The Lover's Children

Chapter 87 – Solstice – Part 20

KLEMPNER

James speaks in level tones. “How do you think you can help?”

“I know people. Or knew them, a few years ago. I can ask. They’ll talk to me even…” She lifts her face

to mine… “… even if they won’t talk to you.”

“Why?” His expression turns harsh. “Who are these people, Charlotte? And where are they?”

“It’s South Street and around there. I have friends there. Or I did. It's been a long time, but I could find

them again.”

James Aaahhs, raising his face to the ceiling. “South Street? That's not a good area. Why would you

know people around there?”

Her eyes turn wary. “It's from before I knew you. I lived there for a while. When I first came back to the

City.” She turns a spotlight gaze on me…

Ye gods, but you look like your mother…

… “I'm not sure if you should come or not.”

I see the penny drop. “It’s the street girls themselves, isn’t it?” says James. “You lived down there. You

knew them. And you’re afraid you might find your father put some of them there.”

Jenny’s chin juts, but she remains silent.

“You're right,” I say. “My being with you would be problematic.” James shoots me a look sidelong. “It

could scare off some of these friends of yours. As I’ve already learned, it only takes one who knew me

personally, rather than Baxter or Bech, and the whole area closes down against me…”

Her mouth opens to speak but I talk over her. “… However, I should still come with you. When you’re

talking to the women, I can stay in the background, but I'd be able to ask questions of their handlers in

a way you couldn't.”

James jabs a finger toward me. “A word if you please. Charlotte, out. If Michael’s around, send him in.

And if I find you lurking behind the door, you’ll feel my belt.”

*****

MICHAEL

James circles like a caged tiger, bristling threat. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Klempner oozes nonchalance. “I’m not suggesting sending her out by herself. I’d be close. So could

you and Michael, if you wanted.” James’ fists ball, but Klempner’s still speaking. “… It’s an obvious

thing to do. After the miscarriage, Jenny’s depressed. If you want to knock her out of her depression,

give her something to feel responsible for, other than being just a failed mother.”

I surge forward, but James beats me to it. “She is not a failed mother,” he hisses.

Klempner lounges back against the door, arms folded. “Of course she isn’t. But it’s how she feels right

now. We can all see it.” James pauses, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

Klempner straightens up, his indifferent air fading. “Jenny wants to help in the hunt for the killer. So, let

her. It will give her something else to think about. A purpose. Once she has control over something...

And once…” He jerks a thumb at me… “… Laughing Boy here gets her knocked up again, her state of

mind will look after itself.”

Much as I’d like to punch the bastard in the face, I’m not sure whether to rise to Klempner’s baiting or…

… I sigh, rubbing the base of my skull. “You know, he might have a point. Richard said something

similar to me once. Charlotte’s spent most of her life driving in high gear. Being just a mom may not be

enough for her. I’m her husband. You’re her Dom, but neither of us can decide that for her.”

James looks ready to spit fire. “You seriously think we should agree to this?”

Hang on to your temper…

“James, this is Charlotte we’re talking about. Letting her do something doesn’t come into it. I’d say

she’s already decided she’s going to do it. That being the case, perhaps we should go along with

whatever she has in mind. That way we can keep our hands on the reins and retain some level of

control.”

James glowers, then matches my sigh. “You’re right, of course. You’re both right.”

Klempner speaks. “I’ll add something else. We’re dealing with a ticking clock. Our killer is running late.”

“Late?” As one man, James and I spin to face him…

“The last murder was April,” continues Klempner. “We’re almost at mid-summer. Given that our killer

has upped his game since he started, and that the intervals between the murders have reduced with

each victim… If the Surgeon is working to his established pattern, he’s overdue to strike again.”

James blows out his cheeks. “Why might he break his pattern?

“He’s choosy about his targets.” Klempner clucks. Flashes brows. “Perhaps it’s taken him a while to

pick out the next one. Whatever the reason, it’s almost certainly only a matter of time before he moves

again.”

*****

It’s not a great part of the City, unchanged for years, with an air of ground-in poverty emphasised by

scattered trash, splintered glass and the cardboard ‘homes’ of the destitute. Spread out in disused

doorways and side-alleys, some are sheeted over with black plastic. Others with newspapers. The

advancing summer produces a moist evening heat that does nothing to improve the stench of urine and

rotting garbage.

