by P. F. Ford
He sat at his desk looking very smug. Then he realised that both Norman and Slater were looking at him in a strange way.
“Not that I know anythin’ about this type of film, of course. I’m just guessin’.”
He was clearly trying to look innocent, but Slater wasn’t fooled. Vinnie pressed play again and the video re-started. After another 10 minutes, Slater was none the wiser.
“It’s not exactly hardcore, is it?” he said. “No one would pay for this stuff.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Dave,” said Norman. “There’s one person who might pay a small fortune for this particular video.”
Slater didn’t say anything. He was missing something obvious, but he couldn’t see it. Norman could see it, and that bloody annoying Vinnie could see it, but he couldn’t. It was Vinnie who decided to put him out of his misery.
“What if you was the geezer in the bed? What if someone told you afterwards that there was a video of you performing like a stallion wiv some chick that wasn’t your wife, and it was about to be featured on YouTube?”
“Of course!” exclaimed Slater, the penny dropping for him with a loud clang. “The guy in the video. This has been made to blackmail him.”
“It could well be,” agreed Norman. “And if that’s Ruth in the bed with him that would be one awfully powerful motive for getting rid of her. We need to find out who this guy is.”
“That’s a blonde,” said Slater. “Ruby had dark hair.”
“Ever heard of a thing called a wig?” asked Norman.
He turned to Vinnie.
“Can you get a good image of his face?”
“No problem,” said Vinnie. “Towards the end there’s so many shots of his face, this has to be a blackmail video. I’ve got a great one of the two faces together, all hot and steamy. And a beauty of him just as he’s spillin’ his beans, like. I tried enhancing that one so it’s nice and clear, but his face was all screwed up like he’s crappin’ hisself so that was no good. But I found something else that might help.”
“What’s that?” chorused the other two.
“Well,” explained Vinnie. “I thought it might get a bit exciting so I watched it all the way through.”
He briefly looked guilty, but then turned defiant.
“But there’s no decent action, alright? He’s obviously giving her one, but there’s no money shot.”
“Money shot?” said a puzzled Slater.
“What sort of fuzz are you?” asked Vinnie. “Don’t you know nuffin’ about this stuff? The money shot’s the one where they show a close up of her bits. When the captain’s docking his ship, sort of like.”
“Oh. Right.” Slater blushed. “I see what you mean. Sorry if I seem a bit dim, but I don’t get involved with Vice, and on a personal level I don’t need this stuff.”
“Yeah. Whatever,” said Vinnie, sounding bored. “Anyway, as I was sayin’, I picked out the interestin’ bits and made stills. I’ll show you the faces in a minute, but first look at this one. I think you’ll find it worth a look.”
An image appeared on the TV screen in place of the video.
“See it?” asked Vinnie.
“See what?” Slater couldn’t see anything of interest, and from the look on Norman’s face, he couldn’t either.
“An’ you guys are trained observers? I don’t fink so,” said Vinnie in disgust. “Come on guys, open your eyes. See that mirror in the background? Look in it. Off to the right. See? There’s a jacket hanging on the back of a chair. Look familiar to you?”
“Jesus!” exclaimed Slater. “That’s a police uniform jacket!”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Vinnie laughed. “That should narrow the search a bit, don’t you think?”
“Is there a clear view of his face anywhere in that film?”
“Of course there is,” said Vinnie. “If you’re gonna make a video to blackmail someone, you have to make sure there’s no doubt who it is, right?”
“Can you make a copy?”
“Already done. I’m way ahead of the game, guy.” Vinnie’s cockiness could be annoying at times, but Slater had to admit, the man knew what he was doing.
“Well let’s see it then,” said Norman impatiently.
“Hey, stay cool Mister Norm. I’m jus’ gettin’ to that bit, ok?”
He handed two glossy photos to Norman.
“So this is the babe in the bed,” said Vinnie. “An’ I’m tellin’ you, guy, this is one foxy chick.”
“That’s her alright,” said Norman, keeping one photo and passing the other copy across to Slater.
“Hot stuff, right?” said Vinnie, approvingly.
Slater looked at the photo. It was clearly Ruby, even with the blonde wig.
“She’s disappeared,” he said, still looking at the photo. “Vanished into thin air. This video might be the reason why.”
“Oh shit, guy,” said Vinnie, looking horrified. “Now I’m right out of order, sayin’ those things about her.”
“She was a high-class hooker, Vinnie,” explained Norman. “It was her job to make guys feel horny and want to give her one. And anyway, you weren’t to know.”
Vinnie looked suitably chastened. At least that was something Slater could approve of.
“Let’s have a look at the other photo then,” said Slater. “Let’s see who we’ve got.”
“Ah, yeah. The lucky shagnasty,” said Vinnie, producing another two photos. “Who just might also be a killer.”
This time he reached across and passed them one photo each.
“That’s just a possibility at this stage,” advised Norman. “All this proves is he had sex with her, and there’s no law against that.”
Slater looked at the photo. It was a good one, nice and clear. It wasn’t anyone he could put a name to, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who he was. Meanwhile, Norman was staring at the photo. He looked at Slater, then at Vinnie, then back at the photo. A broad grin threatened to split his face in half.
