Chapter 12: Jenny Walsh

During my lost week, or rather my lust week, with Hannah a pile of mail had accumulated at 23 Kitchener Road. The day before I moved into digs at West Drayton I went through the pile and threw most in the recycle bin.

The one letter I read came from my solicitors, and contained the DNA report on the soiled sheets Miriam and Hodge were shagging between when I walked in on them.

Most of the language in the report was far too technical for me to understand, but one sentence astonished me:

'The similarity of several markers present in both samples of DNA presented leads us to suspect there being a slight, but significant, familial relationship between the two.'

Miriam and Hodge were brother and sister; how could their relationship be dismissed as 'slight'?

I rang Butcher, Baker, and McCandless to get clarification, and when the receptionist recognised my name she said, "Oh, I'm so glad you called, Mister Desmond, I was about to send a letter asking you to call into the office at your earliest convenience."

Thinking Mr Baker might have information concerning my divorce petition I made an appointment to see him the following Saturday, when I could also quiz him on the DNA report.

"The report suggests there is a slight familial relationship between your wife and the co-respondent, although not illegally so. The co-respondent is possibly a second cousin,, once removed, on your wife's female side." Baker gave me an embarrassed glance. "Fortunately there was no possibility of your wife becoming pregnant as the co-respondent is sterile, and had been from birth."

I was still shocked to learn Hodge wasn't Miriam's brother.

"So Miriam hasn't committed incest?"

"Not in the legal sense, although if they had been brought up as siblings, and believed themselves to be related, it could be argued they broke the laws relating to incest morally if not legally." He frowned in thought. "There have been cases of prison sentences being handed down when adopted children commit incest when believing themselves related, and it appears in this case one of the two had been adopted by the parents."

"It must be Hodge," I said, "I saw Miriam's birth certificate when she applied for a passport, and her parents were father James Hodge and mother Lilian Hodge, nee Grainger." I had a sudden thought. "Don't adopted children have the right to contact their biological parents?"

Baker nodded. "At eighteen they are allowed to search for their biological parents, assuming the adoption was legal, and they are aware of their adoption." He shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately, forty years ago the adoptive laws were not only more lax than today but were often completely ignored."

"Would Hodge know he was adopted?" I asked.

"It would depend on the circumstances of his adoption, whether carried out legally, or by a family covering up the transgressions of a daughter, or indeed of a mother."

"Would he know he was firing blanks?"

Baker winced at my terminology before replying. "As it happens our investigations into the co-respondent found him to be not only a most unsavoury character but also he had contested a paternity suit brought against him when in his late teens. He produced irrefutable medical evidence of being incapable of fathering children and won his case."

Baker reached into a box on his desk and held up a letter. "However, this is the reason we wanted to see you, Mister Desmond. You are subpoenaed to appear at Chelmsford Juvenile Court as a witness in Miss Jennifer Walsh's defence of being in possession of a banned substance, to whit a Class A drug, cocaine."

"I thought the written statement I made in my barrister's office had taken care of that."

He tapped his finger on the subpoena. "It would appear Miss Walsh's defence think a verbatim statement in court would be more beneficial to her case."

I was a bit perturbed having to appear in court. V-P and Jenny Walsh's lawyers struck a deal where I would give them a written statement, sworn on oath, that I saw Hodge placing a package into Jenny's bag. She in turn would be 'creative' in reporting my remark to Hodge which led to him attacking me. Although Jenny's trial had nothing to do with my trial the prosecution might ask me some searching questions, and I might find myself facing either a retrial or a case of perjury. "I can't ask for time off to attend court. I've only just started at a new job," I said.

"Your firm is legally obliged to allow you leave of absence to attend a trial; failure to attend would lead to a charge of contempt of court." Baker replied emphatically.

Chelmsford Juvenile Court was housed in the same building as the Crown Court where I had faced the GBH trial. I arrived in good time, and then spent 3 hours kicking my heels in the witnesses' waiting room, as the juvenile court was backlogged with cases and Jenny Walsh's case wasn't heard until just before the lunch recess. Her trial lasted all of 30 minutes, and she was acquitted of all charges. I wasn't called to give evidence.

I was fuming at the complete waste of my time as I made my way out of the court house, dimly aware of a hub-bub of people – mostly journo's and paparazzi rather than people – and saw the slight figure of Jenny Walsh being hurried down the court house steps to a waiting limo, surrounded by what could only be protective muscle.

A large woman, easily six foot tall, with a width to match her height, detached herself from the throng around the limo and approached me.

She had ginger hair, a round face liberally sprinkled with freckles, and a pair of pale blue eyes which regarded me dispassionately over a snub nose and wide mouth. Her chin could be compared to that of a female Tyson. Judging by the heft of her she would have been a match for Mike, in or out of the ring.

She stuck out her hand and shook mine, vigorously.

"Hello, Mister Desmond, I'm Philomena Quinn, Miss Walsh's PA." Her voice, although well-educated, held an echo of the dulcet tones of an Ulster accent.

"What's a kid like Jenny Walsh doing with a PA?" I said, slightly bemused, and intimidated, by her appearance.

She smiled, turning an ugly duckling if not into a beautiful swan then in to a not so ugly a duckling.

"Miss Walsh is a client of the firm I represent, Media International. Jenny is the latest thing – the new black – and the most interesting young person to hit the headlines since Sarah Michele Geller."

She turned and gazed towards the scrum around the limousine where the musclemen were fending off photographers.

"All the national newspapers are bidding for her to write a teenage column for their paper. Channel Four want her to host a new chat show. Hollywood is showing an interest in her, and in fact her earning potential is tremendous. However, underneath her tough, street wise, exterior she is really a sweet person, and she asked me to come over to apologise to you for having been dragged up here to appear at her trial. She would also appreciate it if you could meet her sometime, to discuss an important personal matter."

