the police, where will that get us? You'll be in the nick, and I'll have nothing. Start talking."

"It's a long story, and you've got my balls in a vice."

She stared at him, her face not giving anything away. "I've plenty of time."

"What the hell?" said Davy. "I'll tell you. Two days before I arrived on your doorstep, I was a Chief Engineer in the Royal Navy. In a flash, I was up to my neck in shit, standing in the rain and watching my whole world fall apart. A pork chop in a synagogue stood more chance."

Exasperation filled her eyes. "For Christ's sake, get on with it."

"One afternoon, I arrived home and found my wife in bed, riding a naval officer. I went mad and left him screaming in agony. Their lordships weren't too happy and demoted me. I could have survived, but my ex-wife emptied our bank account and got her lawyers to screw me. I lost everything and tried to recoup the money at the local casino. I became addicted and lost plenty. My friends and I owed thousands, and the casino boss, a right bastard, threatened to break our legs and tell our captain. He gave us a month to find the money. One of my colleagues came up with the stupid idea to rob a bank."

Emma interrupted. "So you flew out of the frying pan, landing on your fat arse, in the fire."

"Well, I suppose so, but at the time, it appeared the solution, and as you can see, we were successful. One day later, I ended up here. It was pure chance that I became involved with the girls. I needed something to do if for no other reason, to pass the time. If you're going to make that phone call, give me a head start. For fucks sake, I need a break."

"Well, that's quite a story. Ian Fleming, eat your heart out - but no more secrets. You're a lucky bastard to have found my front door. I understand more than you realise. I've been there and got the T-shirt."

Emma went quiet before she asked, "I presume you wanted my house for business purposes. Out of interest, what experience do you have in running a brothel? You're good at doing it, but selling is another matter. You need a manager."

"Tell you what. I'll put an advert in The Times: Wanted, one brothel manager, hours negotiable."

She chuckled. "You haven't a clue, have you? For forty-nine percent of the take, I'll guide you through the maze of sex in the city. It's a commodity. You have to nurture, develop, train and promote. Give the public what they want. You need premises, not this house. The neighbours might be unhappy living next door to a brothel. The girls need to be young, glamorous, unusual and fresh. Not the tired old hags who do it against the pub wall for a drink and twenty fags."

"Emma, how come you know so much regarding this business, and why do you want to help?"

"You want the sordid details?"

"Not essential."

"The short version is better?"

"What you tell me is up to you."

She went to the whisky bottle and filled her glass. "Well, I've listened to your tale of woe. Now you can shut up and listen. At sixteen, I was pregnant and married to a minor crook. My baby died during birth, and my old man got ten years in the nick. With no money, the answer was the streets. It was easy to make a good living. Soon after his release, the stupid idiot did another job. They arrested him a week later, and the judge put him inside for a long time. But he left the money under the bed at me, mums. I gave her a few quid for her trouble and, with the rest, bought this place. I last saw him thirteen years ago, at his funeral. I've survived using my wits and, when appropriate, my body." Emma ran two fingers around the rim of her glass. After a few moments, her hand stopped, and her eyes again focussed on him. "For starters, Davy, I'm not helping you. This is for me. For years, I've wanted an opportunity to get out of this place. I'm not clever. I'm not lucky. If I can make a success of this, I can sell and retire. I'm doing it for money, nothing else."

He admired her; she was one of the world's survivors. "Can we do this?"

She placed her glass on the floor, rose from her chair and walked towards him. "With your cash and my brains, we'll make a fortune and in a few years retire to the sun. The contract will need an agreement, and it's a high price for my silence." She knelt before him and undid his belt.

***

Davy approached Jay. "Remember my idea last night? Well, the plans changed."

Before he could say any more, she began to walk away.

He followed and grabbed her arm. "Stop! Come to my place and talk. If you don't like what you hear, I'll give you a hundred for your trouble."

She lowered her eyes. For the first time, he noticed how long and dark her lashes were.

"About your suggestion," said Jay, "we're wasting valuable time. Let's go."

When they arrived at the house, he went into the front room with Jay close behind. He made the introductions and outlined his thoughts.

Emma's face-hardened as she glared at Jay. Why had he brought her here? They needed someone younger, not anyone who was approaching their sell-by date. For a moment, she paused, poured herself a large whisky and sipped at it.

She turned. "Davy, take a hike. Have a pint or two. You don't want to listen to girls' talk."

He shrugged. "See you later."

Emma paced the room. "I have a deal to run an organised house, and lover boy appears to think you might be useful. Convince me."

Jay frowned. "Not a lot to tell. I've been on the game since the age of thirteen. Strange as it may seem, I promised myself as a girl that I'd save myself for the right man. A bloke who was shagging my mum offered me a hundred quid. I couldn't get my knickers off fast enough. Strange how you always remember the first time. It hurt like hell. A girl found me sobbing my heart out. She was a hard bitch and told me, 'it's easy the next time."

"That was a rotten thing to say."

"My need for a man disappeared a long time ago. Now, if they have the cash, anything goes. I don't care."

As she listened to Jay, another idea formed.

Emma, with particular pride in her voice, said, "I'm a good judge of character. It doesn't matter who or what you are or what you've done; it's what's inside. Besides, you're not stupid. Together we could run the place?"

The front door slammed, and Davy entered.

"What's in it for me?" asked Jay.

"Twenty per cent of the take, and if we make nothing, you get nothing."

"Her money comes from your cut, not mine," Davy said, butting in.

Emma sighed. "Of course."

