by Graham Ison
“Anna Coombs and Kirsty Newman, I presume,” said Fox, grateful that the surveillance team at the studio near Waterloo had succeeded in identifying those two girls for him.
Webb looked up sharply. “How did you know that?” he asked.
“Because, Mr Webb, I made it my business to find out,” said Fox, assuming a sudden formality that disconcerted the wretched man opposite him. “I am investigating a triple murder and quite frankly, I get bloody annoyed when people try to obstruct me in those enquiries. So annoyed, in fact, that I am sorely tempted to arrest such persons and charge them.”
“I still don’t see what this has to do with Mike’s murder,” said Webb. “All right, so we were making porn videos. That’s not a crime, is it? Not any more?”
“That depends,” said Fox seriously. Secretly, he had never understood why so much smug anger was directed against filming the sexual act, provided it was straightforward and didn’t involve children or any other perversions. But it still contravened the law and that was good enough for Fox. “I have evidence that Leighton was administering drugs to some of these girls. It is said by witnesses that he did so in order to heighten their abandonment and to reduce them to a state where they were unable to resist being tortured. Just so that you and Leighton could profit from your filthy trade.” He paused and fixed Webb with a malevolent stare that made the man squirm. “What d’you know about Beverley Watson?”
The question came like a whiplash and its suddenness clearly shocked Webb. “I, er, I—”
“Don’t pussyfoot about,” said Fox. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
“She was Mike’s girlfriend…”
“Come off it,” said Fox. “She was one of the girls who took part in your dirty movies. We have her on film doing it with Leighton. And with you. And, incidentally, with Pritchard.”
Webb shrugged. “So what? You seem to know all the answers, so why ask me?”
“She died of a drugs overdose last August, Mr Webb, having been abandoned in a London street, almost certainly by Leighton. And I want to know where she got the drugs from.” Fox knew that Leighton had been the supplier, but he wanted to hear it from Webb. He was also anxious to know if Webb had played any part in their supply.
“It wasn’t me,” said Webb quietly.
“Who then?”
“Mike. He used to hand them out to any of the girls who wanted them. Some took them, some didn’t.”
“Why? Why did he give them drugs?”
“It was like you said.” Webb still avoided meeting Fox’s gaze. “The girls used to perform much better when they were high.”
“Scum like you disgust me.” Fox spoke quietly but menacingly. “And if I get even the sniff of any evidence that you were actively involved in drug-dealing, I shall make sure you go down for a very long time.”
“I tell you, I had nothing to do with it. It was all down to Mike. He was into drugs in a big way.” Webb spoke desperately. He had been in prison for only six of his nine-months sentence, and that was nearly twenty years ago, but he still recalled what happened to those perverts incarcerated for sex crimes, and he shuddered at the recollection.
“Very convenient,” said Fox as he stood up. “Incidentally, I suppose you know who Beverley Watson was.”
“Who she was?” Webb made a pretence of not understanding the question.
“She was Bernie Watson’s daughter.”
Webb had been in the act of standing up also. But now he sank down into his chair again, gripping its arms as his face paled. “Who?” he asked lamely.
Fox grinned. “I see you know who Bernie Watson is,” he said.
“Well, yes,” said Webb, recovering a little of his composure. “Mike used to have dealings with him. Business dealings.”
“What sort of business dealings?” Fox also sat down again. “Fruit machines and juke-boxes. That sort of thing.” Webb was clearly panicking now. The mention of Bernie Watson’s name had frightened the life out of him, and it was obvious to Fox that Webb was, at best, little more than a pander, a pimp who had been drawn into Leighton’s shady activities. And, as Pritchard had said, Webb’s reward had been free sex with any of what Leighton called his stable of fillies. But Fox thought that Webb, despite being described as a director, was probably no more than the accountant he had admitted to being. And that Leighton had brought him in to indulge in some creative bookkeeping that would disguise the income that came from the less desirable side of his business. Doubtless, Webb’s previous conviction for fraud, albeit a minor one, was seen by Leighton as insurance against his co-director opening his mouth.
