by Graham Ison
“Was there any evidence of this porn video business being conducted from the Fulham offices of Leighton Leisure Services, sir?” asked a detective sergeant.
“No,” said Fox. “It had all the appearance of a legitimate business retailing fruit machines and the suchlike. However, a further in-depth study of the enterprise won’t go amiss, and we’ll deal with that in due course.”
*
As Carrie Grant had said, Michael Leighton’s center of operations was in a back street off Baylis Road in the Waterloo area. But far from being what most people visualized as a film studio, it proved to be a small, disused warehouse set back some eight or nine feet from the roadway. There was a pair of large double doors facing the street, with a smaller door set into one of them. The paint, once green, was faded and dirty.
Altogether some twenty officers were engaged in keeping observation on the premises. Some were on foot, a couple on the roof of a nearby building, and the remainder in a variety of nondescript vehicles, none of which was immediately obvious as being connected with the police. All the officers were complaining about the heat and the diesel fumes which affected their eyes and throats and left their clothes with a foul odor.
For the first few days, nothing happened, and Fox began to wonder if the warehouse-cum-studio had been abandoned in view of the police interest in both Webb and Pritchard. But on the fourth day of the observation, between ten and ten-fifteen in the morning, three girls arrived, followed by Pritchard.
Detective Sergeant Douglas Croft, attired in jeans and a tee-shirt, and sweltering in an observation van, noted this occurrence in the log. “I’d say that shooting was about to start,” he said, “in a manner of speaking.”
Information about the renewed activity was relayed to Fox at Scotland Yard. He ordered that the so-far-unknown women should be “housed”, a police term for discovering where they lived, and by four that afternoon, Fox’s surveillance team had identified all three.
*
The three women had been named by the officers who had followed them as Babs Stocker, Anna Coombs and Kirsty Newman. The first lived in a studio flat off the Edgware Road and the other two at Wandsworth and Gipsy Hill respectively. Because Babs Stocker lived nearer to Scotland Yard than Anna Coombs or Kirsty Newman, Fox decided to interview her first. It proved to be a lucky choice.
On Fox’s instructions, Babs Stocker’s Edgware Road address had been kept under observation for no better reason than Fox’s desire to know that the woman would be there when he and Kate Ebdon called on her. A quick trawl of the records at central London police stations had indicated that the Stocker woman had been cautioned for prostitution some eighteen months previously by officers at Marylebone. Fox assumed that, following that mild confrontation with the police, she had either decided to give up “the game” or had become a call-girl, a marginally safer way of attracting clients; his long experience told him that the latter was the more likely.
Babs Stocker was about twenty-six, tall and slender with long dark hair, almond eyes and high cheekbones. When she opened the door, she was wearing a black leotard and leg-warmers, and was perspiring freely. She dabbed at her face with a towel and looked at the two detectives. “Whatever it is you’re selling,” she said sharply, “I’ve either got it or I don’t want it.”
“Miss Babs Stocker?” asked Fox.
The girl stopped mopping at her face and held the towel against her chest. “Yes. Who are you?”
“We’re police officers,” said Fox and produced his warrant card. “We’d like to have a word with you.”
“What about?” The girl looked apprehensive.
“The murder of Michael Leighton, among other things,” said Fox mildly. “May we come in?”
By way of a reply, the girl swung the door wide and led the way into her small living room. “I was just working out,” she said, stooping to gather up a couple of soft aerobic weights and a portable step-up board. She put the equipment in a corner and slipped into a towelling robe that had been over the back of a chair. “You’d better sit down,” she added, indicating a sofa-bed and sitting down on an upright chair that she pulled from beneath a small table. “What’s this all about?” She still looked nervous.
“We’re investigating the deaths of Michael Leighton, Patricia Tilley and Karen Nash,” began Fox.
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Babs Stocker.
“But you knew them, didn’t you?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the girl nodded. “Yes.”
