by Graham Ison
But there was one source left. The Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency at Swansea. But only if Mrs Lee Watson held a driving licence.
Fourteen
“I’m getting fed up with this bloody enquiry,” said Fox, glowering at the assembled detectives. “We’ve been poncing about for days now, getting nowhere. All we seem to have done is get ourselves involved with naked women, and others, taking part in the blue film business.”
One of the detectives at the back of the room complained bitterly to his neighbor that he hadn’t seen any of it.
“Therefore the time has come to start pulling the loose ends together,” continued Fox. “So what have we got?” He glanced at DI Evans. “Denzil?”
In his role as manager of the incident room, Evans was expected to be able to furnish the entire team with an up-to-date summary of what had happened so far, principally for the benefit of those officers who were not at the center of the investigation. “We started with the three bodies on the yacht off the coast of Cyprus,” he said. “Michael Leighton, a wholesaler of amusement machines, Karen Nash and Patricia Tilley. All had evidence of cocaine in their bodies, and two kilos of it was found on the yacht. The two women were porn actresses in Leighton’s dubious sideline of making blue films. Leighton’s partner was Raymond Webb, who seems to have taken over the business, at least for the time being. Harry Pritchard was the cameraman, but now Bernie Watson, well known villain, has come into the frame. He owns the warehouse at Thornton Heath through which the latest batch of fruit machines passed on their way to Belgium. The thirty-six blue videos which were intercepted at Gatwick by the guv’nor—” he nodded towards Fox. “—Went from Pritchard to Watson and were loaded into the fruit machines there. Which makes it look as if Pritchard has taken over where Leighton was forced to leave off, despite what he said when the guv’nor and I saw him yesterday, that there was no money in it and,” he added significantly, “he claims not to know Watson. But the only real lead we have, and that doesn’t amount to very much, is that two squaddies in Cyprus reported having spoken to an Englishman called Jock. This man, purporting to be an ex-soldier, was enquiring about hiring a speedboat and was asking questions about Leighton’s yacht.”
“Thank you, Denzil.” Fox’s gaze swept the room. “I have spoken to the Chief Constable of the Sovereign Base Areas Police this morning who tells me that nothing has come of wider enquiries among the troops in Cyprus – he was arranging for the Provost Marshal to circulate details of Jock – and neither has the Commissioner of the Cyprus Police come up with anything about speedboats.” He paused. “I did not expect any result from his enquiries about that, or from the immigration people in Cyprus,” he said pointedly, and with a sour expression, added, “and I was not disappointed.” There was muted laughter from his audience. “So now, we’re going to rattle a few bars.” His gaze switched to DS Hurley. “How are you getting on with tracing Mrs Watson the First, Bob?” he asked.
“Enquiries are proceeding, sir,” said the luckless Hurley.
“With vigor, I trust,” said Fox.
*
It was Fox’s idea that his avowed intention of “rattling a few bars” should take the form of renewing interest in all those people who had been interviewed to date, but from whom, Fox now believed, more might be forthcoming. Before he began on that personal task, however, he sent for Detective Superintendent John Craven-Foster.
“John, I’m not satisfied that enough has been done in Cyprus. It’s all very well for Geoffrey Harding to say that the Provost Marshal’s enquiries have come up with nothing and, frankly, I don’t think the Cyprus Police have made too great an effort either. Take Charles Morgan and get back out there. Beat on the ground—”
“And see what comes up, sir?” said Craven-Foster wearily.
“Look on it as a bit of a holiday,” said Fox. But they both knew he didn’t mean it.
*
Detective Sergeant Robert Hurley had struck lucky, or so he thought. According to the DVLA, Mrs Lee Watson was the holder of a current driving licence, and the address recorded for her was in Crystal Palace in south-east London.
The house, in a comparatively quiet road close to the park, was semi-detached and quite small. Hurley rang the bell.
