They gathered in their hundreds carrying placards with STOP STREET s*x and KEEP OUR KIDS SAFE inked on them. They wore hi vis vests and woolly hats and sturdy boots and steadfast frowns. They came on a gusty afternoon after the school run, and not from far because this was their home, next to what the council called its Managed Approach. It was actually a licensed brothel; a red-light district with everything but the red lights.
Carl Sant hadn’t come to protest. Instead of a placard he sported a 2X-Large black duffle coat over his customary black Mackintosh to ward off the wind chill. His superior, Superintendent Harry Hardaker, had told him to gauge the mood ahead of a public consultation meeting with the SAVE OUR EYES pressure group. But Sant was also recruiting witnesses. A violent mug
