by Graham Ison
Fox glanced at the clock and then walked down the corridor to the lift lobby. Riding down to the second floor, he opened the door of the incident room. “Kate.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell Swann to get the car on the front. We’re going to see this Harry Pritchard.”
Harry Pritchard’s studio, if it could be dignified with such a description, consisted of two large rooms over a shop in the depths of Soho. The man who answered the door wore a pair of faded jeans and was stripped to the waist. His brown hair was tied back in a pony-tail and both Fox and Kate recognized him immediately as the man who appeared in the video seized from Leighton’s office.
“Good afternoon,” said Fox affably, and held up his warrant card. “Thomas Fox… of Scotland Yard.”
“Oh!” Pritchard turned in the doorway. “Carrie,” he yelled up the narrow staircase, “We’ve got visitors. It’s the fuzz.” He turned back to face Fox. “Doing a session,” he explained.
“How fascinating,” said Fox.
“Er, you’d better come up,” said Pritchard and led the way upstairs and into a large room. Black screens covered the windows and although the room was carpeted, its only furniture comprised a huge bed and a couple of director chairs. There was an abundance of lighting “floods” on stands of varying heights, and suspended from gantries across the room. Against one wall was a bench laden with camera equipment.
Sitting in one of the chairs was a young blonde girl of about twenty-three. She was attired in a peach-colored satin wrap, worn in such a way as to expose one bare shoulder, and her legs were crossed to display a provocative amount of thigh. And she was wearing too much make-up. Kate came to the conclusion that she had donned the wrap only seconds previously.
“This is Carrie,” said Pritchard. “She’s a model.”
“How interesting,” said Fox. He glanced at the sour-faced blonde who appeared set to stay where she was.
“What can I do for you?” asked Pritchard. He appeared quite unconcerned by the arrival of the police and made no attempt to find a shirt, presumably believing that Kate Ebdon was an admirer of the sun-tanned male form.
“You’ll have heard about the death of Michael Leighton, I suppose,” began Fox. The identities of the yacht victims had now been released to the Press.
“Yes, indeed. Bloody terrible, that. But how does that—?”
“It’s about a set of photographs we found in his office yesterday.”
“Oh!” Pritchard picked up a tee-shirt and slipped it on. “Er, Carrie, love, I think we’ll call it a day,” he said to the languid blonde. “Same time tomorrow suit you?”
Carrie stood up, seemingly disappointed that she was going to miss what she was sure were the juicy bits of the exchange. “If you say so, Harry.” She pouted.
“Be a good girl and get dressed next door, will you?”
“Anything you say, Harry.” Carrie gathered a bundle of clothing from the other chair that stood in the corner of the room and flounced out.
Pritchard closed the door behind the girl and turned to face Fox and Kate. “Won’t you sit down,” he said, pointing at the chair just vacated by Carrie. He moved the other chair alongside it and then sat on the edge of the bed.
“What exactly is your business here, Mr Pritchard?” asked Fox.
“I’m a photographer,” said Pritchard.
“Yes, I’d rather gathered that,” said Fox drily, “but what sort of photography do you specialize in?”
Pritchard laughed. “When you’re as hard up as I am,” he said, “you take anything that comes along.”
“Including porn?”
“Look…” Pritchard spread his hands. “I’m not into kinky stuff. I mean I wouldn’t touch paedophilia.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
“In fact, a guy came to see me about three or four years ago. Wanted me to take some of that stuff.”
“Oh? What did you do about it?”
“Shopped him to the law, didn’t I? Porn’s one thing, but that sort of pervert makes me bloody sick. No, I admit that I do quite a few explicits. Sell a lot of my stuff to well-known mags. You’ve probably seen them in high street newsagents.”
“I doubt it,” said Fox, “but tell me, how did you get involved with Leighton?”
“Dunno, really. It’s not a secret, this sort of stuff…” Pritchard waved a hand round his studio. “I mean, it’s not against the law, is it? Not anymore.”