The woman who answered the door was young, probably no more than twenty-three. She wore black and white striped leggings and a man’s shirt, and her hair was in that state of regulated disorder thought by many women to be stylish. Hurley knew immediately that she could not be Lee Watson who, according to the records at Swansea, was now fifty-four.
But this younger woman might be a relative, or even a “daily”, and Hurley was prepared to spin her a yarn without disclosing his true identity, bearing in mind that Fox had told him not to “show out”.
“Mrs Watson?”
“Don’t live here no more,” said the woman.
“I’m a police officer,” said Hurley, producing his warrant card.
“Oh yeah?”
“D’you know where she’s gone?”
“Moved,” said the woman.
“How long ago?”
The woman thought for a moment. “Let me see,” she said. “We’ve been here for a year now, so it was a year ago.”
“Any idea of her new address?” Hurley had somehow known that he would be unlucky on the first call.
“No. She’d been gone for a week before we moved in.”
“Did you buy the house through an estate agent?”
“Yeah.”
“Which one?” It was hard work and Hurley began to think that it would take ages to get any useful information out of this woman.
“Just a mo’, I’ve got it written down somewhere.” The woman walked away from the door, leaving it open and not inviting Hurley in. A few moments later, she returned. “There you are,” she said and held out a piece of paper.
“And you’ve no idea where she went. She hasn’t been in touch since?”
“No,” said the woman.
“Thank you for your help,” said Hurley.
“Yeah,” said the woman. Curiously, she had not asked why the police were interested in the previous occupier of her house.
Fortunately, the estate agent’s offices were close by. The senior negotiator who had dealt with the sale of the house was extremely helpful. He turned up a file, told Hurley that he had thought about joining the police a couple of years ago, and produced an address in Pinner, just west of Harrow in Middlesex. And that was about eighteen miles, straight across central London. As the crow flies. But not being a crow, Hurley climbed into his six-year-old Ford Fiesta, for which he was paid an inadequate mileage allowance, quietly cursed his luck, and set off for Pinner.
*
The observation on the studio at the back of Waterloo Station had identified three of the late Michael Leighton’s “actresses”: Babs Stocker, whom Fox and Kate Ebdon had interviewed already, Anna Coombs and Kirsty Newman. Oddly enough, none of these girls had been present when the studio was raided. And Fox now decided that Kate Ebdon should interview the other two.
Anna Coombs lived in the top half of a run-down house in Wandsworth. She had a living room, the end of which had been partitioned off to form a kitchenette, and a bedroom with a shower cabinet in the corner, described audaciously by the West Indian landlord as an en suite bathroom.
“Good day,” said Kate cheerfully. “I’m from the police.”
“I’ve given up the game, if that’s what it’s about,” said Anna Coombs listlessly. She was drawn, clearly tired and looked as though she drank more than was good for her.
“Tomming, were you? No, it’s not about that,” said Kate as she followed the girl into the sitting room and looked round. The room was in a state of chaos; the air redolent with the smell of stale cigarette smoke. A couple of tired armchairs flanked a Formica-topped coffee table with chipped gold-trim edges, and the carpet was threadbare in places. The fireplace was full of dog-ends and empty cigarette packets. A small, lami
nated dining table stood against a wall, its leaves extended, and was piled high with magazines. And both the dining chairs were covered with items of clothing.
“What then?”
“The murder of Michael Leighton.” Kate decided that shock tactics were likely to be the only way to get a spark of reaction from this woman.
“Best thing that ever happened,” said Anna Coombs.
“I take it you didn’t like him.” Without waiting for an invitation, Kate sat down in one of the armchairs.
“I hated his guts, as a matter of fact.”
“We’re trying to discover who killed him,” said Kate.
“Could have been any one of the girls, I should think,” said Anna, but didn’t really sound as though she meant it.
“Why d’you say that?”
