by Graham Ison
“Well, what with you being in the Navy an’ all.”
Watson turned from the drinks cabinet, a glass in each hand. “Mr Fox is a commander in the police, Gerry, not the Navy,” he said.
“Do what, dear?” asked Watson’s wife.
Watson came nearer. “I said Mr Fox is in the police, not the Navy.” He handed a glass of whisky to Fox. “She’s a bit Mutt-and-Jeff,” he explained. “If you catch her on the wrong side, like. Well, cheers.”
“You had a daughter, Beverley, I believe,” said Fox.
“Ah, I wondered why you was here, Mr Fox,” said Watson. He became suddenly serious and set his glass down on a table. “I mean, it’s always nice to see old friends, but I knew there had to be something. Have you found her?”
That took Fox by surprise. “Found her?” he said.
“Yeah, didn’t you know? She’s been missing for two years now. Ain’t seen hair nor hide of her in all that time. I thought she might have gone off to Lee’s. Like I said, she was my first wife, Bev’s ma. But she ain’t heard nothing neither.”
Fox took a sip of whisky. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, Bernie,” he said.
“You don’t mean—?”
“I’m afraid she’s dead,” said Fox. “She died last August in a London hospital.”
Bernie Watson’s jaw fell and he sat down suddenly in one of the armchairs. “But what happened?” he asked. “She get run over or something?”
“No, she died from a drugs overdose.”
“Drugs? The silly little cow,” said Watson angrily. “I always told her to stay away from drugs. Have a few vodkas by all means, girl, I used to say. Even smoke if you has to, but for Gawd’s sake stay away from drugs.” He picked up his Scotch and drained the glass, even though it was half full. “But there you are, you see,” he said. “You can’t watch ’em forever, can you?” He stared into his glass and remained silent for some seconds. “Where’s she buried, Mr Fox?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Fox, “but I’ll get someone to ring you with that information.”
Watson looked up. “There’s more to this, ain’t there, Mr Fox?” he said. “More’an what you’re telling me. I mean a commander don’t come all the way down to Welling just to tell someone that their daughter’d died nearly a year ago. What’s going on?”
“We have reason to believe that she was associated with a man called Michael Leighton for some time immediately prior to her death—”
“Leighton, Leighton?” Watson savored the name. “That rings a bell. ‘Ere, that’s the geezer what got topped on his yacht out in the Med somewhere, ain’t it? With a couple of birds. You on that, Mr Fox?”
“Yes, Bernie, I’m dealing with that.”
“The bastard. Was it him what introduced my Bev to drugs then?”
“It seems likely, yes.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do, Mr Fox,” said Watson, “you just say the word.” He stood up, angrily gripping his empty glass. “I know I haven’t always played it straight, and I’ve done a bit of bird in me time, but drugs, well, that’s something else, ain’t it? I’ve still got contacts, see, Mr Fox. There’s still a few favors I can call in from certain faces what I can lean on, if you take my drift. You just say the word.” He pointed at Fox’s empty glass. “One for the road, Mr Fox?”
*
“You ever met him before, Denzil?” asked Fox when the two detectives were traveling back to the Yard in Fox’s Scorpio.
“No, sir. Heard of him, of course,” said Evans, “but I’ve never had dealings with him. Confident sort of bastard, isn’t he?”
“Too confident for my liking,” said Fox, “but he’s always been the same. Even when we had him bang to rights, he’d pop up at the Bailey, chirpy as you like, convinced that he was going to walk away. I remember once, back in the late seventies, he went down for a seven-stretch – that was for that wages job at Heathrow – and he just laughed. Shrugged it off.”
“D’you really think that he knew nothing about his daughter being dead, sir?” asked Evans.
“If he didn’t, he’s a bloody good actor,” said Fox, “but then I always knew that. The point is that he’s got a lot of contacts. He’s also into porn in a big way, although we’ve never been able to prove it, and he must have come across Leighton long before his death. There’s no way that anything happens in London that Bernie Watson doesn’t know about. Nothing vaguely criminal, that is.”