“What d’you mean, you don’t know how you got involved with Leighton?”
“I got a phone call from him one day, out of the blue, and he asked me if I could take some private shots. He said that someone had given him my number.”
“And you did, just like that?” Fox gazed at the photographer with a cynical expression.
Pritchard grinned. “He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I reckon the bloke must have been loaded as well as kinky. But it was all straight stuff. Only him and some chicks.”
“Did you know any of these women?” asked Fox.
“No. He said they were all friends of his.” Pritchard laughed. “They certainly seemed friendly enough.”
“What about Karen Nash?” asked Kate suddenly.
Pritchard switched his gaze to the woman detective, surprised by her Australian accent. “Wasn’t that one of the women who was killed along with Leighton?” he asked.
“That’s right, Mr Pritchard,” said Kate. “You’ve got a good memory for names. Did you ever meet her?”
“I don’t think so.” For the first time, Pritchard looked shifty.
“She appeared in some of the photographs that you took,” said Kate.
“Oh, well, in that case, I suppose I must have—”
“And you left a message on her answering machine, telling her that you’d got a job for her.”
Pritchard looked away, breaking the firm gaze with which Kate had fixed him. “Oh, you know about that, do you?” he said, looking down at the floor. He looked up again. “I was doing a series for a soft porn mag and I was going to offer her the part.”
“The part?” Kate looked askance at the photographer.
“Yeah, well, although she was basically a straight model, she wasn’t averse to doing ‘skin’, and I thought she might be interested. But I didn’t hear from her.”
“That’s probably because she was lying dead on a yacht in the Mediterranean,” said Fox caustically.
Pritchard shrugged. “Yeah, well I know that now,” he said.
“And you and Karen Nash appeared on a video-tape we found, Mr Pritchard,” asked Fox.
“On a tape?” Pritchard appeared stunned by the fact that the police had seen it.
“You and she were performing some quite astounding gymnastics,” said Kate, relishing both the moment and Pritchard’s obvious discomfort.
“I suppose one of the others must have been videoing us,” said the photographer lamely. “I certainly got involved in some of the action.” He spread his hands and grinned at Kate. “But then, given the offer, who wouldn’t?”
“Me for one,” said Kate sarcastically.
“D’you know a Gail Thompson?” asked Fox.
“Name doesn’t mean anything,” said Pritchard.
Kate produced the photograph of the girl wearing a G-string and boots, and wielding a whip. “This is her,” she said.
Pritchard glanced briefly at the print. “I took that,” he said. “But that’s not whoever you said. That’s Carrie, the girl who just left.”
“Doesn’t look like her,” said Fox, annoyed that the girl had escaped.
“That’s because she was wearing a wig in that picture,” said Pritchard.
“And precious little else,” said Kate.
Eight
“What d’you think, Kate?” asked Fox, once they were back at Scotland Yard.
“I think that Pritchard didn’t tell us the whole story, sir. D’you remember him saying that he was going to offer Karen Nash a part? Well, you don’
t talk about offering someone a part when you’re taking stills for a soft porn mag. I reckon he’s into making porn videos.”
Fox nodded. “You’re probably right, but so what? It’s a big jump from that to murdering three people on a yacht in the Med, isn’t it?”
“Depends, sir. There’s a lot of money involved, and if someone was cheating, that someone might just have been taken out.”
“Like Leighton, you mean?”
“Yes, sir, like Leighton.”
“Maybe,” said Fox thoughtfully. “However, have you done a check on that telephone number we got from Pritchard? The one he had for Carrie, alias Gail Thompson.”
“Goes out to an address in Battersea, sir.”
“Good.” Fox glanced at the clock. “In that case, I think we’ll pay her a visit, before she sees Pritchard again tomorrow.”
“He’s bound to have rung her, sir,” said Kate.
Fox shrugged. “I don’t doubt it.”
