Read Online Red Light by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Graham Masterton
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wanted to cry, but now she couldn’t help herself. The tears slid down her cheeks and dripped off her chin.
‘Hey, are you hearing me, girl?’ Mister Dessie demanded. ‘Because let that be a fecking lesson to you! Don’t you ever try to take the piss out of me, girl, because that’s what you’ll get, or worse.’
Still Zakiyyah didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away and shuffled over to the bed. She eased herself painfully down on to its worn-out springs and curled herself up like a child.
Six
It was nearly 10.30 p.m. when Detective O’Donovan knocked at Katie’s office door again. He looked scruffy and tired. The shoulders of his khaki trench coat were still sparkling with raindrops and his tie was crooked. Katie was in the middle of shuffling all of her papers straight, in preparation for going home.
‘What’s the story?’ she asked him. ‘You look all flah’d out.’
He sat down heavily in the armchair on the other side of Katie’s desk, took out a crumpled Kleenex and loudly blew his nose. ‘I hope I’m not getting one of them summer colds, that’s all. I was interviewing that feller who’d been cutting and shutting them motors down at Victoria Cross yesterday and he was sneezing all over me like he was trying to blow me out of the door.’
‘So, any luck with Maka-wiya?’
‘Mawa-
kiy
-a, ma’am, and it’s the feller’s nickname, not his actual real name. The cook in the African restaurant knows him – well, at least by sight. He goes in there at least once a week to eat, on account of they cook this special Nigerian dish he likes, pepper soup with hot chilli and fatty lamb and big slices of tripe.’
‘Please, Patrick! My stomach hasn’t recovered from smelling your man’s decomposing body today, let alone finding out what disgusting food he used to eat.’
‘Oh, sorry, ma’am,’ said Detective O’ Donovan. He tugged his notebook out of his coat pocket, licked his thumb, and flipped it open. ‘From what the cook was telling me, like, he’s a real cute hoor, this Mawakiya. He’s got his sticky black fingers into almost everything you can think of. Drugs – especially the party stuff like Es and ket and miaow-miaow and GHB. Stolen copper wiring. Stolen mobile phones. But his main line of business is pimping. He has contacts in Sierra Leone and Benin and Nigeria and he brings a steady stream of girls over. The cook said he always has two or three sexy young girls with him whenever he comes in to eat, and it’s never the same girls twice. And
very
young. He reckoned that some of them couldn’t have been older than fourteen or fifteen.’
‘But we only know his nickname?’
‘Mawakiya, that’s right. It means the Singer, according to the cook, on account of the feller never stops singing. Well, he’s stopped singing now, of course, for permanent.’
‘What language are we talking about? And don’t just say “African”.’
‘Hausa, that’s what the cook told me. He speaks it himself. But they speak Hausa all over the shop in West Africa, not just one particular country.’
Katie tapped her pencil against her teeth and frowned. ‘I don’t understand how he’s never shown up on our radar before. A black feller in a purple suit pushing drugs and getting himself involved in low-level larceny and pimping underage girls from Africa. You’d think our alarm bells would have rung the moment he first stepped out on the street.’
‘Maybe they did,’ said Detective O’Donovan.’ There’s at least three black pimps that we know of, aren’t there? With his head missing, he could be easily be one of them and how would we know? Maybe he didn’t wear a purple suit
all
the time. I’ve got a yellow leather jacket myself, like, and I hardly ever wear it.’
‘Thank God for small mercies.’
‘Well, yeah, the missus is not too keen on it, either. Every time I put it on she calls me Hell’s Canary.’
Katie said, ‘At least we’re sure of a name now, even if it
‘Hey, are you hearing me, girl?’ Mister Dessie demanded. ‘Because let that be a fecking lesson to you! Don’t you ever try to take the piss out of me, girl, because that’s what you’ll get, or worse.’
Still Zakiyyah didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away and shuffled over to the bed. She eased herself painfully down on to its worn-out springs and curled herself up like a child.
Six
It was nearly 10.30 p.m. when Detective O’Donovan knocked at Katie’s office door again. He looked scruffy and tired. The shoulders of his khaki trench coat were still sparkling with raindrops and his tie was crooked. Katie was in the middle of shuffling all of her papers straight, in preparation for going home.
‘What’s the story?’ she asked him. ‘You look all flah’d out.’
He sat down heavily in the armchair on the other side of Katie’s desk, took out a crumpled Kleenex and loudly blew his nose. ‘I hope I’m not getting one of them summer colds, that’s all. I was interviewing that feller who’d been cutting and shutting them motors down at Victoria Cross yesterday and he was sneezing all over me like he was trying to blow me out of the door.’
‘So, any luck with Maka-wiya?’
‘Mawa-
kiy
-a, ma’am, and it’s the feller’s nickname, not his actual real name. The cook in the African restaurant knows him – well, at least by sight. He goes in there at least once a week to eat, on account of they cook this special Nigerian dish he likes, pepper soup with hot chilli and fatty lamb and big slices of tripe.’
‘Please, Patrick! My stomach hasn’t recovered from smelling your man’s decomposing body today, let alone finding out what disgusting food he used to eat.’
‘Oh, sorry, ma’am,’ said Detective O’ Donovan. He tugged his notebook out of his coat pocket, licked his thumb, and flipped it open. ‘From what the cook was telling me, like, he’s a real cute hoor, this Mawakiya. He’s got his sticky black fingers into almost everything you can think of. Drugs – especially the party stuff like Es and ket and miaow-miaow and GHB. Stolen copper wiring. Stolen mobile phones. But his main line of business is pimping. He has contacts in Sierra Leone and Benin and Nigeria and he brings a steady stream of girls over. The cook said he always has two or three sexy young girls with him whenever he comes in to eat, and it’s never the same girls twice. And
very
young. He reckoned that some of them couldn’t have been older than fourteen or fifteen.’
‘But we only know his nickname?’
‘Mawakiya, that’s right. It means the Singer, according to the cook, on account of the feller never stops singing. Well, he’s stopped singing now, of course, for permanent.’
‘What language are we talking about? And don’t just say “African”.’
‘Hausa, that’s what the cook told me. He speaks it himself. But they speak Hausa all over the shop in West Africa, not just one particular country.’
Katie tapped her pencil against her teeth and frowned. ‘I don’t understand how he’s never shown up on our radar before. A black feller in a purple suit pushing drugs and getting himself involved in low-level larceny and pimping underage girls from Africa. You’d think our alarm bells would have rung the moment he first stepped out on the street.’
‘Maybe they did,’ said Detective O’Donovan.’ There’s at least three black pimps that we know of, aren’t there? With his head missing, he could be easily be one of them and how would we know? Maybe he didn’t wear a purple suit
all
the time. I’ve got a yellow leather jacket myself, like, and I hardly ever wear it.’
‘Thank God for small mercies.’
‘Well, yeah, the missus is not too keen on it, either. Every time I put it on she calls me Hell’s Canary.’
Katie said, ‘At least we’re sure of a name now, even if it
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