by Iain Cameron
They collected their coats and arm-in-arm, made their way across the wind-swept campus towards a student apartment in East Hill, which Megan assured him was empty as her friend went home every weekend. The Hills was amply named as even though the university was built on an area of flat land between the South Downs and the sea, the planners sited what was now the lowest grade of student accommodation on the only hill for miles around. This gave residents a fine view over the campus but separated it geographically from the rest of the university and as a result, it developed an individual, Bohemian atmosphere with a tacky, rocking bar and was often home to the wildest parties.
Standing at the door of her friend’s room, in a sloping, narrow alleyway between two rows of identikit buildings, he kissed her again as she fumbled for the key. She turned and pressed her hips close to him, her hand slipping down his crotch and undoing his zip.
‘Christ!’ she gasped in his ear laughing, ‘that’s a whopper. How do you manage to keep it hidden while you teach?’
‘Why do think I need to stand behind a lectern?’
She started to giggle, a girlish snigger totally out of keeping with the serious proponent of Rothko and Hockney that he was debating with an hour before. He said something else and she started to laugh out loud, prompting shouts of ‘shut the fuck up’ from somewhere in the dense arrangement of hillside apartments. Despite the fog of booze, he could see it would end in tears if there were any altercation and he was spotted, so he took the key from her, opened the door and got her inside her before someone came out of their room and recognised him.
With no attempt at niceties or polite conversation, they stripped off their clothes and bounced the springs of the small single bed so hard, he was sure it was a more intrusive noise than her short bout of laughing. The big surprise of the evening was she had a beautiful body hiding beneath her long hippy-style dress and cardigan, a bigger revelation than the one he received last Christmas when he opened his wife’s present to find a diver’s watch, the sort of timepiece he detested.
Thirty minutes later, after attempting every sexual position their drunken minds could think of, he was lying in the darkness, his body hot and sweaty and listening to his own heavy breathing as it gradually decreased and regained its regular rhythm. In moments such as this, he would make an assessment of the girl beside him as to what her likely reaction would be if he suddenly broached the subject of making a tidy sum by posing naked for the web site, but almost as soon as he thought of doing so, he thought of Sarah.
Despite her beautiful figure and her wholehearted approach to sex, it was unlikely he would share Megan’s bed again but he couldn’t keep his hands off Sarah. She took to modelling like a duck to water, loving all the attention it brought her, not only from the photographers who were slick operators and expert at putting young girls at ease, but from punters who sent her adoring emails. However, no matter how much she loved the work, she loved the money she was making even more.
Her parents were well-off and lived in a big house in Epsom but fearful of drugs or indolence or any number of weaknesses befalling the modern student, they kept her on a short leash with only enough money for essentials and there was little left over for her to enjoy herself.
Armed with the money she made from modelling, she set out to party with a vengeance. He wasn’t so blind that he couldn’t see there was a gulf between them in age, experience, interests and motivation and she would only be attending university for as long as it took her to complete her degree, and so nothing would come of their relationship, but in many respects those months together were the happiest days of his life.
He finished a cigarette and turned to look at Megan, but she was sound asleep. If he wasn’t feeling so melancholy, he would have woken her up to see if she fancied doing it all again, but instead he dressed and headed out into the cold night, wondering not for the first time, what life was going to be like without Sarah.
FOURTEEN
He replaced the handset back on the cradle and removed his hand as if the device was hot. It was all he could do to stop crashing the little device down and smashing it into a thousand pieces or throwing it against the wall, but in truth Henderson couldn’t face another visit of Neil from Accounts and listen once again to a lecture about damaging taxpayer’s property. Yet again Chief Inspector Steve Harris succeeded in winding him up, this time about the level of overtime on a large and complex rape case he had worked on last month.
He was just about to emit a loud cry, usually the precursor to smashing his fist into something less expensive than the phone, such as a filing cabinet, the in-tray or the piles of boxes that seemed to be breeding close to his desk like rabbits, when DS Harry Wallop breezed in. With a cheery, ‘hi Boss,’ he sat down at the meeting table and dumped a pile papers on the table.
When he did not receive a salutary response in return, he looked up. ‘What’s wrong with you Angus, you look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
‘No, I’ve just had a bloody annoying phone call, that’s all.’
‘I get them. Mind, its often from the wife, reminding me to collect her dry cleaning or asking me to pick her up from Sainsbury’s because she’s loaded down with shopping, and here I am just about to interview the victim in a violent assault case or chasing after some kid who’s just nicked a pensioner’s handbag. You’ve gotta laugh.’