*
Fox had held out little hope of finding Carrie at home at eight o’clock in the evening, given that she was probably a prostitute in addition to her other pursuits, but to his surprise, she was in.
“Oh, I thought I’d be seeing you again,” said the girl when she opened the door of her tiny terraced house. “You’d better come in.” She was wearing a pair of old jeans and a baggy sweater, and the toe-nails of her bare feet were varnished a vivid red.
“Is your name Gail Thompson?” asked Fox.
“No, not really. It’s a name I use for—”
“A name you use for what?”
The girl sighed. “For making porn movies,” she said resignedly.
“What’s your real name then?” asked Fox.
“Carrie Grant,” said the girl. “It was my old man’s idea of a joke.”
“You knew Michael Leighton,” said Fox. It was not so much a question as an accusation.
“Well, he screwed me regularly for his skin flicks, if that’s what you mean,” said Carrie. She showed neither embarrassment nor remorse at revealing the way in which she earned a living.
Fox reflected on how much more open with the police the young were now, compared with when he was first a copper. “Was he into porn movies in a big way then?” he asked.
Carrie laughed scornfully. “And some,” she said. “Although I think it was more for his own pleasure than for the profit. He wasn’t short of money, you know.” She reached over and took a cigarette from an open packet, lit it and leaned back in her chair, draping one denim-clad leg over the arm. “He had about six or seven of us at some of his sessions. Group sex with a vengeance, that was. Frankly, I don’t know where he got his energy from.”
“Was he the only man involved?”
Carrie hesitated, drew deeply on her cigarette, but said nothing.
“Look,” said Kate, “we know Harry Pritchard featured in at least one of those films. We’ve seen him on video doing it with Karen Nash, one of the women who was found murdered with Leighton on his yacht.”
“Yeah, I know.” Carrie’s indifference to the world in which she operated made her seem much older than her years. “But he wasn’t the only one. There was another bloke called Ray Webb, but he wasn’t much cop. I think he was a mate of Mike’s.” She yawned and looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. “But Harry was the best for mixing business with pleasure.” She laughed cynically. “Mike was all right, but he was the wrong side of fifty I should think, and Ray wasn’t a lot younger. But he hadn’t got Mike’s stamina. One trick and he was knackered. I think they only let him play to give the rest of us a giggle.”
“When did you last see Michael Leighton, Carrie?”
“About nine months ago,” said the girl promptly. “That’s when I decided to have no more to do with him.”
“Oh? Why was that?”
“Drugs,” said Carrie laconically.
“What about drugs?” asked Fox.
Carrie stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and crossed her legs. “He took us out on his yacht one weekend. Said it was a treat for being good girls.” She laughed scornfully. “That’s rich when you think about it. Anyway, we thought that it was a weekend off, but when we got down to somewhere near Southampton – that’s where the yacht was – we found Harry Pritchard on board with his damned video camera, and we knew it was another working weekend.” She sighed at the thought. “Anyhow, we put to sea, well out of sight of land, and it started. ‘Water-Porn Games’, Mike said he was going to call it, silly bastard. It was bloody freezing, romping around on deck without any clothes on. It was then that Mike suggested that we should take a little something so that we wouldn’t feel the cold. And he said it would get rid of our inhibitions.” She laughed, a throaty, cynical laugh. “As if we had any by then. But that was it, as far as I was concerned. I said no way was I getting into drugs, particularly coke—”
“Was it cocaine that he offered you?” asked Fox.
“Yeah. At least, that’s what he said it was.”
“Who else was on this trip?” asked Fox with unconscious humor. “Apart from Harry Pritchard.”
For a moment, Carrie looked as though she wasn’t going to answer the question, but then she shrugged as if knowing that the police would find out anyway. “Tricia Tilley and Karen Nash.”
“When was this?”
“September last year. Like I said, it was bloody freezing.” Carrie glanced at Kate. “If you ever think of taking up the profession, don’t do it in September on a bloody yacht,” she added.