“Because he was a cruel bastard, that’s why.” Anna looked across the room, a vacant expression on her face. “I was lucky to escape. It was only moving here, so that he couldn’t find me, that I was able to get away.”
“Tell me about it?”
“I was on the game, like I said.” Anna picked up a cigarette packet, found it was empty and tossed it into the fireplace with the rest. “You haven’t got any cigarettes, have you?” she asked.
“Sorry, no,” said Kate. “I don’t smoke.”
“I was working Shepherd Market then.”
“When?”
“Nearly two years ago. And Leighton picked me up one night. It was pouring with rain and I hadn’t had a john all night. I thought he was just another trick…” Anna glanced up at the Australian detective, knowing instinctively that she would understand the jargon of the prostitute’s trade. “Anyway, he offered me a grand for the whole night.” For the first time, the girl smiled. “He was quite an old guy and I reckoned he’d be good for one and I could kip for the rest of the time. Not that it mattered. Believe me, love,” she said, “I’d’ve done everything he asked for that grand.”
“And did he? Ask for everything?”
“No, not then. He took me to a hotel, down Victoria somewhere, in this big car he was driving.” Anna Coombs sighed. “And we screwed for most of the night. I was surprised, I can tell you. Like I said, he was no chicken, but he kept coming back for more.”
“When did you see him again?” asked Kate.
“When he bailed out the next morning, he asked if I’d be interested in making some movies. Well, I knew what he was on about, straightaway—”
“So what did you say?”
“I said I’d think about it. One thing you learn on the game, love, is to trust no bastard. It’s all very well, him saying about making movies. I knew they’d be skin flicks, but that might have been a load of fanny…” Anna broke off and smiled. “No, what I really mean is that you get all sorts of offers. But I’ve heard of girls getting taken in like that, being offered loads of money to become exotic dancers in the Middle East, and the next thing they know is they’re in some Egyptian brothel spending all day and all night staring at the ceiling for about two quid a week. You’ve got to be careful, see?”
“But you accepted his offer?”
“Well, he seemed like a real gent. Well, at first anyway. He said I was to think about it and he give me this card with the address of the studio on it.”
“The one near Waterloo?”
“Oh, you know about that, do you?”
Kate nodded. “Yes, we raided it a few days ago.”
“Oh!” said Anna and looked surprised. “Anyway, I took a stroll down there and I met this Harry Pritchard. Tall, good-looking guy with a pony-tail. Well, he seemed straight enough. Showed me round and gave me a cup of coffee and told me what went on. He never pulled no punches, neither. He said he knew I was on the game – seems Leighton had told him to expect me – and said that it would still be screwing, but without the risk.” She laughed scornfully. “That was rich, I can tell you.”
Kate was impatient to get to the nub of the story and didn’t want to interrupt the girl’s flow, but decided to nudge her gently in the right direction. “So what went wrong?”
“Well, the first few times I did it with Harry while some other guy operated the camera.”
“Who was he? Any idea?”
“No, I never heard his name, and he never showed up again. Least, not when I was there.”
“What was he like? How old, for instance?”
Anna shrugged. “I don’t know. About thirty, I s’pose. Blond-haired guy. Quite dishy in a way. Anyway, then Leighton turned up and I had to do it with him, but worse than that was some guy called Ray. That’s what he told us to call him anyhow. He was creepy and I never fancied it with him.” She gave a hopeless sigh. “But the money was good and I wasn’t out in all weathers and I never had no pimp to pay, neither.”
“What happened about your pimp?”
“That worried me a bit. When Leighton first asked me to work for him, I said what about Chester and he said he’d be taken care of. Well, I didn’t know what he meant by that, and I didn’t want to know, neither.”
“Chester was your pimp, was he?”
“Yeah, a West Indian guy.”
“What was his other name?”
Anna looked nervous. Pimps were dangerous people to cross. “What d’you want to know that for?” she asked.
“Just in case we find him with his throat cut,” said Kate. “After all, you did say that Leighton would take care of him.”
