by Graham Ison
“Look, hang on a mo,” said Webb hurriedly. “It’s just possible that there’s some keys somewhere. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Most helpful,” murmured Fox. “It would save an inordinate amount of time,” he added.
Minutes later, Webb returned and slapped a bunch of keys on the late managing director’s desk. “Try those,” he said.
Fox winced. “You’ll damage the leather top if you do that,” he remarked in an offhanded way. He picked up the keys and handed them to DI Morgan. “See what you can do with those, Charles,” he said.
Webb was right: the cabinet that Fox had tried contained a huge amount of alcohol. There were bottles of whisky, gin, vodka, rum, brandy and sherry, and a range of “mixers”.
Fox nodded approvingly. “Expecting a siege?” he asked. He glanced at Evans. “Try the safe, Denzil.”
Evans found the appropriate key and swung the heavy door wide. Inside were several bundles of papers and files, all of which were brought out and placed on the desk. Behind them was a video cassette and a thick envelope. Evans opened it and took out a number of large glossy photographs and spread them across the desk. Each photograph depicted Michael Leighton engaging in an astonishing variation of the sexual act with a female partner.
“Good gracious me,” said Fox, casting a cursory eye over the lurid prints. “Interesting exposures, one might say.”
“I didn’t know anything about those,” said Webb, instantly on the defensive.
Fox ignored Webb’s comment and studied the photographs more closely. “Quite an athlete, your MD,” he said. He glanced sideways at Kate Ebdon. “How old was this bloke?”
“Fifty-four, sir,” said Kate promptly, without taking her eyes off the photographs.
“Not bad,” said Fox, a hint of admiration in his voice.
“This looks like Karen Nash, sir.” Kate jabbed a forefinger at one of the photographs. “I reckon she must have been a bloody contortionist before she took this up. A miracle she didn’t break her back.”
“And this is almost certainly Patricia Tilley,” said Craven-Foster, handing another print to Fox. “In fact there are several prints here featuring both women.”
“Now I know what’s meant by exotic dancing,” said Kate quietly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fox asked.
“Karen Nash’s next-door neighbor, a muscle-bound ballet dancer called Kevin Chappie, said that Karen had told him she was an exotic dancer.”
“D’you know any of these other women, Raymond?” asked Fox, turning to Webb.
Webb examined the photographs more closely than was necessary to make an identification. “Apart from Tricia, only that one,” he said finally, pointing to a picture of a girl in a G-string and knee-high boots who was holding a whip and smiling at the camera.
“How d’you know her?”
“I met Mike in a dive one night and she was with him. He introduced her, said her name was Gail Thompson. I don’t know if it was. She looked more like some tart he’d picked up in the West End.”
“Any idea where she lives?” asked Fox. He knew there was no chance that Webb would know, but he had to ask the question.
“No. I only met her the once. Mike tended to keep his private life to himself.”
“To himself and whoever took these photographs,” said Fox acidly. “Incidentally, d’you recognize where they might have been taken?”
Webb took the question as an invitation to study the photographs once more. “No, don’t recognize it,” he said eventually. “Could be anywhere.”
“That,” said Fox, “is what they call a truism.”
They searched the rest of the office without much success, but it was Kate Ebdon who came up with the link. “This is his private phone book, sir,” she said, flourishing a small leather-bound book. “And I’ve just found an interesting name. Harry Pritchard.”
“Who the hell’s Harry Pritchard?” asked Fox, for once at a loss to recall a name that had come up in the enquiry.
“He’s the guy who left a message on Karen Nash’s answerphone saying that he’d got a job for her, sir,” said Kate and placed the phone book into one of the exhibits bags that the police had brought with them.
*
Back at New Scotland Yard, Fox viewed the video cassette tape that had been seized from Leighton’s office. Fox told the operator to fast-forward it until a female face was in close-up. But none of the detectives was able to identify any of the five women who featured in Leighton’s home movies. But there was another man. In his late twenties or early thirties, with long brown hair gathered into a pony-tail, he proved to be a sexual athlete who surpassed even Leighton’s creditable performances. But then, as Fox said, he was that much younger.
