Blue Murder

by Graham Ison

  “Aha!” said Fox, rubbing his hands together. “I do believe that something is about to happen.” And he caused a message to be sent to Evans, still keeping watch, to report any movements.

  Fox did not have long to wait. At four o’clock that afternoon, the same six crates were loaded on to a van which left the Thornton Heath warehouse clearly bound for Gatwick Airport.

  Fox threw open the door of the incident room. “Kate,” he said, “get hold of Swann and tell him to get the car on the front. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Right, sir,” said Kate. “Where are we going?”

  “Gatwick,” said Fox. “Once I’ve made a phone call.”

  The telephone call that Fox made was to the Surveyor of Customs and Excise responsible for anti-smuggling operations at Gatwick Airport. Briefly, he explained his suspicions about the consignment of fruit machines and promised the officer that he would be with him as soon as possible. And in a flurry of blue lights and sirens, Fox and Kate Ebdon set off for the second-largest airport in Britain.

  A few years ago, there would have been very little chance of the fruit machines passing through the airport quickly, given the plethora of documentation that accompanies such movements. But since the advent of the Citizens’ Charter, cargo is normally cleared within four hours. When Fox arrived at the airport, the consignment had already been delivered and several customs officers of the elite cargo crew were sniffing around it like ambitious terriers.

  “Well, Commander,” said the Surveyor, shaking hands, “When you’re ready, we’ll make a start.” He nodded to a customs officer who, large case-opener in hand, was hovering enthusiastically. “They’re destined for Brussels, by the way,” he added.

  One by one, the six crates were opened and the fruit machines removed. Another customs officer approached and began to dismantle the first machine.

  “Does he know what he’s doing?” asked Fox.

  The Surveyor nodded. “He’s a fruit machine addict,” he said nonchalantly. “I’m told he spends most of his time – and half his salary – playing the bloody things.”

  Within seconds, the customs officer had found what Fox had fully expected him to find. The machine contained six video cassettes. And by the time the search had been completed, thirty-six cassettes stood in a neat pile on a table.

  “Right,” said the Surveyor, “let’s have a look at them.”

  “How kind,” murmured Fox.

  “Not at all,” said the customs chief. “We would have done anyway.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose for one moment that they’re pirated copies of Coronation Street.” Fox grinned expectantly.

  “What d’you want us to do now?” asked the Surveyor, once police and customs had satisfied themselves that the videos were indeed pornographic.

  “What would you normally do?” asked Fox.

  “Well, I don’t want to do anything that will cock up your murder investigation,” said the Surveyor. “After all, we’re supposed to be on the same side. But usually we’d seize them and substitute blanks.”

  “I was going to suggest that anyway,” said Fox, one hand resting lightly on the pile of video tapes.

  The Surveyor looked crafty and immediately thought that it would be much better if the cost of the replacement blanks came from the Metropolitan Police budget rather than his own. “You can get them in the North Terminal,” he said quickly before Fox had a chance to change his mind.

  “Do you have to inform the consignors of what you’ve done?”

  “Eventually,” said the Surveyor, looking vaguely into the middle distance.

  Fox turned to the woman detective. “Have you got a credit card with you, Kate?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Fox. “Pop over to…” He paused and glanced at the Surveyor. “North Terminal?”

  “Yes, but it’s a long way from here.”

  “That’s all right,” said Fox. “DC Ebdon is a fit young officer.” And addressing Kate once more, he said, “Buy thirty-six blank cassette tapes and make sure you get a receipt.” He turned back to the Surveyor. “If we substitute them for these—” he tapped the pile of cassettes. “—It will probably cause exactly the sort of grief and aggravation that might flush someone or something out of the woodwork when they arrive in Belgium.” And he grinned maliciously.

  “Fine by me,” said the Surveyor with a shrug. “And I can probably get you the VAT back on your blank tapes. As they’re going for export,” he added.

  Twelve

  The surveyor of Customs and Excise at Gatwick Airport had undertaken to liaise with his counterparts at Brussels National Airport, and Fox had spoken to a colonel of the Belgian gendarmerie in the city. But he did not relish leaving matters in the hands of other people, especially people over whom he had no control.