“And you were actively engaged with them in the making of pornographic videos.”
“Look, I don’t think I ought to be talking to you without a lawyer,” said Babs.
“Miss Stocker, there is nothing for you to get worried about,” put in Kate Ebdon, thinking that reassurance from another woman would allay the girl’s fears more readily.
“I’ll be quite frank with you,” said Fox. “The stuff which is produced at Michael Leighton’s Waterloo studios may or may not contravene some obscenity law, but I’m not really interested in that. All I’m concerned about is finding the killers of Leighton and the two women.”
Babs Stocker looked slightly relieved, but was obviously still on edge. “How d’you know all this?” she asked.
“Did Leighton ever offer you drugs?” asked Fox suddenly.
“No, never.”
“We need to know,” said Kate. “It’s important.”
Fox gazed at Babs Stocker, a cynical expression on his face. “I don’t care whether you accepted or not,” he said.
“Well, once or twice. But, look, I don’t want to get involved—”
“I’m not interested in you, or what you do for a living, Miss Stocker,” said Fox patiently. “I’m asking these questions for a reason. I’m not looking to prosecute you.”
Babs relaxed slightly, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands in her lap. “It was always on offer,” she said. “I wouldn’t touch it though. Not after what happened to Beverley.”
“Who is Beverley?” Fox leaned forward.
“She was one of the girls. Mike used to call us his stable of fillies.”
“She’s involved in the making of these films, is she?”
“Not any more,” said Babs. “The poor little bitch’s dead.”
“How?” asked Fox.
“From a drugs overdose,” said Babs listlessly and then looked, first at Kate and then back at Fox. “And you can blame Mike for that.”
“You mean he supplied her?”
“Yes, but that was only incidental. He took her over. Mike Leighton was a bastard. He lavished everything on that girl. He was very rich, you know.” Babs blurted out her accusations disjointedly, but Fox knew better than to interrupt. “Right from when he recruited her, she was given everything. They used to go away for weekends on his yacht, and he bought her a car…”
“What did the rest of you think of that?”
“Not much,” said Babs. “It caused a lot of discontent. One or two of the girls wanted to pack it in. But it wasn’t easy. Mike used to threaten us that if we left him, he’d make sure we never worked again. But I don’t think they knew the price Beverley was paying.”
“What d’you mean by that, Miss Stocker?” asked Kate.
“There were two of the girls, I think, but Beverley was certainly one, who he picked out for what he called his special films.”
“What sort of special films?”
Babs Stocker hesitated for a moment before explaining. “He’d chain them up and whip them, and sometimes he and Pritchard would rape them, quite brutally. And it’d all be filmed. It was sickening because they weren’t at all willing, believe me, but by then he was paying them so much and giving them gifts – like I said, he gave Beverley a car – that they couldn’t afford to quit. He asked me if I was interested once, but I told him I wasn’t into that sort of thing. Straight sex is all right, but that…” She shuddered at the thought.
“Does t
he name Gail Thompson mean anything to you?” asked Fox. “Apparently she quit.”
“Did she?” Babs Stocker shook her head. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“And he was supplying this Beverley with drugs, regularly, was he?”
Babs nodded. “He said that any of us could have the stuff if we wanted it. He reckoned that it would improve our performance.” She stared at Fox and then, wanting to make sure that he fully understood, added, “I’m talking about our sexual performance. For the cameras. Beverley’s trouble was that she became hooked. That’s why she put up with it, poor little cow. She knew that if she went, her supply’d be cut off, and she couldn’t afford to finance the habit herself.”
“Were there any other men involved in these films, apart from Leighton, Webb and Pritchard, Miss Stocker?” asked Kate.
