Private Oz (Private 7)

“Okay, sweetheart,” she said and I followed her up a narrow staircase.

Ruthie was a petite girl with long black hair and a plain face, wearing a see-through camisole and a lot of make-up. I guessed she was no more than twenty.

I was experienced with surveillance, so I knew right off where to look, spotted the camera in five seconds.

Ruthie got up from the end of the bed. “Pop your clothes off, honey,” she said, her voice bored, flat. “Back in a sec.”

She stepped behind a curtain and I saw a red light come on over the lens of the camcorder, pulled up a chair with my back to the machine and when Ruthie returned she looked a bit surprised to see me still fully dressed. Her expression changed. “Oh, a talker, are we?”

“Sorry?”

“Just wanna cosy chat … Bitch about the wife, the job, life in general? Still costs the same.”

“S’pose I am. Just feel lonely. I’m a bus driver. Need some company.”

She gave me a blank look, stood up again and tottered back to the curtained area. The red light went off.

Ruthie sat on the bed again, cross-legged.

I glanced over toward a small stereo on a low table. “Can you put on some music?”

The girl obliged, bending over provocatively as she pushed “Play”. When she turned back, sh

e saw I had a roll of fifty-dollar bills clenched in my right hand. I peeled two from the top of the wad. “Need some info,” I said very quietly.

Ruthie looked confused for a moment, then frightened. “What … sort of … information?”

“About the set-up here.”

Blood drained from her face. “I don’t know …”

“Of course you do.” I separated a third fifty and held out the notes.

Ruthie eyed them. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No. I’m a private investigator.”

She snatched at the bills but I pulled them back. Her fingers grasped air.

“Ah, ah,” I tutted. “What’re the cameras for?”

She looked at her feet, black high heels with fluffy balls over her toes. “We record everything important. We’re told to turn on the machine before the client … you know …”

“Who’ve you filmed?”

Ruthie stared at the money. I handed her two of the fifties, peeled off a fourth and held out the two notes.

“Shit! I dunno. Dozens of blokes.”

“Anyone you recognized? Anyone you’ve seen on TV, for example?”

I handed her a fifty. Kept the other. “Okay, so what happens to the tapes?”

“How should I know?”

I nodded and stood up pocketing the rest of the money. “Alright, Ruthie. If you do manage to recall anything useful, ring this number.” I handed her a slip of paper. “It’s a secure line.”

Chapter 69