“Vinnie,” he announced. “Have I ever told you that you’re wonderful?”
“Ha! Thanks Mister Norm, but I already know that, guy.”
“No. I mean it,” insisted Norman. “This is the best thing you’ve ever done for me.”
Vinnie smiled, looking happy. Slater could tell that he was fond of the policeman.
“D’you know this guy, Norm?” asked Slater.
“Do I know this guy?” repeated Norman, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “Oh yes, I know him. You could say we’re quite well connected.”
In that moment, Slater knew who it was too.
“His name’s Mark Clinton,” said Norman. “That’s Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clinton of the Serious Crime Unit. You’re connected too. He’s Jimmy Jones’ boss.”
Norman turned to Vinnie.
“Vinnie, I owe you big time. You’ve made Christmas come early this year.”
“You owe me nuffink, Mister Norm,” replied Vinnie. “I’m still payin’ back what I owe you, an’ I reckon I always will be.”
While Norm and Vinnie were having their little private love-in, Slater was considering the implications of what they had discovered and realising this could well turn out to be the biggest case he’d ever been involved in. And they were still just a two-man team. Surely Bob Murray would have to give them some help now.
Slater watched as Bob Murray put his head in hands, and then very slowly ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. Without looking at either of them, Murray heaved a massive sigh, pushed his chair back and then very slowly and deliberately stood up. Then he walked across to his window, turned his back on them, placed his hands behind his back, and gazed out at the world.
Norman looked across at Slater, looking uncertain. Slater put a finger to his lips to indicate Norman should keep quiet. He knew this was Murray’s thinking pose, and he also knew it was best to leave Murray alone when he was thinking. They’d just briefed their boss on progress so far, fin
ishing with the video of Mark Clinton and Ruby Rider, so he had plenty to think about.
After what seemed an eternity, Murray turned away from the window and began to pace up and down.
“You’re quite sure this is what it appears to be?” he asked. “It’s not some clever hoax, created with fancy software?”
“As far as we can tell, Boss,” Slater assured him.
“And no one else knows it exists?”
“Can’t be sure, but it looks that way,” said Norman.
“And this girl had it all the time? Surely she’s seen it?”
“I don’t think she has.” Slater hadn’t mentioned the password protection or how they’d managed to get access to the video. “She just took it to use to back up stuff on her PC at home, but she never actually used it. She found it in the bottom of her handbag.”
Slater was feeling just a tad uncomfortable. He told himself he wasn’t exactly lying to his boss so much as avoiding the truth, but he hoped Murray wasn’t going to pursue this point too much longer or guilt might just get the better of him.
Norman seemed to read Slater’s guilty thoughts.
“The thing is, boss,” he said. “We were wondering how Chief Inspector Clinton might react if we tried to arrange an interview. Me and Dave aren’t exactly on top of his Christmas card list, are we? If he starts a shit storm against us we’d have no choice but to get Professional Standards involved and then we’d have to hand the whole lot over.”
“You both know that, officially, that’s what we should do, don’t you?” asked Murray.
Slater knew alright, and he was pretty sure Norman did too. He also knew the pair of them would lose their chance to set the record straight if that happened. He watched Murray pacing up and down, and then to the window. What was he going to do? Slater wondered. And then, finally, he walked back to his desk and sat down.
“This is actually a bit more complicated than you think,” he began. “What I’m going to tell you goes no further than these four walls. Do you understand?”
They both nodded.
“As you know,” Murray continued. “The home secretary got involved in the decision to re-investigate this inquiry. One of the reasons he was keen for it to be handled by a force outside the Met, and not by Professional Standards, is because he has a suspicion things have got far too cosy between them – in particular between Professional Standards and the Serious Crime Unit.
“He’s also aware that several very good officers, and that includes both of you, have suffered as a result of the SCU’s inability to accept responsibility for their own cock-ups. They’d much rather blame the nearest DS who’s gone out on a limb to help them with local knowledge. In their view, nothing’s ever their fault. The home secretary believes this has gone on for far too long now, and if he has his way, the SCU will be dismantled, but what he needs is some hard evidence to prove it’s reached its sell-by date.”
“And that’s where we come in,” said Slater. “Now I see why you wanted me to keep to myself as much as possible.”
“Is that why I’m here too?” asked Norman. “To make up a revenge squad?”
“You’re here, Norman,” said Murray, “because I know you’re a damned good officer. I asked for you to come here before all this came together because I wanted someone with years of experience that I could rely on. I’ve got some really good officers here, but they’re young and inexperienced. I want you to pass on your experience to help polish my rough diamonds into real gems.”
Slater thought that was some compliment. He looked across at Norman, who seemed to suddenly be sitting taller and straighter as he filled with pride.
“It just so happened,” Murray went on, “that this case came along almost as soon as you arrived. I believe it’s what’s known as karma. What goes around, comes around.”
Slater was impressed to think the old man knew what karma was. Maybe he’s not so old fashioned after all, he thought.