“Fair enough,” said Fox, standing up again. “Well that seems to let you off the hook, Raymond, old love. I doubt that we shall have to bother you again.” He held out his hand and Webb seized it like a drowning man and shook it vigorously. It was only later that he found out that it was very dangerous to underestimate the well-dressed commander from Scotland Yard.
*
“Did you mean what you said, sir?” asked a bewildered Kate Ebdon as she and Fox rode back to Scotland Yard.
“I rarely mean anything I say, Kate,” said Fox. “What, in particular, did you have in mind?”
“About not bothering with Webb any more.”
“Good heavens no.” Fox grinned. “But it suddenly dawned on me that a close examination of the books of Leighton Leisure Services might just reveal all sorts of interesting facts. And a few lies as well. And I didn’t want him destroying all the evidence before I can get an expert to look at the books. And I’m not an expert at everything,” he added. That statement, when repeated by Kate to the staff of the incident room, brought forth ironical laughter.
Fox said nothing more until they arrived at the Yard. He gestured to Kate to sit down and then tapped out an internal number on his telephone. “Ray? Tommy Fox.”
There was an audible groan from the other end of the phone as Commander Ray Probert, head of the Metropolitan and City Police Company Fraud Department, better known to the Press as the Fraud Squad, realized that he should have let his secretary answer the call. “What d’you want, Tommy?” he asked guardedly.
“A favor, Ray. Have you got an officer you can spare for a day to go through the books of a shady enterprise called Leighton Leisure Services down at Fulham?”
“Well,” said Probert reluctantly, “I suppose I could. But just for a day. What’s it all about?”
Briefly, Fox outlined what he wanted. “And I’d like my DC Ebdon to go with your officer,” he said. “She’s fully conversant with the case.”
“Yeah, all right then,” said Probert. “What will my man be looking for? In particular, I mean.”
“Nothing,” said Fox, “in particular.”
Eleven
Detective Sergeant Irving Maynard was a portly individual. His rimless spectacles should have lent him the sort of clerkly appearance that befitted his role as a member of the Fraud Squad, but they merely served to create a rather sinister impression. Few people would have mistaken him for anything but a policeman, and he would have been a gift to any television producer looking for an archetypal Flying Squad officer.
“Are you Ebdon?” Maynard appeared in the doorway of the incident room, his gaze settling on the flame-haired Australian.
“Yeah! Who are you?”
“DS Maynard, Fraud Squad. My guv’nor says your guv’nor wants us to turn over some sleaze-merchant in Fulham.”
“Oh, right, sarge,” said Kate. She stood up and grabbed her bag, carefully placing the strap over her right shoulder.
“Got a brief, have you?”
“Too right, sarge,” said Kate, grinning. She produced the search warrant from her bag and handed it to the Fraud Squad DS.
“Don’t want to see it,” said Maynard. “Just wanted to make sure you’d got one, that’s all. Shall we hit this guy, then?”
They took the Underground to Parsons Green and walked the rest of the way. For the whole j
ourney, Maynard talked incessantly about fly-fishing, a hobby to which, it seemed, he devoted most of his spare time. As they reached the offices of Leighton Leisure Services, he asked, “Ever done any fishing yourself, Kate?”
Kate, who had become increasingly bored by Maynard’s diatribe on angling, shrugged. “Only for sharks off Bondi,” she lied crushingly.
Since Fox’s departure the previous day, Raymond Webb had convinced himself that he was in the clear. Consequently, the arrival of DS Maynard and, yet again, Kate Ebdon, came as a complete surprise. “Look,” he said, “your boss said that he wouldn’t have to bother me again.”
“We’re not bothering you, Mr Webb,” said Maynard, whose monologue on fishing had been interrupted by Kate long enough for her to brief him thoroughly. “We’ve come to do the books.” He grinned and perched on the edge of Webb’s desk. “It’s not you we’re interested in. It’s Mr Leighton.”
“But—” began Webb.
