Death Of a Temptress

by P. F. Ford

  “He says he met Ruby at a health spa, he didn’t know she was a hooker, but she knew who he was. He says he promised to keep her out of trouble if she had sex with him, but it was a one-night stand. Reckons he’s done some bad things, but he’s no killer.”

  “Well, that certainly sounds like true love, doesn’t it?” said Norman, becoming even more cynical. “I think that’s called abusing your position, don’t you? Do you think it was a one-off, or was he hooked by the hooker? Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Slater slowly. “I’d have a better idea if I could have seen his face. It’s always easier to lie over the phone. And there’s more. He claims to have been sent a blackmail letter telling him if didn’t pay up there was going to be trouble.”

  “So someone knew he was seeing Ruby.” concluded Norman. “And that someone had a copy of the video. Ruby had an accomplice.”

  “No. The letter was all about him seeing a girl called Ruth. He claims he didn’t make the connection because he didn’t know anyone called Ruth. And there was no mention of a video.”

  Slater looked as puzzled as Norman felt.“So what happened next?” asked Norman.

  “Nothing,” said Slater. “He says there were no more letters so he threw the first one away. He put it down to the work of some religious crank because it was full of biblical passages and kept on about someone called Ruth.”

  “So let me get this straight.” Norman sighed. “He expects us to believe he knew nothing, saw nothing and did nothing, right? Oh, and by coincidence, some religious nut sent him a biblical blackmail letter just around the time she disappeared. Do you buy all that shit? Cos I don’t.”

  “I know where you’re coming from, Norm, and I tend to agree with you. But let’s assume he is telling the truth for a minute.”

  “That’s going to be difficult for me,” admitted Norman.

  “I understand that,” said Slater, sounding sympathetic. “But just for a few moments, let’s suppose he is. So, he didn’t know Ruby was Ruth, and he didn’t know Donovan was running an investigation.”

  “You’re quite sure the SCU is involved?” asked Norman.

  “Donovan told me I didn’t want to cross the people at ‘the Unit’. That’s what they call the SCU up there isn’t it?”

  Norman nodded his head.

  “That’s right,” he confirmed. “So, if Clinton’s for real, someone else in the SCU must have known Ruth was Ruby.”

  “Great.” Slater sighed. “Just what we need. Another bloody suspect. I’m beginning to find it difficult to keep all these balls up in the air, you know?”

  “That’s only if Clinton’s telling the truth,” Norman reminded him. “But what about this blackmail letter? Biblical references, using Ruth’s name. Is it just me, or does this point to someone we know?”

  “Ruth’s boyfriend, Tony Warwick,” said Slater. “Of course. He’s a Bible basher. I bet he could find biblical quotes for any situation.”

  “I’ve not had the pleasure.” Norman grinned. “But you’ve met him. Does he seem capable of blackmail?”

  “The guy’s quite intense, and he has some pretty extreme views on what’s right and wrong and how it should be punished. I think he’s capable of just about anything.”

  “Ok. Just let me finish my lunch,” said Norman. “Then we’ll go ask him.”

  They found Steve Biddeford hopping up and down on Slater’s doorstep and after Slater had introduced him to Norman, they made the short journey into town to speak to Tony Warwick.

  On the way, Norman began the process of making friends with Biddeford. He was keen to recruit him as an ally in the ongoing banter with Slater.

  “So tell me Steve,” he asked. “Does he criticise your driving like he does mine?”

  “Oh yes,” answered Biddeford. “He always complains I’m going too slowly. He even once persuaded me to take a shortcut across a village green that was like a swamp. And then he let me get the bollocking when the car sank up to its axles and had to be towed back to the station.”

  “Oh, did he now?” Norman smiled.

  “The car is always the responsibility of the driver,” said Slater.

  “But it was your idea to take the shortcut,” protested Biddeford. “I just followed orders.”

  “We were in pursuit,” argued Slater. “And anyhow, how was I supposed to know we would sink?”