Charlotte leads us, clearly knowing just where she is going, taking us to a brick-built apartment block.

Peeling paint, rotted window frames and cracked gutters are the first impression. She tries the door

handle but, as you would expect, it’s locked. She inspects a bank of labelled buttons, pressing one.

The buzz is audible, but no reply comes. Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

She tries a second. Same result.

She’s about to try a third, when Klempner steps in front of her, easing her back out of the way. “Let

me.” A glint of metal in one hand, he inserts something into the lock. Something else with the other.

Briefly, he stares into the distance, his gaze turning blind. Then, his wrist twists, jerks, and the lock

clicks open.

Charlotte rolls eyes at him. “You can show me how to do that, sometime.”

His lips quirk. “My pleasure.”

We follow her inside and up the stairs.

*****

Charlotte knocks on the door. James and I stand some way back, so as not to loom when the door

opens. Klempner lurks behind us. I hold my breath against the wash of stale cigarette smoke and

mushrooms.

From beyond the door comes the sound of uncertain footsteps…

Not the pace of a young woman…

… and after drawn-out seconds, it opens by a few inches, stopping as a chain clicks taut. Fingers

clutch at the edge as rheumy eyes peer through the crack, maybe five feet from the floorboards. The

smell of decay and stale urine seeps out. Charlotte recoils.

“Yes? What is it?” The voice rasps. The figure and the voice could be female, but it’s hard to be sure.

Charlotte inhales. “I’m looking for Natalie…” Doubt enters her voice. “Does she still live here?”

“No.”

The door begins to close again, but Charlotte wedges in a toe. “Did she live here before you moved

in?”

“Don’t know.” The figure pushes at the door.

Charlotte persists. “How long have you lived here?”

“Five years.” A foot kicks out, dislodging Charlotte’s trainer and the door snaps closed.

*****

We stand by a street-corner cinema promising action, adventure and eternal romance. I’d say that’s all

of any of those things that anyone in this neighbourhood would see.

Charlotte rotates slowly, looking.

Klempner hovers, circles and hands-in-pockets, stares at his boots.

I’m not comfortable being here. Garish signs glare into the dark advertising the delights awaiting

beyond darkened doorways. Cars crawl the kerb, their occupants, all male, staring out at the parading

street girls, looking for more than the promises of popcorn and celluloid.

In their cheap finery: the too-short skirts and too-low tops and with their too-young or long-forgotten-

being-young faces, the women display to the onlookers. Some strut up and down, pacing the sidewalk.

Others pose, exhibiting long legs or generous bosoms, trying to catch the eye of their potential clients.

The hookers work mainly in pairs… Not that I blame them… But when a male voice calls out, crooking

a finger, a woman leaves her partner, strutting across before stooping to the wound-down window to

exchange a few words with the driver. Then, alone, she steps into the car and it drives away.

Christ…

Klempner watches too. As the girl gets inside, his eyelids droop, then he returns his attention to

Charlotte. “Why have we come here, particularly?”

“When I knew Natalie, this was her pitch.”

“Not now it seems.” He muses, casting around. “Interestingly, I wasn’t far from here when I lost Hoodie

Boy.”

“Really?” Charlotte gestures up along the street, then down again. “It’s a good spot. A popular spot.

That’s why a lot of the girls work from here. You can see the incoming traffic both ways. Even if the

driver’s on the other side of the road, he can pull here. And the sidewalk is good and wide too. So you

can hang back if the cops arrive, or step out if you see a car pull up.”

As if to prove a point, a blue-flashing squad car idles past, and the parading women retreat into the

shadows.

“The police are more tolerant,” she says, “if the girls aren’t actively soliciting. But it hardly makes a

difference here.” James and I exchange glances. Klempner nods slowly.

Charlotte’s still looking, her eyes traveling from one face to another, but she shows no sign of seeing

what she wants, who she wants. The girls who notice her either look away, or glare back. It’s

understandable. Draped in a long, figure-concealing coat, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail and her

understated make-up, Charlotte simply doesn’t fit in here.