  “It’s a great shame, Denzil, that we can’t put a tap on Webb’s and Pritchard’s telephones. But there’s no way the Home Secretary would grant a warrant, not unless we could prove a connection between porn videos and the murder of Leighton.” Fox sighed. “And probably even then, he’d refuse. But I’ll bet the wires will be burning once the recipients of that consignment, whoever they may be, find that they’ve got thirty-six blank tapes.” He fingered the receipt that Kate Ebdon had obtained when she had purchased them. “Property of the Receiver for the Metropolitan Police District,” he added gloomily.

  In the absence of a telephone intercept, Fox ordered that surveillance be mounted on Webb and Pritchard. And, playing a hunch, on Watson also. It was expensive in terms of manpower, but Fox believed that it would be of short duration. He was right: only twenty-four hours elapsed before something happened.

  *

  The fruit machines were collected from Brussels Airport and officers of the gendarmerie followed them to a warehouse in the Obourg region of Mons just north of the Canal du Center, some forty miles distant from the airport at which they had arrived.

  There, unbeknown to the watching police, Karel van Hooft removed the video tapes and placed them in a locked cabinet in his office pending delivery to his more salacious customers. But van Hooft was something of a voyeur himself and after his workmen had gone home, he fed one of the tapes into his video-player and settled down, with his secretary and a bottle of his favorite sparkling Saumur, to watch the latest production from England. With mounting annoyance, he eventually tried all thirty-six tapes.

  The following day, van Hooft telephoned Bernie Watson in some place called Welling.

  *

  Bernie Watson threw down the telephone, his face black with rage, and then marched about his enormous house shouting for his wife Geraldine. Getting no answer, he eventually made his way through to the back of the house and into the wood-and-glass extension which had been built to accommodate the swimming pool. Bernie Watson never used it, couldn’t swim in fact, but he had succumbed to the wishes of Geraldine, upon whom he lavished every luxury.

  “Gerry!” Watson gazed down at the figure of his wife, slowly plowing up and down the pool in a travesty of the breast-stroke.

  Slowly, like a tanker altering course, Geraldine changed direction, reached the steps and climbed out of the water. Her skirted swim-suit, which would have been more fashionable on a Victorian matron emerging from a nineteenth-century bathing-machine, clung to her gross body, and her hair, normally a frizzy blonde, was plastered to her head like a skull cap. Her arms and legs, exposed for too long on a sun-bed, were bright red. “What is it, Bernie?”

  “I’m going up west,” said Watson.

  “What, now?” Geraldine glanced at her gold wrist-watch, careless that it was not impervious to water, and then looked at her husband. “What for, Bernie, love?”

  “Because some Weedin’ toe-rag’s had me over, that’s what for,” said Watson, his face still suffused with anger.

  “And what’s more I’m going to take it out of the little bastard’s hide.”

  Geraldine put her leg-of-mutton arms around
Watson, regardless of the fact that she was still wet, and clasped him to her immense bosom. “Bernie, love, don’t. You’re in the big time now. If someone’s done you down, speak to your lawyer. Let him deal with it. That’s what he’s paid for.”

  Watson eased his wife’s bulk away and pulled his wet shirt from his body. “It’s not on, Gerry. See, this particular business was just a bit dodgy, like. Know what I mean?”

  “What?” Geraldine picked up a vast towel and wrapped it around herself before sitting down suddenly on a sun-lounger and staring at Watson accusingly. The chair groaned in protest and for a moment, it looked as though it might collapse altogether. “How was it dodgy?”

  Watson sighed and sat down opposite his wife. “They was some tapes what I sent to Karel van Hooft in Belgium. Only a bit of fun, like.”

  “Tapes? What tapes? What are you talking about, Bernie Watson?” Geraldine fixed him with a disparaging gaze.

  “Well, they was videos, like.”

  “Videos?” Suddenly the truth dawned on Geraldine. “’Ere,” she said, “You don’t mean sex an’ that?”