“Now we’re getting off the point,” said Murray. “I appreciate you could do with some help so I’ve assigned DC Biddeford to join you from tomorrow, but I’d prefer it if you just used him for research rather than sticking him in the firing line.”
“Is that it?” said Slater. “Just one body?”
“I’m afraid so, for all sorts of reasons,” said Murray.
“That’ll be fine,” Norman assured Slater. “Keep it small. We already agreed the more staff we have the more potential there is for leaks. We can handle it. Besides, if we’re going to carry on working from that tiny little house of yours, we couldn’t fit any more in. One’s gonna be a squeeze.”
He looked innocently at Slater and winked.
“Ok,” agreed Slater. “One’s better than none. But we still have the problem of getting to speak to Mark Clinton. We were rather hoping you might arrange it, Sir.”
Murray pursed his lips.
“He can easily make life difficult for us lower ranks,” Norman reminded him, “But you’re on the same level. And you have the home secretary on your side.”
“We don’t want Clinton to know that,” warned Murray. “And I don’t want you charging in there looking for revenge. I’ll phone him and suggest it might be a good idea if he has an informal chat with a couple of my officers because his name has come up in an inquiry. I’ll play it down as much as I can to get him in a room with you, but once you get him in there, you hit him with that video. Let the bugger know he’s in some deep shit and then see what happens.”
“That’s all we need,” said Slater. “If you can get us in a room with him we can do the rest.”
Chapter Nineteen
It had taken all Bob Murray’s guile to persuade Mark Clinton it would be in his best interests to meet up with one of his officers for an informal chat. His initial hostility to the idea had been overcome by Murray’s assertion that he was quite sure it was some sort of misunderstanding and that he was equally sure Clinton could very easily and quickly put their minds at rest.
“I like to think we can sort these things out without the need for paperwork. I’m sure you know what I mean,” Murray had said. “It’ll be much quicker than the official route.”
His assertion that a meeting should take place in a neutral venue seemed to convince Clinton he had nothing to worry about.
“Police stations are very good places for rumours to start, don’t you think?” Murray had suggested.
“I’ll tell Detective Sergeant Salter you’ll meet him then, shall I?”
At 7.30 am on Wednesday morning, Dave Slater approached a man sat on his own at Heston Services on the M4. He was at a corner table, far away from the busy end of the cafeteria, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of scalding hot liquid that was supposed to be coffee.
“Chief Inspector Clinton?” asked Slater politely.
Clinton looked up at him. His face made it quite clear what he thought about this whole situation, but Slater could handle a bit of hostility. It went with the job most of the time.
“I want to see your warrant card,” said Clinton.
Slater handed his card over. Clinton studied it, and then looked up.
“Murray told me I was meeting Sergeant Salter,” he said warily.
“Ah!” said Slater with a cheeky grin. “He’s always getting my name wrong. It’s his dyslexia.”
Clinton looked hard at him and Slater could tell he wasn’t amused. He wondered if Clinton had recognised his name.
“I’m a busy man, Sergeant,” he warned, his voice full of his own importance. “So you’d better make this quick.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’ll take long, Sir. Is it alright if I sit down?”
“Help yourself.”
Clinton pointed at the empty chairs opposite him. Slater dragged one out and made a big deal out of getting comfortable. He couldn’t use his rank to intimidate Clinton, but he could certainly annoy the hell out of him.
“Right, Sergeant,” snapped Clinton. “You can stop with the ‘
aggravating and incompetent’ act, and get to the point. I’m only here as a favour to Chief Inspector Murray. I hope you realise that.”
“Oh yes, of course, Sir. And I’m very, very grateful,” Slater gushed. He thought about doffing an imaginary cap, but decided that might be going just a bit too far.
“Well, come on, man. Get on with it.” Clinton’s fuse was getting shorter by the minute, which was good for Slater, but he knew if he pushed it too far, he might lose this chance.
“Well, I’ve been investigating this case,” he began, “And your name’s come up, Sir. Naturally I don’t want to bring your name into it if it can be avoided-”
“Yes, yes,” snapped Clinton. “I know all that.”
“Do you know someone called Ruth Thornhill?” asked Slater.
“I don’t believe I do,” said Clinton confidently. “It’s not ringing any bells for me. I’ve never heard that name before.”
“Oh,” Slater sounded disappointed. “Well, that answers that, then.”
“Is that it?” asked Clinton, red-faced with anger. “You got me all the way out here just to ask me that?” He started to fold his newspaper in disgust.
“Bloody Toytown coppers, wasting my time. I’m going to be making a complaint about this, Sergeant. Do you understand?”
Slater looked suitably embarrassed.
“Right,” said Clinton pushing his chair back, “If that’s all?”
“How about Ruby Rider?” said Slater, quietly. “Does that name ring any bells?”
Slater wished he’d had a camera with him, just so he could prove that colour does drain from people’s faces. But Clinton was pretty good, and once he got over the initial shock he was red-faced again in no time.
“What is this? Twenty bloody questions? Have you got any more names you want to throw at me?”
“That depends,” said Slater calmly. “How many other hookers have you been seeing?”
“You’re making a big mistake here, Sergeant Slater. You’re going to regret making that accusation.”