  “Well,” said Norman. “It sounds to me like the senior officer made the error of judgement and then left the junior to take the blame.” He looked at Biddeford in the mirror. “Am I right, Steve?”

  “Right!” said Slater. “That’s enough ‘let’s gang up on Dave Slater’ for now. I can see I’m going to get the blame for everything from here on in.”

  “It’s tough, right?” said Norman, with glee. “But that’s how it is. With high office, comes great responsibility. Didn’t you know that?”

  The dirty look from Slater suggested that maybe it was time he should keep quiet.

  Warwick’s small, shabby home was in Fenn Street, a narrow, cobbled street lined with old terraced houses on either side. Warwick lived in number 52, almost exactly halfway down. Slater knew a narrow lane ran along the back of the houses so he instructed Norman to drop Biddeford at one end so he could walk along the lane and cover the back of the house.

  They parked just short of Warwick’s house and climbed from the car. Slater knocked on the rickety door and it shook alarmingly.

  “Don’t knock too hard, it’ll fall apart,” suggested Norman. The door opened as far as the chain inside would allow. It was just enough for Warwick to peer around at them.

  “Yes,” he snapped.

  “Mr Warwick. D’you remember me? Sergeant Slater? I’d like to ask you a few more questions about Ruth if I may.”

  “I’ve told you all I know,” said Warwick, trying to push the door closed. But, out of habit, Slater had his foot in the way.

  “I particularly wanted to ask you about the letter you sent to Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clinton.”

  Suddenly Warwick was gone, sprinting back through the house towards the back door. Slater looked round at Norman.

  “The bugger’s done a runner.” He tried to push the door open but the chain did its job.

  “Looks like you hit the jackpot with that one,” said Norman behind him. “Here, stand aside.”

  He manoeuvred Slater to one side and then smashed his bulk into the door, which seemed to sag slightly and then sort of explode into a shower of pieces of wood and dust, as if someone had thrown a bomb at it.

  “Woodworm,” explained Norman, standing back to let Slater through.

  Slater rushed through what was left of the door, which was now just a narrow piece of splintered wood hanging uselessly from its hinges. The house was small enough that he could see all the way through the back door and out into the back garden, where he caught a glimpse of Warwick disappearing through the gate and heading off to the right. He knew Biddeford was coming from the left, but he didn’t know if he’d got there yet.

  There was a loud shout of “Oi, you! Come back here,” which told him Biddeford hadn’t got there in time.

  “Quick,” Slater shouted over his shoulder to Norman, as he took off. “He’s gone right.”

  “Yeah, so he has,” said Norman to himself, watching Slater charge through the house. “But I don’t do running, remember? And anyway there are already two of you.”

  He strolled back to the car, climbed in and started the engine. Humming quietly to himself, he put it in gear and began to drive down the street. He could see where the lane emerged onto the street up ahead.

  In the lane at the back of the row of houses, Slater panted heavily as he tried to catch up with the fleeing Warwick. The man was sprinting for all he was worth, hotly pursued by the faster, fitter, Steve Biddeford, but Slater was lagging behind in third place He was definitely not the bookies’ favourite to win.

  Ahead of them, where the lane took a sharp turn
to the right, Slater noticed a dustbin had been left on the corner. Biddeford was getting very close now and he was getting ready to bring Warwick to the ground as he slowed for the corner. But, just as he was about to leap, Warwick stuck out a hand and managed to pull the dustbin over as he passed. There was a loud clang as the bin fell across Biddeford’s path, followed by the sound of a body falling heavily as he crashed into it. Slater grimaced, sure that Warwick was now going to get away. Where the hell was Norman, anyway?

  As Slater tried in vain to catch up, he saw a car drive onto the pavement at the end of the lane. Wait, wasn’t that Norman’s car? He winced at the thump as Warwick crashed into the side of the car as it blocked the exit of the lane. He watched as the runner’s legs were taken from under him, causing him to smash face down onto the bonnet.