“I’ll remember that,” said Kate.
“Presumably Tricia Tilley and Karen Nash accepted his offer of drugs then?”
“I think so. I don’t know what they did up on deck, apart from the obvious, of course.” Carrie grinned at the two detectives. “But I made up my mind there and then that I’d had enough of the whole damned business. I went down and put my clothes on, and had a stiff brandy.”
“And Leighton let you go, did he? Didn’t make a fuss?”
“Oh, sure he did, but Harry and I had a thing going then, still have in fact, and Harry told him to lay off. I think he threatened to do his legs for him.” Carrie grinned at the thought. “Anyway, he laid off.”
“Do you happen to know the names of any of the other girls that Leighton employed to make these movies?” asked Fox.
Carrie shook her head. “Only their first names, but they weren’t their real names anyway. None of us used our proper names. Just to be on the safe side.”
“How did you know the names of Tricia Tilley and Karen Nash then, Carrie?” asked Fox.
“I didn’t, not until Harry Pritchard told me that they were the two who’d been found on Mike’s yacht.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“A couple of days ago, after their names were in the paper,” said Carrie.
“Do you know if drugs were used at any other time? For instance in the sessions held at Pritchard’s studio?” That was a guess, but Fox knew that Carrie would correct him if he was wrong.
“Oh, they weren’t held at Harry’s studio. Mike had a place near Waterloo Station, off Baylis Road.”
“But were drugs used?” persisted Fox.
“I don’t know. How d’you tell? I never saw anyone taking them, but if Mike’s performance was anything to go by, I reckon he must have been on something.”
“And are you still making porn videos?” Fox looked searchingly at the girl.
“Yeah,” she said defiantly. “But only for Harry. There’s a lot of money in it. And you don’t last forever, not in that game. Not unless your name’s Tricia Tilley.”
“Meaning?” asked Fox.
“Well, she was forty last birthday, but Mike reckoned that being that much older, she had some sort of special appeal. Sounded kinky to me, but she did have a good body.”
*
There were thirty detectives packed into the small incident room, along with the liaison officer from the laboratory, and the civilian su
pport staff.
“For those of you who think that this bloody enquiry is starting to run away from us,” said Fox, “I’ll just run over the salient points. To begin with, there were three dead bodies and two kilos of cocaine on a yacht off the coast of Cyprus. Unfortunately, too far off the coast to interest the Cyprus police,” he growled in an aside and received a muffled laugh from those who knew him well. “Furthermore, Leighton Leisure Services now appears to be a cover for the making and distribution of porn videos. A photographer called Harry Pritchard is involved, as is Webb, Leighton’s erstwhile partner, and a nudist who operates under the professional name of Gail Thompson.”
“I’ve traced Gail Thompson, sir,” said Detective Sergeant Stone from the front row.
“So have I,” said Fox. “She’s called Carrie Grant and she lives in Battersea.”
“Oh!” said Stone. “You know then.”
Fox nodded. “Yes, Wally, we had a bit of luck.” He addressed his audience again. “According to Carrie Grant who, no doubt, describes herself as an actress, Leighton has, or had, a studio near Waterloo which will be subject to our intense scrutiny. As I said, Raymond Webb, Leighton’s partner, who until now has been a model of injured innocence, was an active participant in these films, along with Leighton. And that is confirmed by the said Carrie Grant, alias Gail Thompson.” Fox sniffed. “I can only presume they were cheap budget productions,” he added and received another laugh.
“I’ve taken the precaution of getting a search warrant for the Waterloo premises, sir,” said Craven-Foster.
Fox looked surprised. “Very foresighted of you, John,” he said. “But I do not intend to turn the place over just yet.” His gaze swept his audience once more. “However,” he continued, “we are in danger of losing sight of the main problem here, and that’s finding the killer, or killers, of Leighton, Tilley and Nash.”