  Watson laughed uneasily. “Like I said, only a bit of fun.”

  “They was blue films, wasn’t they?” In her anger, Geraldine struggled to get up, but her exertions caused the sun-lounger finally to sink beneath her. For a moment, she sat in the wreckage, her fat legs stuck out ludicrously in front of her so that she looked like a great cooked lobster. Watson stood up and held out his hands, but Geraldine knew she was beyond any help that her husband could afford her. She rolled over and eased herself up on to all-fours before ponderously regaining her feet. “What on earth are you doing getting mixed up in that sort of business, Bernie?” she asked, turning to face Watson. “Is that what that copper come down here for the other day?”

  Watson laughed dismissively. “No, course not. You know why he was here. He come to tell me about Bev.”

  “You’re selling these dirty films aren’t you, Bernie?” Slowly, Geraldine advanced on her husband.

  “No, nothing like that. Karel van Hooft’s a mate of mine and he likes them, see. So I sends him some every so often. Takes all sorts, don’t it?”

  Geraldine began to rub fiercely at her hair with the towel. “I thought you was supposed to be a respectable businessman, Bernie Watson. That’s what you told me when we was married.”

  “Yeah, well I am, pet,” said Watson, slowly retreating in the face of his wife’s obvious wrath.

  “Well then, what the hell are you doing flogging blue films? You taken leave of your senses or something? How d’you expect to keep friends like that nice commander if you go about doing stupid things like that?” Geraldine dropped her towel, but appeared not to notice. “I shouldn’t think he’d be too happy if he knew what you was up to.”

  “Well, he’s not going to know, is he?” said Watson nervously. “I keep telling you, Gerry, it was only a favor for a friend.” By now, he was at the edge of the pool.

  “I’m warning you, Bernie, if you want to keep me, you’ll pack it in.” Suddenly realizing that she had lost her towel, Geraldine stooped to pick it up, her head colliding with Watson’s midriff as she did so.

  With a cry, Watson fell backwards into the pool. “I can’t swim,” he yelled, standing upright in the forty inches of water that was the maximum depth of the pool.

  Without a thought for the possible danger, she might cause in her attempt to save her beloved, and now apparently drowning, husband, Geraldine jumped in after him. “Bernie, Bernie,” she cried as a great tidal wave lapped over the sides of the pool.

  “All right, all right,” said Bernie as he waded towards the steps.

  Anxiously, Geraldine followed him out of the water. “Bernie, love, you all right?”

  “Yeah, course I am,” said Watson. “Silly cow!” he added with a grin.

  “That was a daft thing to do, falling in like that,” said Geraldine. “You might have drowned if I hadn’t been here. You ought to be more careful.”

  “I’ll just get changed,” said Watson, beginning to strip off his wet shirt. “Then, like I said, I’ll get going.”

  “Well, don’t you go getting into no trouble, Bernie Watson.”

  Watson glanced at the clock over the door to the changing room. “I won’t be long,” he said. “Should be back in time for drinks, I reckon.”

  *

  Before leaving Welling, Bernie Watson had made a telephone call to a man called Eddie Hooper and arranged a “meet”. Hooper was the longest-serving, and most trusted, of Watson’s small group of “enforcers”, the men who made sure that Watson’s every wish was complied with in the murky world in which he operated. Hooper was big in everything but brains, and was capable of inflicting unbelievable pain on any of his boss’s enemies when the situation demanded it.

  At about three o’clock in the afternoon, the pair arrived at Harry Pritchard’s studio and Watson pressed the bell push.

  Seconds later, Pritchard’s voice, crackling through the intercom, demanded to know who his caller was. The security device was something new and its installation had been prompted by the attention the police had been paying to both him and Webb in recent days. But learning that Bernie Watson was outside, Pritchard released the lock and carried on photographing his current model.

  The door to the studio flew open and Watson and Hooper moved threateningly towards the photographer. “I want bloody words with you, mister,” said Watson angrily.

  “Christ, Bernie,” said Pritchard, “what the hell’s wrong?” He looked nervously at Hooper who was standing slightly behind Watson, pointedly cracking his knuckles.