*
Lady Jane Sims lived in a block of mansion flats behind Harrods of Knightsbridge. Her face lit up when she answered the door to Fox and, flicking a loose lock of hair out of her eyes, she led him into her sitting room and poured him a large Scotch.
“Where have you been, Tommy?” she asked when Fox was settled in an armchair. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”
“Cyprus,” said Fox. He offered Jane a cigarette, which she refused, and lit one for himself.
“What on earth were you doing there?”
Briefly, Fox outlined the reason for his sudden departure and then said, “Oh, by the way, I’ve been promoted.”
“Tommy, that’s wonderful. We must celebrate. But why on earth didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not important,” said Fox. “Anyway, I’ve been too busy chasing sex-mad company directors.”
“Oh?” Jane looked suddenly interested.
Fox laughed. “You should have seen the video we took from his office,” he said. “Enough to make your eyes water.”
“Why didn’t you bring it with you?” asked Jane teasingly. “I’ve got a video-recorder.”
“Not suitable for chaste young ladies like you,” said Fox. “Apart from which it mustn’t leave the property store.”
“You never know, I might learn something,” said Jane with a laugh. “Anyway, Tommy Fox, are you going to take me out to dinner to celebrate? Incidentally, what do they call you now?”
“Commander,” said Fox. “To my face, anyway. What they call me behind my back is another thing.” In fact, Fox’s immaculate appearance had, many years ago, earned him the nickname of the Beau Brummell of Scotland Yard.
*
The telephone call came early the next morning, from Geoffrey Harding, the Chief Constable of the Sovereign Base Areas Police in Cyprus.
“I don’t know if there’s anything in it, Tommy,” said Harding, “but the Provost Marshal at Akrotiri – he’s a Royal Air Force wing commander – passed me some information he got from a Second Lieutenant West who’s in the army here. Apparently he overheard a conversation between two soldiers in his platoon.”
“What about, Geoff?” asked Fox.
“Seems they met up with a man who was making enquiries about hiring a speedboat, and was also asking questions regarding the whereabouts of Leighton’s yacht.”
“Interesting,” said Fox, and aware of the dangers of relying on hearsay, even when it was unlikely to be put in evidence, said, “can you get this Second Lieutenant West to ring me?”
“No problem, Tommy,” said Harding.
By some miracle of modern communications, the call came through exactly fifteen minutes later.
“Is that Commander Fox?” asked a confident, youthful voice.
“Yes,” said Fox.
“It’s Jeremy West, sir. I’m a second lieutenant in the—”
“Yes, I know who you are, Mr West,” said Fox.
“Well, what I heard, sir, from these two lads of mine, was that—”
“Mr West.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Perhaps you would be so good as to arrange for these two soldiers to be sent to London in order that I can question them.”
“Oh!
I thought that you’d have come out here, sir.”
“Certainly not, Mr West,” said Fox. “You see it’s much cheaper to send two soldiers from Cyprus to London, than to send a commander from London to Cyprus. But if there’s a problem, I’ll speak to Charles about it.”
“Charles, sir?”
“He’s the Chief of the General Staff,” said Fox. He had never met the CGS, but he knew how to deploy a good “verbal”.
Even two thousand miles could not conceal the gulp that came from Second Lieutenant West. “I’ll arrange it immediately, sir,” he said.
“Jolly good,” said Fox.
Seven
“Mr C-F said you wanted to see me, guv. DS Stone. Wally Stone.” The detective who appeared in Fox’s office was of medium height and had the distinct advantage, for one of his profession, of not looking like the popular image of a detective at all. He wore a sharply-cut suit with a flamboyant tie, overflowing top-pocket handkerchief, and had a pencil-thin moustache and hair that was slightly longer than Fox regarded as proper. However, Detective Superintendent Craven-Foster had told Fox that Stone was the man for the job.