“What d’you reckon then, sir?” asked Evans.
“We shall examine him closely, Denzil,” said Fox. “Very closely indeed.”
*
In the first instance, the close examination of Bernie Watson’s nefarious activities was entrusted to Detective Sergeant Wally Stone. Fox told him that he was interested to know all there was to know about the south London villain who now lived in Welling, and that he should make no secret of the sudden police interest. In short, Stone was told to get out and beat on the ground. Just to see what came up.
Stone sallied forth into the hinterland of London’s criminal world and began, enthusiastically, to ask questions. His wide-ranging coterie of informants was interrogated about Watson’s business activities, his lifestyle, his money and his friends and acquaintances.
Stone’s frequent allusions to Fox’s interest in Watson sent a frisson of apprehension through the villainry; they knew that when Tommy Fox started to involve himself in one particular individual’s business, others were likely to become casualties. That was all part of Fox’s plan, and although he was no nearer finding the killers of Leighton and the two women, he had developed an instinctive feeling about his old adversary. DS Stone had been asking questions in the haunts of the unrighteous for only a day when word got back to Bernie Watson that the heat was on. And that disconcerted him.
In the meantime, Fox decided that Raymond Webb, the late Michael Leighton’s partner, was overdue for an interview. Webb’s close association with Leighton, and his participation in the making of the pornographic videos, had convinced Fox that he knew more than he was telling but, in all fairness, Fox had not posed any questions about the seamier side of the activities of Leighton Leisure Services. Now he intended to find out a lot more about it and its sole surviving director. As Fox put it to Evans, “I think it’s time we rattled his bars for him, Denzil.”
Ten
Fox decided to postpone his renewed harassment of Raymond Webb, the acting head of Leighton Leisure Services, for another day. Instead, he resolved to mount a raid on the studio near Baylis Road where, despite police interest, the porn videos were still being made; Fox tended to regard this as a personal affront. And he decided to do it as soon as his watchers told him that the film director had shouted “Action” for the first time. It was not that Fox had the slightest interest in the live performance that he knew he and his officers would encounter, but it was an opportunity to identify more of the participants, either on tape or in the flesh. Literally.
Just for good measure, Fox had arranged for the presence of a few “feet” as he called the Uniform Branch, and the attendance of two officers from the Obscene Publications Squad to give their professional opinion and maintain continuity of evidence.
Swann, Fox’s driver, who was also an expert at picking locks, made short work of the small door that was used as a main entrance to the warehouse and, led by Fox, the team of eight detectives entered. The center of the warehouse, bathed now in floodlights, was carpeted, and several pieces of tawdry furniture stood against a background of drapes. On a large bed in the center of this makeshift set, a naked man was being well and truly ministered to by three naked girls. Two other men in dressing gowns and three other girls, each attired in the sort of micro-underwear favored by whores, stood behind the cameras watching with bored expressions on their faces.
“Ah!” said Fox. “Six of one and half a dozen of the other.”
One of the girls screamed as she sighted the CID officers, but when the “cast” saw a couple of
uniformed police officers trooping in behind them, they dissolved into laughter. One of them shouted, “We’ve been busted, folks,” in a mock-American accent. The quartet on the bed got unhurriedly to their feet and went in search of some clothing with which to cover their nudity.
The cameraman was Harry Pritchard. “Oh, it’s you,” he said offhandedly when he sighted Fox. “Now what?”
“Making a film?” asked Fox innocently.
“You know bloody well we are,” said Pritchard. “Here,” he said to a naked girl who sauntered past him. “Cover yourself up, for Christ’s sake, it’s the fuzz.” He turned back to Fox. “Well, what d’you want now?”
“For a start,” said Fox, “are you in charge of this little enterprise?”