"It's pretty obvious he's screwing you, but where does good-looking fit in?" asked Jay

"He's our backer; it's his money. He loses everything if the girls don't perform - but we, on the other hand, lose nothing."

"Sounds better than walking the patch. Okay, I'm in."

For the rest of the evening, the two women drank and talked about how the Star Health and Fitness Club might operate. Together, they planned on how to spend a lot of money.

***

The weeks passed, and every morning, Davy listened to Emma prattling on about their project's progress. He watched as his money disappeared faster than snow in the Sahara. One thing was sure; he needed to keep out of sight. To the world, Emma owned the place. One morning he was anxious to find out where his money was going and took a taxi to the Star Health and Fitness Club. He picked his way across heaps of rubble-strewn over the pavement. Two overflowing skips took up half of the road. He moved towards the front entrance and gazed at the façade of a Victorian pub built during the nineteenth century's boom time. The large corner plot reminded him of Queen Vic in the television soap Eastenders. To those people who frequented it during its heyday, its grandeur must have appeared incredible. He thought of those named breweries lost inside a significant organisation. Ind Coope, Bass, Ridley's, Watney Brown and many more too numerous to consider. His eyes scanned the original entrances. Above each, carved into the stonework, were Public Bar, Saloon, Snug and Lounge. At one time, embossed glass with the brewer's name shielded the customers from view. He admitted to himself that Emma's choice of water nymphs etched into the new glass panels was quite pleasing to the eye. As he pulled open the new mahogany street door, in front of him stood an eye-catching, red-haired woman. He remembered her name, Tracey, the woman he assisted to A and E. Her face still showed signs of the beating, but they barely showed with the help of makeup.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

She flashed him a broad smile full of straight white teeth. "Getting a job. Jay's given me a spot in the club. You're Davy Jones, aren't you?"

"That's right. How are you? The last time I saw you, a nurse was taking you away."

"I'm fine, but I took a bit of a sabbatical. With those two, you have to be able to turn any trick in every position. By the way, I owe you. So any time you're free, give us a bell, and we'll have a session. Here's my card. If you want me, the address is on the back." With a twinkle in her large blue eyes, she said, "You're staring at my legs.

"I am," he replied. "You've got a great pair of pins." It was tempting, and she was cute. A change might be good. If Emma caught him sampling the goods, God help him.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll take a rain check if you don't mind."

Tracey winked and went on her way.

He watched her walk, sighed and, for the moment, contented himself with lustful thoughts.

He found Emma and Jay in a small room. The whole place was a building site; the trades were everywhere, painting and plastering.

"Strange," he said. "Since we became business partners, my money's vanished. To date, you've spent over three hundred thousand pounds. At this rate, I'll be broke - and I'm not robbing another bank!"

"It's almost finished," remarked Emma. "We had a small bonus. In the cellar, we found the original fireplaces and engraved mirrors. One of the guys took them away and got a grand for them. Take five and have a gander."

"Is now a good time?"

"Yeah, that's fine. You'll like what you'll see."

"I've got a few phone calls to make. You can give him the guided tour, Emma."

As they entered the well-lit reception area, he said, "I'm impressed."

Close on her heels, he followed her into a passage with the doors on the right-hand wall numbered one to four.

"It appears professional, but how does it work when the punter asks for the optional extras?"

"On the surface, we're a health and fitness club,

But..."

"What do you mean?"

She turned to him. "If you come in for a massage, you'll get one. The girls have been training for the last four weeks. They can do the job. At the far end in what was once the lounge bar is a sauna and gym. It's quite large. If a customer needs additional service, not on the programme, a private arrangement is agreed upon between both parties. The masseuse will guide the client via a concealed door upstairs." She pressed an out-of-sight button, and an exit in the rear wall opened wide. "Whatever you want, you can have it at a price."

"Whose idea was that?"

"Tricks of the trade," she winked. "What the police can't see, they don't worry about."

Together they climbed the back stairs. Each room depicted a theme from Rome or Greece and the equipment installed to suit.

"The club gets twenty per cent of what the girls make upstairs," said Emma, "and fifty per cent of what they make downstairs. The money is paid to the receptionist before, not after, the experience. In case we have a problem, each room has a security camera installed. If something starts to go wrong, the minder moves in. Our girls will do most things, but they'll be infection-free and protected. Without a clean card, they rest. Drugs are a no-no. They'll receive annual holiday and sick pay. This establishment is a business and will operate as one."

"Well, I must say you seem to have thought of everything. When do we start making money?"

"We'll open the doors to guests at the end of next week, after which it'll be members only. The membership fee is an annual payment of fifty quid, and this entitles the member to a free massage and the Club's extraordinary services."

"Unbelievable," he said, chuckling at the innuendo. "Impressive. Thanks for the guided tour. By the way, have you a minute? I need to ask you something."

They went back to the small room. It was empty.

He waited for Emma to sit. She was in her shortest mini, and her breasts strained against a pale pink top that ended three inches above her waist.

"I have a problem."

With legs crossed, her short skirt crawled up her thighs.

"What's the matter?"

"I've put the money into this business, but if you or Jay wants to be rid of me, one phone call and my feet won't touch the ground. I'd be in prison for a long time. I need guarantees."

"What you want doesn't exist. Life gives no guarantees."

"I can't drive, go abroad, nothing. I need a passport, birth certificate, an identity. Who can I buy them from?"

She studied his face and hesitated. "I can ask a few people if they know of anyone. It's the best I can do, but it'll be expensive."

He laughed. "Compared to what this has cost me, why should I worry?"

"I'll get back to you," she promised.

"I hope you do.