“I thought you were supposed to be a plain-clothes officer,” said Fox, carefully examining Stone who was now standing in front of his desk. “Where on earth did you get that suit?”
Stone glanced down at his one-button-show-two creation of navy blue wool-and-polyester mix, and then looked back at Fox. “A little schneider I know down the East End, guv. I can introduce you if you’re interested.”
“I wouldn’t be seen dead in a suit like that,” said Fox mildly.
DS Stone looked pained. “Why’s that, guv? Something wrong with it, is there?”
“Let’s just say that if you continue to use this East End tailor of yours, your chances of making DI are somewhere between extremely remote and non-existent,” said Fox. “However, I haven’t sent for you to discuss your sartorial inadequacies. Mr Craven-Foster tells me that you know the West End like the back of your hand.”
Stone grinned. “I’ve got a few snouts out and about, guv, yes,” he said.
“Good,” said Fox. “Time to call in a few favors.” Walking across his office, he opened his safe and took out the photographs and video-tape that had been taken from Leighton’s office. “Have a good look at these,” he said, “and see if you can ID any of the participating women. But in particular, I want you to find a bird called Gail Thompson. She’s probably a tom, but she features in two or three of the photographs and on the tape. If you find her, just let me know where she lives and where she operates. Don’t talk to her about the murders. Just get out and beat on the ground. See what comes up.”
“Right, guv.” Stone picked up the envelope of prints and the video-tape.
“And, Wally…”
“Yes, guv?”
“I do not want to find, in the months to come, that copies of either the photographs or the video-tape are circulating at New Scotland Yard.”
Stone looked offended by the implications of Fox’s comment. “Would I do a thing like that, guv?” he asked.
“Probably,” said Fox.
*
The two soldiers who were ushered into Fox’s office by Denzil Evans looked apprehensive. Bundled on to a flight at Akrotiri early that morning, they had been met at Northolt and brought straight to Scotland Yard by one of the detective sergeants of SO1 Branch. The soldiers’ platoon commander had, on Fox’s instructions, told them only that police wished to interview them in connection with the triple murder that had occurred on a yacht some fifty miles west of Cyprus.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” said Fox, beaming at the two soldiers, attired now in civilian clothes.
“S’all right, sir,” said one of the men. It was a pointless exchange. Neither had had any choice in the matter.
“Now then, your Mr West tells me that you know something about a man who was in Cyprus some time before the discovery of three bodies on a yacht.” Fox paused. “You have heard about that, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, sir,” the two men chorused.
“Good, well perhaps we can start with your names.” Fox looked at them expectantly.
“I’m Corporal Higgins, sir,” said one of the men, “And this here’s Private Farmer.”
“Tell me the tale then,” said Fox.
“Well, it’s not much, sir,” said Higgins, “but we was out in Limassol one evening—”
“When was that?”
Higgins looked thoughtful. “Round about the middle of June, I s’pose.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Higgins considered the question further and then took a diary from his pocket. He spent a few moments thumbing through it and then looked up. “Yeah, it’d be the twentieth, I think. In fact, I’d say definitely.” He glanced at his companion. “What d’you reckon, Taff?”
“That was the night we met up with them English birds down Pedro’s, Corp, weren’t it?” Private Farmer normally called his companion Wayne, but the presence of a commander, albeit a policeman, imposed a military formality upon him.
“And who were these English women?” asked Fox. Higgins grinned. “Couple of birds what was on holiday over there, sir, looking for a bit of the night life, like.”
“I see. And were they privy to this conversation?”
“Was they what, sir?” Higgins looked puzzled.
“Did they overhear you talking to this mystery man?”
“Oh, no, sir. We didn’t pick them up… I mean, we never met them till later on, like.”
“Go on then.”