Wearily, Henderson rose from his seat and joined the sergeant at the small meeting table. When first installed, the remnants of a furniture reorganisation in the offices of the big chiefs upstairs, he was assured it could easily seat four. Clearly, they were gilding the lily just a touch as the only four people it could accommodate comfortably, were four six-stone school kids with one jotter each as a broad-shouldered specimen like Harry Wallop took up the whole of one side and the pile of papers he brought along with him almost hid the wooden table top from view.
‘Am I in the wrong room or have I got the wrong time? You said you wanted to go over the Ferris operation before we went out.’
‘No, you’re right enough, Harry. It’s me.’ Focus Henderson, focus. ‘Is he still not answering his phone?’
‘No, we’re getting nothing at all.’
‘Ok, let’s hear what you’ve got planned.’
‘Bentley, Hammond, Graham and me will head over to his cottage. I’ll position two of us at the front and two at the back to make sure he doesn’t scarper out over the golf course. I’ll go in the front and arrest him and after we take him out, a SOCO van with five officers are standing by, ready to give the house and garden the once over.’
‘What if he gives you trouble? He’s a big man, don’t forget.’
‘I’ve got Phil Bentley with me. He can handle himself and he does karate as well.’
He nodded. Bentley was tall and skinny but strong and reliable. ‘Sally Graham’s not very big but she’s a stubborn brute and I’m concerned she won’t back down if he comes running towards her.’
‘Aye, I know what you mean, it would be a heavyweight against a flyweight, no contest but just as soon as we hear any movement from the back we’ll be round there quick-style to join them.’
‘Make sure you do as I’m fed up seeing the inside of the Royal Sussex. Have you tried calling his work number again, the building company he works for in Crawley?’
‘Yep, Corey Construction they’re called. He didn’t show up for work today, no phone call, nothing. They said they were expecting him as they were due to start work on a new batch of houses in the Bewbush area this morning and couldn’t afford to be a man down.’
‘What about Havana Bay?’
‘When we met him at his cottage the other day, he told us he only works there Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights so they’re not expecting him in for a few days yet.’
‘Give them a call anyway. Check he’s not arranged some annual leave or told them he was visiting a sick relative or something.’
‘Good idea. I’ll get on to it.’
‘What a
bout Plan B? What if he’s not there?’
‘If it looks like he’s just popped out for a paper or he’s out walking the dog, then we’ll wait but if we spot anything to indicate that he’s been away for a few days, you know if a neighbour saw him packing up the car or there’s a pile of post lying behind the door, we’ll force entry and get SOCO in.’
‘I take it you’ve got a warrant?’
‘Yep.’
‘Sounds fine, but keep me posted. I want a call immediately you find anything.’
When Wallop left, his stomach reminded him about lunch, as he hadn’t eaten since breakfast at six-fifteen. With the promise of a breath of fresh air to clear his head, he left the office to walk over to the Asda supermarket nearby and see what delights adorned their sandwich shelves. However, no sooner had he stepped outside Sussex House, than a cold wind began whipping at his jacket, instantly chilling his bones and jettisoning the original plan for a leisurely stroll and instead, he hurried across the road to the supermarket and hurried back.
The bite into the first of two, thick wholemeal egg and cress sandwiches were like nectar to his ravenous body and after polishing off one in quick time, he eagerly started on the second. Two bites in, DS Carol Walters suddenly appeared at the door, still wearing the coat she put on earlier when she left to interview students at Lewes University.
‘Afternoon sir. Boy, have I got news for you.’
‘Is it good enough to interrupt my lunch as it’s the first thing I’ve eaten for hours?’
‘Oh, I should think so.’
‘Pull up a seat and take your coat off otherwise people will think we don’t pay our heating bills.’
She sat on the seat vacated by Harry Wallop earlier and after gathering up the remains of his lunch, he took the seat opposite.
‘If you remember, I went to the university this morning with Seb to interview Sarah Robson’s closest friends.’
‘I do. What happened? What’s this little nugget?’
‘I’m just coming to that but first let me tell some of the general stuff, set the scene, if you like.’ She opened her notebook. ‘According to friends, she was a hardworking and diligent student who kept up to date with her essays and usually did well in exams and by all accounts, was a happy person to be around. According to the boys, she was gorgeous with ‘bumps in all the right places’ and according to one, a bit of a party animal and always up for a night of dancing or a bit of karaoke down at the Students Union. Now, as I expected, they didn’t add a lot of detail to her last day as it was much like any other, with lectures, lunch and seminars, before she left the campus and went back to her flat in Milton Road.’