Babs Stocker switched her gaze to the Australian girl. “There was one bloke, a real stud he was, who turned up once, but I’ve no idea who he was. I think they called him Gary. But this is all a load of crap, you know. Mike Leighton was running this so-called film business mainly for his own pleasure. He got some sexual gratification out of doing it with a whole group of us and putting it on film. Oh yes, sure, he sold what he made, but that wasn’t the main reason.” It was exactly what Carrie Grant had said about him. “But, like I said, he was loaded and he paid us well for our services.” She laughed scornfully. “Huh! Services. That’s rich when you think about Beverley.”
“What was this Beverley’s surname, Miss Stocker?” asked Kate.
Babs shook her head. “I’ve no idea,” she said. “We don’t go in for last names much in this game.”
“And when and where did she die?”
“I don’t know where.” Babs shrugged. “But Harry Pritchard told us that it was about last August some time. Nearly a year ago now,” she added, and shook her head slowly. “Poor little bitch.”
Nine
The small team of detectives that Fox had sent to the General Register Office at St Catherine’s House in Kingsway turned up four women named Beverley whose deaths had been reported during August of the previous year. One in Swansea at the age of sixty-one, and a second in Axminster as the result of a road accident. Of the other two, both of whom had died in London, a thirty-seven-year-old had not survived giving birth, but the remaining one, a Beverley Watson, had yielded to a drugs overdose at the age of twenty-four, shortly after being brought to a central London hospital by ambulance.
“And what have you found out about this Beverley Watson, Bob?” asked Fox.
The detective sergeant who had led the team was called Robert Hurley. “The ambulance service got a call from a male anon, sir,” he said. “Apparently, he’d found Beverley Watson in a comatose state slumped on a bench outside a block of flats in Westminster. She died within seventeen minutes of admission. The PM showed signs of habitual drug abuse, but the specific cause was a lethal cocktail of amphetamines and alcohol.”
“How was she identified?” asked Fox. “What did she have on her?”
“The only ID was a credit card, sir. That’s where they got her name from. But enquiries of the credit card company showed that the card-holder, and the one who settled the bills was…” Hurley paused. “One Michael Leighton, sir.” The DS grinned.
“So we don’t have an address for this woman, other than Leighton’s presumably. Incidentally, what address did the credit card company hold for him? Was it the Chelsea one?”
“No, sir,” said Hurley. “Leighton Leisure Services of Fulham.”
Fox opened his cigarette case and offered it to the detective sergeant. “That reckons,” he said. “I’ll bet Leighton didn’t know she’d still got that on her. Do a birth search on this Beverley Watson, Bob—”
“Done it, sir,” said Hurley. He laid a sheet of paper on Fox’s desk. “Details are there. She’s the daughter of Bernard Watson and Lee Watson, nee Frith.”
“Bernie Watson?” Fox pondered the name. “Not the Bernie Watson who—?”
Hurley nodded and laid a file on the desk. “That’s the one, sir. This is a printout of his microfiche. He’s got about twenty-three previous for anything ranging from robbery to GBH, but he’s fifty-seven now and he’s gone straight for the last ten years.”
“You mean he hasn’t been caught for the last ten years,” growled Fox.
“You could say that, sir, yes.”
“I just did,” said Fox, and picked up the file containing Watson’s criminal record.
*
Fox, accompanied by Denzil Evans, hammered on the door of the large detached house on the outskirts of Welling in Kent and waited.
The man who eventually answered the door, and who had shouted, “All right, all right, I’m coming,” before opening it, was short and stocky. The shirt he was wearing failed to disguise the muscular build that he had developed during his youth when he had done a variety of jobs ranging from fairground boxer to Canadian lumberjack. But he had always ended up on the wrong side of the law. In the 1960s, he had been on the fringe of one of the gangs that had plagued south London but, with their demise, he had gone into business for himself. But again, always in the twilight world between illegality and legitimacy. The file held by the National Criminal Intelligence Service suggested that he had interests in prostitution, gaming – legal and illegal – strip-joints, massage parlors, and even dog-fighting, still a popular pastime in the seedier parts of Kent and Essex. However, that information had never been strong enough to bring about proceedings for the further crimes that the police were convinced he had committed. But the Rolls-Royce languishing in his driveway was, in Fox’s view, a good enough indication of a south London villain who just couldn’t resist showing off his power. And his success.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Superintendent Tommy Fox.” Watson grinned broadly and insolently.