“You see, Mr Webb,” began Maynard patiently, “When someone is murdered along with two other people, all of whom are connected with the blue movie business, we in the police tend to come to the conclusion that there’s a connection.”
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to take out your partner Leighton,” said Kate. “That wasn’t just a killing for the hell of it.”
“She’s right, you know,” said Maynard, leaning closer to Webb in an attitude of amiable menace. “And we in the Fraud Squad have often found that the answer lies in the books.” He smiled and flicked over a page on Webb’s desk calendar. “You’re out of date,” he murmured.
“Fraud Squad?” Webb stared at the detective sergeant. “Did you say Fraud Squad?”
“That’s right, Mr Webb. You’ve doubtless heard of us.” Maynard gazed at Webb, an enquiring expression on his face. Kate had told him about Webb’s previous conviction.
“You’ll find nothing wrong with the books here,” said Webb, more in hope than certainty.
“You the accountant then?” enquired Maynard, well knowing that to be the case.
“Well, yes, among other things.”
Maynard pursed his lips and nodded. “Well,” he said, “We’ll see.”
“Are you an accountant?” asked Webb. “A qualified accountant, I mean.”
“Good heavens no,” said Maynard. “I’m a detective. But I’m sure I’ll muddle through.”
Webb looked slightly less worried, but what Maynard had not said was that accountants instinctively want the books to balance, whereas detectives instinctively want to prove that they don’t.
Maynard rubbed his hands together and slid off the desk. “Shall we make a start then?”
“Look, I’m not sure that I can allow you to come in here and just demand to see the firm’s books. What authority d’you have for that?”
Kate Ebdon smiled and, opening her handbag, produced an official-looking piece of paper. “This is a search warrant, Mr Webb,” she said. “I know you’ve seen one before. And just to be on the safe side we obtained it from a Crown Court judge. Takes care of any nonsense about excluded material and all that twaddle. Okay?”
*
“How did you get on?” asked Fox.
“Very interesting, sir,” said DS Maynard as he and Kate Ebdon sat down opposite Fox’s desk. “I told him he was in the clear.”
Fox raised an eyebrow. “And is he?”
“Good Lord no, sir.” Maynard looked askance at the implication that a Fraud Squad officer of his caliber and experience should have found nothing wrong with a set of books. “There was some evidence of teeming and lading—”
“You’d better explain that for Kate’s benefit,” said Fox.
Maynard glanced at the woman detective. “In short,” he said, “It means that monies coming in today have been used to cover that which was embezzled yesterday. Robbing Peter to pay Paul in other words.” He looked back at Fox. “I imagine that Webb’s had his hand in the till, sir. And there were one or two fanciful entries that merely showed ‘Royalties and Fees’, whatever that means. I didn’t bother to examine the supporting dockets because, in my experience, they’d’ve been bent too. Probably hiding the income from their porn videos. Cunning bastards didn’t want to upset either the Inland Revenue or the VAT boys, I should think, but they obviously didn’t expect a visit from us.”
“Worth doing anything about it?” asked Fox.
Maynard shrugged. “Depends on the Crown Prosecution Service really, sir. It’s certainly not big enough to worry the Serious Fraud Office with. But if you nick Webb for this murder, it’ll all be irrelevant anyway, won’t it?”
“I think we’re a long way from doing that,” said Fox, “but it might provide us with evidence that Leighton’s were profiting from blue movies, if you can prove what you found.”
“Anyway, sir,” said Maynard, “I left him with the impression that his accountancy was all kosher just so that he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“He’s left it a bit late for that,” growled Fox. “So, what else did you find?”