  Luckily for Warwick, he managed to bring his hands up to protect his face, but the impact was enough to knock the wind from him and leave him close to unconscious, by the looks of things. Slater watched as he seemed to bounce back upright. For a moment, he wondered if Warwick was going to carry on running, but then he slowly dropped to his knees and slumped forward against the car.

  Norman climbed from the car, and Slater saw him slowly walk round to where Warwick had collapsed alongside the car. He had just begun to inspect the side of his car when Slater and Biddeford arrived breathlessly behind him.

  “Jesus,” said Slater, breathing heavily. “What did you do to him?”

  “Never mind that,” wailed Norman. “Look what he’s done to my car? He’s put a dent in the wing.”

  Slater looked at Warwick with some concern.

  “Bloody hell, Norm, you could have killed him.”

  “Oh rubbish. He’s fine,” said Norman. “I just parked my car, right? And then this maniac came along and attacked it. He kicked the wing and tried to head-butt the bonnet. It’s criminal damage, at the very least.”

  “You could have put him in hospital.” Slater sighed.

  “Look, I told you before, I don’t do running, I use my head. I stopped him, didn’t I? That’s more than you two were going to do.”

  “I suppose you have a point,” conceded Slater. “But how are we going to talk to him if he’s unconscious?”

  “Let’s take him back home,” said Norman. “He’ll be alright in a few minutes, you’ll see.”

  “I’ll sue you for this.” Warwick had been raging at them ever since he’d come to his senses. “There must be a law against this sort of treatment.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” agreed Norman. “There’s also one against resisting arrest, and there’s another one against criminal damage.”

  “What criminal damage?” asked Warwick, sounding indignant.

  “You kicked my car. There’s a great big dent in the side.”

  “You tried to run me over. That’s the truth of the matter. You could have killed me.”

  “We’ve already been over this,” sighed Norman patiently. “You can’t run someone over sideways. You would have to be in front, or behind, for me to run you over. But you came at me from the side.”

  “Right,” said Slater. He’d had enough of the fun and games. “Now let’s talk about a real crime, shall we, Tony? How about blackmail?”

  “What about blackmail?”

  “How about if I mention the name Mark Clinton and a letter you sent him?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Warwick, but his voice, and his face, told Slater he clearly did know exactly what they meant.

  “DCI Clinton kept the letter, Tony,” lied Slater. “It’s on the way down here now. We know it’s from you because you’re the only one we’ve met in this investigation who uses biblical terms. I’m sure when it gets here we’ll be able to get our handwriting expert to confirm you wrote it.”

  “It would be so much better for you if you told us about it now,” added Norman. “It might get you a lesser sentence. You could even avoid going to prison.”

  At the mention of prison, all Warwick’s bravado seemed to melt away.

  “Alright,” he said. “Yes. I wrote him that letter, but only because Ruth asked me to.”

  Slater and Norman exchanged a look.

  “Ruth told you to?” echoed Norman.

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re telling me Ruth made the video and you were going to use it to blackmail Clinton. I guess you thought he’d pay a small fortune to keep a video like that quiet.”

  “Video?” asked Warwick, sounding genuinely surprised. “What video? I don’t know anything about any video.”

  “Come on Tony, don’t play games with us,” said Norman, clearly getting irritated. “The video of Ruth, or Ruby, or whatever you want to call her, having sex with Clinton. You know the one.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Warwick, a look of surprise and horror on his face. “Ruth wouldn’t have sex with that man. She hated him. And who’s this Ruby? Where does she come into all this?”

  Slater looked at Norman. This wasn’t right. Warwick seemed genuine enough, yet he seemed to know nothing. Something didn’t add up here.

  “Alright, Tony,” he said. “You tell us why you sent the letter.”

  “Ruth told me she’d met Clinton at work and for some reason he’d taken a shine to her. He kept calling her at work suggesting she should have a relationship with him. She told me he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I wrote to him telling him that if he didn’t leave her alone I’d make trouble for him.”