“Commander Fox,” said Fox mildly.
“Really? Well, congratulations… Commander.” Watson pulled the door open. “You’d better come in and have a celebratory drink, Mr Fox. And this, I take it, is a colleague of yours.”
“Detective Inspector Evans,” said Fox.
The room – Watson described it as his lounge – was huge but, in Fox’s view, quite tasteless. The carpet had what, in some quarters, would be called a bold pattern, and seemed to stretch for miles. Two settees and five armchairs, all upholstered in black leather, were lost in the large room, one corner of which was filled by the biggest television set presently on the market. In another corner there was a state-of-the-art sound system flanked by several tall racks of compact discs. Hanging from the center of the ceiling was the most grotesque crystal chandelier Fox had ever seen, much too big even for this room.
“Nice, ain’t it?” said Watson, noticing Fox’s close examination.
“It has all the aesthetic charm of a municipal mausoleum,” said Fox pensively.
“I knew you’d like it,” said Watson. “All legit an’ all. Nothing in here fell off the back of a lorry, Mr Fox, so you needn’t go worrying on that score.”
“If it had fallen off the back of a lorry,” said Fox, “I doubt that the driver would have bothered to stop.”
Watson roared with laughter. “You always was a wag, Mr Fox. By the way, this here’s the wife. I don’t think you’ve ever met her, have you?”
“No,” said Fox. “I’m sure I would have remembered.” The blonde, frizzy-haired woman who had entered the room was slightly taller than her husband and her monstrous figure was contained in a tight-fitting one-piece polyester garment in a leopard-skin design. The trouser legs stopped inches below her knees and the outfit did nothing to restore her bulges to their rightful place. In fact, her high-heeled mule sandals caused her bottom to stick out, accentuating its size.
“Geraldine, meet Mr Fox. He’s an old friend of mine.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Geraldine Watson, holding out a limp hand rather like a hostess receiving a debutante.
“I thought you
r wife’s name was Lee,” said Fox.
Watson grinned. “That was the first wife,” he said. “We got divorced. Geraldine and me’s been married for three years now.” He put an arm as far round his wife’s figure as he could reach and gave her a squeeze.
“I see.” Fox could not believe that Geraldine Watson had deteriorated to her present gross state in so short a period as three years. The only conclusion at which he could arrive was that Watson must have married her when she looked much as she did today. “Congratulations,” he said drily.
“’Ere, what am I thinking of?” said Watson. “Talking of congratulations, Gerry,” he said in an aside to his wife, “Mr Fox was just telling me he’s a commander now. Sit down, sit down, both of you, and let me get you a drink.” He approached a large cabinet on the far side of the room. It seemed to take him ages to reach it. “You was always a Scotch drinker, as I recall, Mr Fox,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Fox. “Water, no ice.”
“You an’ all, Mr Evans?”
“Just a small one, please,” said Evans, unhappy, as always, about accepting hospitality from known criminals.
“No sooner said than done,” said Watson and opened the front flap of the cabinet. Immediately, a fluorescent light began to flicker inside and some hidden speaker gave vent to an inferior recording of a German drinking song. “Nice, ain’t it?” he said. It seemed to be one of his favorite phrases.
“I had a cousin in the Navy,” said Mrs Watson, a vacant expression on her face.
“Really?” said Fox, at a loss to understand this sudden turn in the conversation.
“He was a chief petty officer,” said Mrs Watson proudly. “His name was Nelson, Charlie Nelson. Good name for a sailor, isn’t it? I wonder if you knew him at all.”
“Why should I know him?” asked Fox, totally bemused by Mrs Watson’s babblings.