  Watson glanced at the couch upon which a naked, redheaded girl was artistically draped in an explicit pose. “You,” he said. “Get your bloody clothes on and piss off.”

  Unaware of the power wielded by Pritchard’s visitor, the girl smiled but remained where she was.

  But Pritchard knew when there was trouble abroad. “Do as he says, Marilyn. See you tomorrow.”

  Marilyn stood up and walked provocatively across the room to where her clothes lay on a table. “That’s all very well,” she said as she plucked a pair of briefs from the untidy pile, “but what about my money? Can’t live on fresh air, you know, Harry.”

  “Here…” Pritchard took a roll of banknotes from his pocket, peeled off a few and handed them to the girl. “Now get out of here, there’s a love.”

  The three men watched the girl dispassionately as she dressed and when they heard the street door slam after her, Watson took a menacing step closer to Pritchard. “Now, you listen to me, you double-dealing bastard. Them latest videos what I had from you four days ago—”

  “Best we’ve done so far,” said Pritchard, attempting a reassuring grin.

  “They was all blank. The whole bleedin’ lot of ’em. Now how d’you explain that away, eh?”

  Pritchard laughed nervously. “You’re joking,” he said. Watson seized the front of Pritchard’s tee-shirt and twisted it in his fist. “Would I come all the way up from my drum in Welling to make jokes?” he asked grimly.

  “I don’t understand—” began Pritchard.

  “They was all blank—”

  “Yeah, okay, okay, I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t understand why they were all blank, Bernie.”

  “Just bloody listen,” shouted Watson. “My whole bleedin’ reputation’s been put on the line and I want to know what happened.”

  “It must have been Webb,” said Pritchard lamely. “I reckon he’s trying to drop me in it just because I won’t let him come down to the studio and have his end away.”

  “Perhaps you should think again then,” said Watson darkly. “Let him go down there and screw himself stupid, if that’s what it takes for a bit of harmony. But I’ll tell you this. If he’s going to bugger up the business, someone’s going to pay. And it’s either going to be you or him. Got it?”

  “Yeah, sure, Bernie, sure,” said the now thoroughly alarmed
Pritchard. He knew Bernie Watson’s reputation only too well and, until now, had regarded him as something of a protector. Suddenly it had all gone wrong. “Have you had a word with Webb?”

  “No, my son, I’ll leave that to you.” Still holding the front of Pritchard’s tee-shirt, Watson gently slapped his face two or three times with his other hand as he spoke. “And don’t forget, you’re not the only blue-video maker in London. Got the message, have you?”

  “Yeah, all right, Bernie, all right,” said the terrified Pritchard.

  “In the meantime, I want another thirty-six tapes, and this time they’d better be kosher.” Then, just to make the point, Watson deliberately pushed over a lighting tripod. There was a crash as it fell to the ground, followed by a small explosion as the huge floodlight bulb burst. Taking this as a signal to move into action, Hooper began knocking over all the other floodlights and, one after another, they too were smashed. He finished up by sweeping Pritchard’s table clear of its expensive stock of camera equipment.

  With a satisfied grin on his face, Hooper turned to Watson. “Want me to give him a seeing-to, Mr Watson?” he enquired calmly.

  Watson had watched this orgy of destruction with apparent indifference. “Not for the time being, Eddie,” he said. He turned back to Pritchard. “And don’t think of sending me no bill for the second lot of tapes, neither,” he added.

  *

  The small team of detectives who were keeping observation on Pritchard’s studio had noted the arrival and departure of Bernie Watson and an unidentified male, and duly reported these interesting facts to Fox, together with their opinion that Watson was looking none too pleased with life. A further report stated that some five minutes after Watson and his companion had left, an extremely agitated Pritchard was seen to emerge from his studio and hail a taxi.

  Fox smiled when he received this intelligence, but when the detective sergeant in charge of the team told him that during the twenty minutes that Watson had been with Pritchard, Watson’s Rolls-Royce had collected a parking ticket, Fox burst out laughing.