But still Anna Coombs was hesitant. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, he could—”
“I could ask around Shepherd Market?” said Kate. “See if anyone can remember who Anna Coombs’s pimp was.”
“Chester Smart,” said Anna promptly.
“So why exactly did you part company with Michael Leighton?”
“He wanted to chain me up and make a film of me getting whipped,” said Anna. “One of the other girls had got involved in it, poor little bitch, and she told me about it. You wouldn’t believe what that bastard did to her. It was awful. She could only face it when she was high on drugs. Well, I’m not into that stuff, so I split.”
“What did Leighton say about that?”
“I didn’t wait to find out. I was living in Streatham at the time and I just went home, grabbed my gear and took off. That’s how I finished up here.” She waved a limp hand around the room.
“But you were seen at the studio only a few days ago. Why did you go back?”
“When I heard that Leighton was dead, I went to see Harry and asked him if there was any work. He’s okay, is Harry, and he said yes.” Anna looked directly at Kate. “I couldn’t go back to Chester. I’ll get cut for sure if he ever finds me. And I had to have the money, you see. The welfare doesn’t pay enough. Not when you’ve got a kid.”
“This other girl, the one who was on drugs and got whipped. Who was she?”
“A kid called Beverley. I don’t know her other name.”
Fifteen
“Where the hell do we start, Charles?” asked Detective Superintendent Craven-Foster. He and Charles Morgan, the DI who had accompanied him, were sitting at a table outside a cafe facing the fishing port in Paphos. With them was a detective constable from the local police station, a young man called George Christofides. Each had a glass of raki in front of him, a local drink that tasted of aniseed, not unlike ouzo.
As a courtesy, the two British policemen had called at the Paphos police headquarters earlier in the day. The superintendent had offered any assistance he could, but expressed some doubts about whether they would have any luck in discovering the identity of the mysterious stranger called Jock. He did however, make a valuable contribution to their enquiries: he loaned them Christofides, who spoke fluent English, to act as their interpreter.
“We could start with the fishermen, I suppose,” said Morgan. “See if anyone tried to hire a boat.” He turned to Christofides. “What d’you think, George? It’s your patch.”
Christofides looked around, as though fear
ful of being overheard. “Perhaps it’s like it in your police force, sir,” he said, lowering his voice, “but here in Cyprus we have enough problems, what with the Turks in the north and everything, that we don’t really have time to solve other people’s crimes for them. I think, maybe, our officers didn’t try too hard. I’d be surprised if they made many enquiries. So yes, let’s try the fishermen. They hear it all and if there’s anything to learn, you may learn it from them.”
They started in earnest the following morning. It was tiring, foot-slogging work, but it was marginally easier than using a car, given the acute traffic congestion. Abandoning their lightweight suits in favor of short-sleeved shirts and slacks, the two British detectives, sweltering in a temperature that reached the high eighties, began their enquiries in Kato Paphos. The harbor was packed with tiny fishing boats of all shapes and sizes, among them the occasional expensive yacht. Gnarled boatmen, their faces the color of walnuts, constantly harangued visitors to take a trip round the bay. The sun beat down mercilessly on a calm blue sea overlooked by the ruins of Paphos Fort. And the seagulls screeched constantly.
Avoiding the occasional pelicans, who seemed to regard the coastline as their own personal domain, the policemen trudged from one boat-owner to another, and from one fisherman to the next, always asking the same questions, and always getting the same negative replies. They spoke to any British soldier or airman they found in the harbor-side cafes, but ignored the tourists, most of whom were in Paphos on package holidays and were staying in one of the garish, modern hotels that lined the seafront.
At the end of the second day, Craven-Foster and Morgan were on the point of giving up, but after a meal at their hotel – they had declined the offer of accommodation at the Akrotiri base – they decided to give it one more day. Buying George Christofides one last drink, they arranged to meet him again the following morning.