  “How much money were you going to ask for? And what trouble were you intending to make?”

  “I didn’t want money. Don’t you understand? I hadn’t even thought about what I was going to do next. I just wanted to make him stop for Ruth’s sake.”

  “And you don’t know who Ruby Rider is?” asked Norman.

  “I’ve never heard of her.”

  Norman produced a photograph and laid it on the table before Warwick.

  “Take a good look at this photo. Does it remind you of anyone?”

  Warwick studied the photo and Slater watched him closely. He thought perhaps Warwick found something familiar in the photo, but he looked confused. Norman then placed one of the photos of Ruth next to it. Warwick obviously did recognise this one. He looked again at the other photo, and then from one to the other several times. Then finally, Slater saw the penny drop, and he knew Warwick wasn’t bluffing.

  “That looks just like Ruth!” he cried. “But she never wears make-up, or dresses like that.”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, Mr Warwick,” said Norman, “But that is Ruth. Or at least, that’s Ruth as her other self. When she was up in London, she called herself Ruby Rider. She was a high-class hooker. Mark Clinton was one of her clients.”

  “No. You must be mistaken. Ruth wasn’t like that. She wasn’t a hooker. And he was a pest, not a client. You’ve got this all wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Warwick, but we even have a video Ruby made of her and Clinton together. We believe that she, along with an accomplice, intended to blackmail Mark Clinton.”

  “No,” insisted Warwick. “You’re making this up.”

  “Now why would we do that, Tony?” said Slater. “We can show you the video if you don’t believe us.”

  “You disgust me,” said Warwick. “You come in here making accusations about Ruth leading some sort of double life, and now you want to show me some cheap pornography. How dare you!”

  “Well, there’s a possible scenario I have to consider, Tony, and it’s why we’re here right now asking you these questions. Let’s suppose you knew what Ruth was doing. Let’s suppose you knew she was Ruby Rider. Let’s suppose it was your idea to make the video of her and Clinton, and blackmail him. And then, let’s suppose you watched the video and you got jealous, and having got jealous you decided you had to stop her, so you killed her.”

  “I told you I knew nothing about any of that. I just wrote the letter to stop him calling her.” He was
crying now, and in Slater’s heart he knew whatever Tony Warwick might be, he wasn’t their killer.

  “This case is beginning to drive me mad,” said Norman gloomily, back at Dave Slater’s house. “How many more red herrings are we going to find? Every time we find a likely suspect, or line of enquiry, it turns out to lead up a blind alley.”

  “We still don’t have a crime, don’t forget,” Slater said, sighing. “I thought we might be onto something with Warwick, but all we have is speculation and suspicion. We can’t even prove he was trying to blackmail Clinton without the letter.”

  He looked morosely into his empty teacup.

  “But we get paid for wading through all this crap to find the truth, so I suppose it’s no good getting downbeat about it.”

  He made a conscious decision that he’d had enough doom and gloom for now. It was time to be a bit more positive, time to move forward.

  “Well, you’ve heard about our crappy day, Steve,” he said to Biddeford. “Now it’s your turn. What did you learn about Clinton?”

  Biddeford dragged a notebook from his pocket and thumbed through to the relevant pages.

  “Nothing of any great note so far,” he began. “Basically he’s a high flyer with the SCU, heading for great things. Like I said, there doesn’t seem to be anything dark in his past. Although, reading between the lines, it seems to me he’s made his way up the ladder by using other people to step on.”

  “That’s for sure,” agreed Norman.

  “He seems almost untouchable,” added Biddeford. “It’s like he has a charmed life and everybody loves him.”

  He looked up at them, and Slater knew he was unsure if he had done a good job or not.

  “More like he’s got something on everybody so they have to love him,” corrected Norman.

  “I tell you what I have found,” said Biddeford. “And maybe it’s one of the reasons he’s untouchable. He knows a lot of people within the legal system. He’s even related to some fancy barrister who has connections in very high places. He married her sister. Now what’s her name?” He looked through his notes again.