"Important to who?"

Philomena shrugged. "I wouldn't know, but I will repeat the name Jenny asked me to say should you appear reluctant to meet her: 'Miriam'."

She gave me a card with her telephone number, shook my hand, said to ring her anytime, then made her way back to the car, scattering paparazzi and journalists like a cruise ship ploughing through a gaggle of bum boats.

I stared after her, gobsmacked at the mention of my wife's name.

Philomena Quinn got into the car next to the driver, the doors slammed and the limo sped off, with a horde of photographers running alongside aiming their cameras at the opaque tinted windows of the vehicle ... the stupid tossers.

"You be careful of them big ginger birds, Dave. If that one sucked you in she'd blow you out in bubbles." A voice behind me said, and I turned to see the grinning face of Baz Butcher. We shook hands and asked at the same time."What are you doing..." Then stopped and laughed.

"You first, Dave." He said.

"I was called as a witness in a trial. I didn't get called to give my evidence, and spent three sodding hours in the witness waiting room like a spare prick at a wedding.What about you?"

"I've just become the proud owner, or rather the proud leassee, of four Ford Focus motors," he said, "and now you and I are going to celebrate with a mega mixed grill at the Bomb and Dagger in the High Street, and a pint or two of Ruddles' Best Bitter."

"Sounds good to me," I said. "The Bomb and Dagger? That's an unusual pub name."

"Well the proper name is the Sceptre and Orb, but as the pub sign was painted by a naff painter, and back in the day the Chartists used to meet in a back room in the place, the locals began to call..."

"The Chartists? Who are they, some new Boy Band?"

Baz stared at me in amazement. "You ain't never heard of the Chartists? About two hundred years ago they was ordinary workingmen who believed that every man should have the vote, and it's thanks to them we live in a democracy. I'm gobsmacked you've never..."

He realised I was winding him up, and punched me on the arm.

"Sodding hell, Dave. You really had me going there. You should be in politics with that glib, lying, tongue and honest face."

In the pub we tucked into huge plates of grub, and swilled excellent pints of ale, and Baz filled me in his activities since our last meeting, which was over a year ago at a home match at Upton Park, when The Hammers got stuffed 4-0 by Spurs due to some diabolically bad refereeing.

"Things changed for us independent street traders when the Berlin Wall came down, and all them East Germans and Russkis and Ukrainians come over here." Baz took a swig of his beer before continuing. "Most of them were bad buggers, who if they stayed in their own countries would have got strung up, as they had worked for the Stasi and KGB. They scarpered with piles of money, and could lay their hands on weapons, and before we knew it the bastards moved in on our streets and buggered up our business." He took another pull from his pint. "I admit I run a few girls, but I make sure they are older than eighteen, and none are junkies. I sell a bit of weed and snow, but only to known users, and never to school kids. But these foreign gangsters are dealing heroin and crack, the really bad stuff, to all and sundry, besides pimping under age whores. They put the frighteners on small traders like me; forcing us to sell their drugs and run their tarts, most of them too young to have any hair around their twats. I wouldn't do it, and to save getting my legs broken, or worse, I got out of the business."

He took a reflective drink from his pint. "It's turned out to be the best move I ever made."

Baz and I were mates from primary school days, and he spent nearly as much time in my house as he did in his own. He was intelligent, possessed a ready wit and a winning smile, and could charm the knickers off a nun should he want to. When his income stream became dammed by East European gangs he switched to what he called 'Event Promotion', which in his case were Dogging events.

If you recall 'dogging' is the act of having sex in a vehicle, in front of an audience, in a secluded area. As Baz said these events didn't just happen, and he arranged many dogging sessions, using the data base of the customers he supplied with drugs, girls, and porno films and books, to inform them, for a fee, where and when these events would take place.

"I took a couple of my girls to the venues and touted them in front of the audience. I was gobsmacked by how many blokes got so turned on watching a couple shagging in a car they wanted to do likewise. I began supplying girls, and the cars, and soon accquired a long list of potential customers wanting to participate in dogging shows." He gave a broad smile. "Then I had a mega brainwave. You remember a Carry On film where Sid James owned a taxi firm, and Hattie Jacques started a firm staffed by girl cabbies and ran him out of business?"

I nodded. "Yeah, that was 'Carry on Cabby' a little gem in the Carry On series."

"Well, I started a car hire firm, driven by sexy birds wearing sexy clobber."

He opened his wallet and handed me a business card.

HEElS in WHEELS

Chauffer driven vehicles for the discerning male

Our professional chauffeurettes will give you the ride of your life!

"Blimey Baz, you don't try to hide the service you're offering. Won't the Old Bill do the girls for prostitution, or something?"

He shook his head, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Prostitution isn't illegal in the UK. Soliciting, keeping a brothel, and living off the immoral earnings of a prostitute are illegal, but using car hire circumvents all those unlawful acts."

Baz explained his business strategy, and it appeared fool proof, to me at least.

The girls are employed as drivers of the car hire firm, and are paid an hourly rate. When a client orders a car he stipulates which 'service' he requires; there is a sliding scale for the type of 'service' and the hours required to carry out the service.

The client, or punter, as Baz referred to his customers, books the car online, and pays the firm by debit /credit card. No money changes hands between a client and his driver, unless he wants to give her a little thank you present.

'Servicing' can be carried out in the vehicle at a dogging session, in a motel room, or at the client's house. Thus there are no brothels, no walking the streets soliciting, and no living off the immoral earnings, as the girls are employed and paid as drivers.

Baz takes 30% of the fee, pays all taxes as required, including VAT, and the rest is shared among the girls via a bonus scheme, depending on hours worked.