“Yeah.” Pritchard stepped away from his camera and faced Fox. “This is all kosher, you know,” he said, playing with the light meter that hung on a cord around his neck. “There’s nothing bent about this lot.” He waved a hand towards the actors and actresses, some of whom were grouped in a corner while others were seated on the bed. They had all covered themselves now and were watching the proceedings with interest. “It’s just blokes screwing birds. Happens all the time.” He grinned. “All we’re doing is putting it on tape.”
“And what d’you propose doing with these Oscar-winning productions when you’ve finished?” asked Fox.
“All for export, squire,” said Pritchard. “We sell them to the Scandinavian countries and to Europe. The Prime Minister encourages trade with the Community, you know,” he added with heavy sarcasm.
“Bit like taking coals to Newcastle,” said Fox laconically. “And where’s your star performer this morning?”
“Who’s that?”
“Raymond Webb, Esquire.”
Pritchard laughed outright. “You must be joking,” he said. “The only reason he ever got involved with this was because Leighton let him come and play. In lieu of wages, probably. But he was a piss-poor performer, I can tell you that. One stunt and he was blown out. When Leighton died, I told him his services were no longer required.”
“Why did you make videos of him in the first place then?”
“For laughs,” said Pritchard. “We used to show them to the girls after he’d gone. Used to fall about in hysterics, they did.” He glanced across at the group of girls sitting on the bed. “This copper reckons that Ray Webb was our star stud,” he shouted.
There was a burst of laughter, and one of the girls mouthed a rude comment on Webb’s performance and made an obscene gesture.
“Well, we’ll just have a few names and addresses,” said Fox, “And then we’ll be on our way.”
“Sure,” said Pritchard. “And don’t forget to give these horny coppers your phone numbers as well, girls,” he shouted.
It was a pointless exercise – Fox knew that the names would be false – but he was deliberately wasting time. He had told DI Charles Morgan to seize as many tapes as he could find. And while Fox had been engaged in his bantering conversation with Pritchard, Morgan had done exactly that. A van had been backed up to the rear entrance of the warehouse and some four hundred tapes had been loaded into it.
When Morgan approached and nodded, Fox turned, once more, to Pritchard. “By the way,” he said, “we’ve seized all your video tapes. This officer will give you a receipt.”
“What?” Pritchard showed the first signs of losing his composure. “You can’t do that. What entitles you to do that?”
“Oh dear!” said Fox, shaking his head sagely. “There are several sections of the various Obscene Publications Acts which give police power of seizure on the grounds that you have an obscene article for publication or gain. There’s a lot more to it, but doubtless your solicitor will explain the finer points.”
“But I told you,” said Pritchard, “they’re all for export.”
“Unfortunately for you, the aforementioned Acts of Parliament don’t make allowances for the export trade,” said Fox and smiled benignly.
*
That afternoon a start was made on viewing a small selection of the video tapes. Most of them consisted of the sort of poor quality, tacky filth that is to be found in shady shops throughout the larger cities of the country, and in the suitcases of innocents returning through British airports where they are relieved of their expensive purchases by Her Majesty’s Customs.
Several of the tapes featured Raymond Webb. As Pritchard had said, his performance was little short of ludicrous and at one stage, Kate Ebdon, overcome with hysterics, had to leave the room. In general though, there was little to lead Fox and his team any closer to finding the murderer of Leighton and his two female companions.
Fox and his murder squad had time to look at only a few of the video-cassettes; the job of analysing the entire four hundred would be the unenviable task of the Obscene Publications Squad. Fox was determined that Pritchard and Webb, and anyone else who came into the frame, would be prosecuted at least for the obscenity offences, if for nothing else.
*
Just in case he needed it, Fox took another search warrant with him for the premises of Leighton Leisure Services in Fulham. He also took Detective Constable Kate Ebdon, knowing that she had the ability to terrify a male witness when the occasion demanded. Or, to put it another way, Kate would take liberties that no one else would get away with.
“Oh, not again,” said Raymond Webb. “I’m trying to run a business here.”