“Well, we was sitting having a quiet drink, Taff and me, sort of looking over the talent—” Higgins grinned. “—When this geezer come up and asked if he could join us. The place was beginning to jump a bit by then, and there weren’t much room. So we says, yes, like. Anyhow, he bought us both a drink, on account of old times, he said—”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Well, he said as how he’d been in the Kate hisself, but that he’d chucked it in after five years. Reckoned he’d been in some Scottish mob.”
“Did he have a Scots accent?” asked Fox.
“Nah! Spoke like me, without no accent.”
Fox smiled. “You mean he was a Londoner?”
“Reckon so, sir.” Higgins wrinkled his brow, failing to follow Fox’s argument. “Anyhow, he said he was in Cyprus on holiday. Well, that never meant much. You get a lot of punters over there on packages. Don’t know why they waste their money. They can have my share. I’m sick of the bleeding place.”
“Can we get to the point, Corporal Higgins?” said Fox.
“Oh, yes, sir, sorry, sir. Well, after we’d had a couple of wets at his expense, he asked us if we knew where he could hire a speedboat. Something fast, he said.”
“I presume he hadn’t been stationed in Cyprus during his military service.”
“He never said as how he had, sir.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have had to ask you about hiring a boat if he’d known the place, would he?”
“Oh no, I never thought of that.” Higgins glanced at Farmer. “Never thought of that, did we, Taff?”
“No,” said Farmer.
“Did he say why he wanted this boat?”
“Nah! I s’pose he wanted to do a bit of diving, snorkelling, p’raps. Anyhow, we didn’t know, so we told him to have a go down the harbor. Then he asked if we’d seen this yacht…” Higgins spoke hesitantly, as though that part of the conversation was of no interest.
“And which yacht was that?”
“Well, it was the one what them bodies was found on.”
“Did he actually know the name of the yacht?”
“Yeah, well it was in all the papers and I remembered it the minute I saw it, so we thought we’d better mention it to our officer. But just as we was talking about it, Taff and me, he come in the room and heard what we was talking about.” Higgins grinned. “So here we are, like, sir.”
&n
bsp; “Did this man tell you his name, Corporal Higgins?”
“Not really, no. He just said to call him Jock, like everyone else did on account of him having been in this Scottish mob what I was telling you about.”
“Then what happened?” asked Fox.
“Well nothing. He just bought us another beer and then he sheered off, like.”
“And did you see him again?”
“No, sir, we never.” Higgins glanced at his companion. “Did we, Taff?”
“Nah, never,” echoed Farmer.
“Right,” said Fox. “What I’d like you to do now is to go next door with this officer—” he waved a hand towards Evans. “—And make a statement, giving as full a description of the man as you can.”
“Right, sir.” The two soldiers stood up.
“And thanks for coming over.”
“S’all right, sir,” said Higgins. “We got a few days Blighty leave out of it, what we wouldn’t never have had otherwise.”
“By the way, did you score?” asked Fox, grinning.
“Beg pardon, sir?” Higgins frowned.
“Did you score? With the two birds you picked up?”
Higgins’s eyes opened wide. The detective who had met them at Northolt had told them who they were going to see and, in reply to their query, explained that a commander in the Metropolitan Police equated roughly with a brigadier in the army. But Higgins had never been asked a question like that by a brigadier. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he said, and grinned broadly.
*
The scant information on a Londoner who claimed to have been in a Scottish regiment for five years was too vague a basis upon which to initiate a search with the Ministry of Defence. And the description furnished by the two soldiers could have fitted a thousand men. Geoffrey Harding, the Chief Constable of the Sovereign Base Areas Police, told Fox that immigration formalities were a bit lax in Cyprus, but he promised to see what he could find out. He also undertook to get the Provost Marshal of Cyprus to circulate details of the man “Jock” to see if any other serviceman remembered having met him. Finally, Fox rang the Cyprus Chief of Police and asked him to make enquiries about any hirings of speedboats between the twentieth and thirtieth of June. There was a stunned silence at this request, and the Chief of Police pointed out that it was in the tourist season and that boats were being hired all the time. Nevertheless, he promised to do what he could. But it was all a bit of a vain hope.