“Nothing really, sir,” continued Maynard. “There’s some trade in juke-boxes and fruit machines certainly, and all legitimately accounted for, but they’re not making much profit. I didn’t let on to Webb that I was doubtful about those dodgy entries I mentioned because he thought that I was there just to see if the books contained anything that might lead you to Leighton’s killer. In fact, I told him that we weren’t interested in him and he seemed quite satisfied with that, relieved almost. And it’s my bet that it’ll be business as usual from now on. Incidentally, sir, most of what they do sell goes for export. Some of it to service bases abroad. Germany mainly, but also to Northern Ireland. And to Cyprus, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Fox acidly. “That’s just the sort of complication I needed.” He swung round to face the woman detective. “Any indication of consignments being despatched in the near future, Kate?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Kate flicked open her pocket book and thumbed through the pages before glancing up again. “One of the things we learned from looking at Webb’s books is that Leighton’s have got a warehouse in another part of Fulham where they keep their stock.” She glanced back at her pocket book. “It would seem that there are three fruit machines going to Germany the day after tomorrow, sir. Out through Heathrow Airport. There was also an order for six fruit machines that are to be sent to a warehouse in Croydon, also the day after tomorrow. There was no company name on the despatch note, just an address.”
Fox gazed out of the window. “I think we’ll have a look at those,” he said thoughtfully.
*
“Only too delighted, Commander,” said the Assistant Collector of Customs and Excise at Heathrow Airport when Fox telephoned him with his request. “Pornographic videos, you say?”
“If they’re anywhere,” said Fox, “they’ll be in the fruit machines.”
“Leave it to us. If they’re there, we’ll find them,” said the Assistant Collector.
Having set that trap, Fox now took an interest in the consignment of six fruit machines destined for the warehouse in Croydon. Deciding, for once, to remain detached from the operation, he assigned Detective Inspector Denzil Evans and a team of ten officers to follow the consignment from Leighton Leisure Services to Croydon.
*
Fortunately, one of the detective sergeants on Evans’s team had secured a discreet vantage point on top of a building that gave a clear view of the yard at the rear of Leighton’s warehouse. At eight o’clock, a van from a lesser-known freight-carrying company pulled into the yard and three fruit machines were loaded on to it. This information was relayed to Fox at Scotland Yard, and ten minutes later, the mobile surveillance team reported that it was definitely heading for Heathrow Airport. That observation was broken off and customs at the airport alerted. At ten minutes past ten, another, larger van from the same company collected six fruit machines, each in a distinctive wooden crate, and this van was followed to Croyd
on by Evans’s mobiles.
The warehouse to which the machines were delivered actually proved to be nearer Thornton Heath than the center of Croydon and, on the van’s arrival, the fruit machines were unloaded and moved inside on a fork-lift truck. To the observers, there appeared to be nothing covert or underhand about the delivery.
But that did not satisfy Fox. He ordered Evans to continue his surveillance at the warehouse until more was found out about it and its owners.
Fox was convinced that anything connected with Leighton Leisure Services had to be bordering on the criminal at best. He sent for Detective Sergeant Wally Stone and told him to find out all about the warehouse at Thornton Heath. And he told him not to waste time because a valuable officer, in the shape of DI Evans, was sitting watching it.
That Fox’s instincts proved to be accurate, yet again, was borne out by Stone’s report that the warehouse was owned by one Dimitri Constantinou, a Greek gentleman whose business was, in turn, owned by a certain Mr Bernard Watson of Welling.
“Good gracious me,” said Fox. “That makes up for the bad news.”
“What bad news is that, guv?” asked Stone.
“Customs at Heathrow took those bloody fruit machines apart. Nothing!”
*
Because of Watson’s interest in the warehouse at Thornton Heath, Fox ordered Evans to maintain the observation. He was a little annoyed that Watson, despite the overt enquiries that DS Stone had made throughout the West End, seemed to be carrying on as normal; Fox didn’t like villains who thought that they were now too big to worry about the law. He was convinced, rightly as it happened, that the fruit machines would not languish at Thornton Heath for long. And the benefit of keeping watch on the premises was proved when another, unmarked, van arrived within an hour or so of the fruit-machine delivery. A large cardboard box was unloaded from this van and wheeled into the warehouse. The second van’s index number was noted and run through the Police National Computer. It was registered to Harry Pritchard at his Soho address.
