Free Bitter Sweet by Mason N. Forbes Page B

phone, telling them that I was no longer in business. Or, if someone wanted to be really malicious, tell the clients that I had herpes or some such infectious disease.  
    With my thoughts now launched in the direction of the damage which someone could inflict upon me, other possibilities became obvious. All my friends, social-media contacts and email acquaintances could be informed of my secret life as an escort. My website did not show my face, but if anyone bothered to compare the descriptions and photos on it with a revealing text or email, well, two and two make four . . .
    Mike’s strategy did not entirely eliminate the possibility of the information on my phone falling into the hands of some one wishing to name and shame. At least, however, retention of the phones removed the chance of someone using my phone number to send out a name and shame text. It could still be done if the information on the phones was sent using a suppressed ID. The effect might be the same – didn’t want to think about that.
    However, Mike’s concept of cooperation and volunteering the information would mean the filling out of police forms, maybe even a lawyer. And that route meant police bureaucracy; a system I hoped that could not be tampered with.    
    Mike leaned across to Ivonne; ‘Your apartment is next. Anything I need to know?’
    Ivonne shook her head. ‘No, I’m clean.’
    ‘Good,’ Mike said. ‘When we finish here, we’ll go across together. At no stage will I leave either of you alone. Nor will I permit the police to be alone in either apartment.’
    Ivonne and I looked at each other. I didn’t know what she was thinking, but obviously Mike did not trust the police.
    The front door opened, bouncing against its stopper with a thud. The door shivered on its hinges.
    Mike straightened up.
    A man in his late forties strode into the room.
    I was guessing the bent cop.
    No fat paunch, no short raincoat – ala Columbo, just an ordinary looking guy of average height, dressed in a plain grey M&S suit.
    He did have a bulb ous nose which had a good ruddy red colour – anger, not drink. He rapidly scanned the room, gave me and Ivonne the hard-police-stare, his eyes finally settling on Mike.
    ‘Who are you?’ the detective asked. His head twitched slightly.
    ‘Mike Marshall.’
    ‘Wot’s your game?’
    Mike’s eyes narrowed briefly as he held the detective’s gaze. ‘I am an accountant.’ His voice was steady and calm. ‘These two young ladies are my clients.’
    Yeeha . Go for it Mike.
    The detective snorted.
    Mike ignored the ill-mannered response. ‘I didn’t catch your name, sir?’
    ‘Detective Sergeant Driscoll.’
    Speak of the devil and he walks through the door!
    I could see Driscoll’s eyes starting to bulge in exasperation. His nose maintained its ruddy complexion. He didn’t know where to look, so he kept on staring at Mike.
    ‘Miss Thompson,’ Mike said, ‘is cooperating fully with your colleagues.’
    ‘Is that right?’
    ‘Indeed. There is, however, the small matter of her mobile phones.’
    ‘You don’t say.’
    Mike held the warrant up. ‘This document does not specifically detail mobile phones.’
    Driscoll clenched his jaws together, his lips parted. It reminded me of a dog baring its teeth. In fact, his teeth needed cleaned; they were tea stained.
    ‘Now,’ Mike said.
    Driscoll’s eyes narrowed.
    ‘In the spirit of cooperation,’ Mike continued, ‘and to avoid any loss of earnings for my clients, it would be a simple matter to access their phone records, if that were deemed to be necessary.’
    ‘Noted,’ Driscoll said, and jabbed a finger in Ivonne’s direction. ‘But first we’ll search her flat.’
    Driscoll again clenched his jaw together; his head twitched slightly. He turned and walked briskly down the corridor.
    Again, the door thudded against the stopper and shivered on its hinges.
    The two detectives who had searched my apartment came back in.
    ‘Miss