Suspect Read Free Page B

wisp of a thing with green eyes and fair hair, she has the sort of accent that makes northern women sound feisty and no-nonsense.
    Dressed in a knee-length pencil skirt and a tight cashmere sweater, she looks like a World War I pinup girl.
    Behind her, projected onto a white screen, is an image of Mary Magdalene painted by the Italian artist Artemisia Gentileschi. The initials PAPT are printed in the bottom corner and in smal er letters: PROSTITUTES ARE PEOPLE TOO.
    Elisa spies me and looks relieved. I try to slip along the side of the hal without interrupting her, but she taps the microphone and people turn.
    “Now let me introduce the man you have really come to hear. Fresh from the front pages I’d like you to welcome Professor Joseph O’Loughlin.” There are one or two ironic handclaps. It’s a tough audience. Soup gurgles in my stomach as I climb the steps at the side of the stage and walk into the circle of brightness. My left arm is trembling and I grasp the back of a chair to keep my hands steady.

    I clear my throat and look at a point above their heads.
    “Prostitutes account for the largest number of unsolved kil ings in this country. Forty-eight have been murdered in the past seven years. At least five are raped every day in London. A dozen more are assaulted, robbed or abducted. They aren’t attacked because they’re attractive, or asking for it, but because they’re accessible and vulnerable. They are easier to acquire and more anonymous than almost anyone else in society…”
    Now I lower my eyes and connect with their faces, relieved to have their attention. A woman at the front has a purple satin col ar on her coat and bright lemon-colored gloves. Her legs are crossed and the coat has fal en open to reveal a creamy thigh. The thin black straps of her shoes crisscross up her calves.
    “Sadly, you can’t always pick and choose your customers. They come in al shapes and sizes, some drunk, some nasty— ”
    “Some fat,” yel s a bottle blond.
    “And smel y,” echoes a teenager wearing dark glasses.
    I let the laughter subside. Most of these women don’t trust me. I don’t blame them. There are risks in al their relationships, whether with pimps, customers or a psychologist. They have learned not to trust men.
    I wish I could make the danger more real for them. Maybe I should have brought photographs. One recent victim was found with her womb lying on the bed beside her. On the other hand these women don’t need to be told. The danger is ever present.
    “I haven’t come here to lecture you. I hope to make you a little safer. When you’re working the streets at night how many friends or family know where you are? If you disappeared how long would it take for someone to report you missing?”
    I let the question drift across them like a floating cobweb from the rafters. My voice has grown hoarse and sounds too harsh. I let go of the chair and begin walking to the front of the stage. My left leg refuses to swing and I half stumble, before correcting. They glance at each other— wondering what to make of me.
    “Stay off the streets and if you can’t then take precautions. Operate a buddy system. Make sure someone is taking down the plate number when you get into a car. Only work in wel -lit areas and organize safe houses where you can take clients rather than using their cars…”
    Four men have entered the hal and taken up positions near the doors. They’re clearly policemen in plain clothes. As the women realize I hear mutters of disbelief and resignation.
    Several of them glare angrily at me as though it’s my doing.
    “Everybody stay calm. I’l sort this out.” I careful y swing down from the stage. I want to intercept Elisa before she reaches them.
    The man in charge is easy to spot. He has a ruddy pockmarked face, a punch-worn nose and crooked teeth. His crumpled gray overcoat is like a culinary road map of stains and spil s.
    He’s wearing a rugby tie, with a silver-plate tiepin