“That’s exactly what interests me, Raymond, old dear,” said Fox as, uninvited, he and Kate sat down in Webb’s office. “I am greatly interested in your film-making enterprise. As a matter of fact, I was only saying to Miss Ebdon on the way here, how much I deprecate the demise of the British film industry.” He assumed a wistful expression. “All those marvelous Ealing comedies…” He smiled at Webb. “It’s good to know that someone’s doing something about it.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” said Webb, a hint of exasperation in his reply.
“Really?” Fox sounded surprised. “Now I would have thought that a fellow like you, Raymond, old fruit, would have been on top of your wide-ranging business empire. D’you mean to say that you are unaware of the film-producing side of this set-up?” He waved a hand around the office.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Webb again.
“Well now…” began Fox patiently. “Let me explain. I have recently interviewed a horde of young ladies—” Fox had no intention of revealing that, so far, he had spoken to only two. “—Who claim to have taken part in your latest productions. Young ladies who, it seems, readily shed their clothes, and their inhibitions, and indulge in riotous sexual congress with Mr Harry Pritchard, well-known society photographer, and your good self. They also claimed to have done it with Mr Michael Leighton before his untimely demise.”
“That’s a bloody lie.” Webb gave a derisive laugh. “Do I look like a porn movie star, for Christ’s sake?”
“I have to admit that I found it a little surprising,” said Fox mildly. “I just put it down to the fact that there is always a market for depraved variations. Have you heard that, Kate?” He switched his gaze to the woman detective.
“So I’ve heard, sir.” Kate grinned at Webb disconcertingly.
“Look, I don’t have to put up with this,” said Webb furiously. “You can’t just come into the office of a respectable businessman and make these wild and, I have to say, quite ludicrous accusations. I’ll sue you for slander, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Couple of problems there, Raymond, old sport,” said Fox. “Firstly…” He made a point of peering around the office. “Firstly, you don’t appear to have any witnesses – although I do – and secondly, I happen to know that what I’ve just said is true. Yesterday morning, my officers and I searched the warehouse at the back of Waterloo Station that you and your late partner had the temerity to describe as a studio. You will be pleased to learn that we found ample cinematographic evidence ther
e of your athletic prowess.” He paused. “Although, in all fairness, I must say that several of the young ladies I interviewed were singularly unimpressed by your performance.” Fox shook his head. “Chaps of our age need to learn when to pack it in, you know, Raymond,” he added.
Webb, who until now had been seated behind his desk, leaped to his feet. “I’m not having this,” he said angrily, his fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically. “Just because Mike gets murdered thousands of miles away from here doesn’t mean you can come in here and walk all over me.”
“Funny you should say that,” said Kate mildly. “One of the videos we found shows a naked young lady doing exactly that. Walking all over you, I mean. And you weren’t wearing any clothes either. At the same time, another young lady was…” She broke off. “Well, you know what she was doing, don’t you?” She grinned insolently at the hapless director. “Taking dictation, was she? But quite frankly the sight of your bare arse on those videos was too much for me. Last time I saw anything going up and down like that it was the first violinist’s elbow at the Sydney Opera House.”
Kate had been primed by Fox, prior to their arrival at the Fulham offices, to goad Webb. Fox was convinced that he had something to hide, and possibly to tell, but he also knew that to arrest Webb and take him to a police station there to interview him under formal conditions would be a waste of time. Within minutes, the place would be swarming with solicitors. But, as things stood, Fox had no intention of prosecuting Webb at present. He saw him possibly as a useful witness. At least, that’s what he hoped.
Webb collapsed into his chair, an expression of resignation on his face. “I don’t know what that video was doing there,” he said. “It was taken for purely private amusement.”
“How splendid,” said Fox. “Who were the young ladies?”
“Girlfriends of mine,” said Webb. He had leaned forward in his chair, his head resting between his hands, elbows on his desk.
“Names?” demanded Fox.
For a moment, Webb looked as though he was going to refuse to identify his carnal companions, but then he surrendered. “They’re called Anna and Kirsty,” he said.