‘All good background, but not good enough to get my heart pounding.’
‘I’m getting there sir, be patient. Apparently one of her lecturers was very interested in Sarah, always with her at parties and clubs, despite the fact that he was one of her tutors and at least twenty years her senior.’
‘Now, that is interesting.’ He polished off the remains of his sandwich and took a final swig from the can before pushing everything to one side and giving her his full attention.
‘The guy’s name is Jon Lehman, spelt J-O-N just to be trendy I imagine, and he’s a senior lecturer in Business Studies. He’s been her tutor since year one and most of the students were in agreement that his infatuation, some said they were having a full blown affair, started soon after she came to university.’
‘Scandalous and unethical it may be in a closed community like a university, but I don’t yet hear a motive for murder. Now, before we jump off at the deep-end and accuse someone of some impropriety, someone who might just be a well-regarded academic for all we know, have you considered it might be college tittle-tattle by disgruntled students, keen to get back at him for marking their papers too low or something? When my brother was on leave from Afghanistan, he told me the story about an Army patrol sent out to arrest a car dealer that was suspected of being a terrorist. When they got there, they arrested him and were taking him in for questioning when they were stopped by one of the locals who told them it was put-up job, done by rival car dealers to try and put him out of business.’
‘I expected you to say something like that so I got them to name specific times and places and whether they actually witnessed the incident or if the story was told to them by someone else. If they were present at the party or the pub or wherever this incident happened, I asked them to describe exactly when it was, the address of the place and who else was there, and more importantly, what it was they were getting up to.’
‘And your conclusion is?’
‘Several people saw them kissing and feeling one another up on one or more occasion, and one claimed he heard them having sex when he was standing outside the bedroom door at a party.’
‘The kissing and fondling part I’ll buy but the sex behind a closed bedroom door is nothing but hearsay, possibly malicious hearsay at that. So unless they’re caught in the act or he actually admits it, I don’t think its safe to assume they were having an affair, just yet.’
‘Trust you to spoil the fun, but if that one doesn’t convince you, this one will floor you. Are you ready for this?’
‘Get on with it Walters.’
‘There are rumours,’ she held up her hand to stop him telling her off, ‘which I believe we can substantiate, that Jon Lehman is a partner in a company which owns an internet porn site and wait for it, a couple of guys claim to have seen pictures of Sarah on it.’
‘Good God! That’s incredible!’ He immediately thought back to the first time he saw her lying on the golf course, her beautiful innocent face and then her devastated parents in their middle-class house in Epsom. What the hell was this girl mixed up in?
Five minutes later, Walters left to enjoy her lunch in peace while he returned to his desk and waited for the indigestion that this latest revelation would cause. How could he break this news to Sarah’s parents as there was no way he wanted them to read about it in their morning newspaper?
He was about to reach for his computer and access Lehman’s porn website when he suddenly realised he would be making a serious mistake. Looking at such material was prohibited under a document he signed after joining Sussex Police, a practice that was common in most public and private organisations across the UK.
From memory, the document stated that accessing inappropriate web sites on a police force computer was punishable with a suspension and possible dismissal, depending on the seriousness of the breech, and the defence that it was an important part of an on-going investigation was unlikely to be deemed sufficient justification. Thinking about it, he nearly gave CI Harris a gold-plated opportunity to shoehorn his man into CID, or even better from the Super’s point of view, a chance to get rid of the annoying Scotsman in his midst forever.
He was about to lift the phone and talk to George Watson, a sergeant of twenty-odd years who knew everything that was worth knowing in Sussex Police and ask his advice, when it rang.
‘Hello sir, it’s Harry Wallop. I’m still with the SOCO’s at Mike Ferris’s place but they’re not hopeful of finding anything, as there’s been no obvious ground disturbance in the garden or fibres and such on the fence, and the search I did of the cupboards and all the normal hiding places uncovered sod-all. More significantly, it looks to me like a suitcase is missing and there’s a gap in his wardrobe as if a pile of clothes have been removed. I think he’s gone, our bird has flown.’
FIFTEEN
The day after their failed operation to arrest Mike Ferris, DI Henderson took a train to London. By ten o’clock he was seated in the office of Superintendent Haden King, the man in charge of a large chunk of SCD9, which was previously known as the Met Police’s Clubs and Vice Unit at the West End Central Police Station. The Vice unit enjoyed a rich history going back to their establishment in 1932 when they were involved in a number of big trials including that of the Kray twins and Stephen Ward, the osteopath at the centre of the Profumo affa
ir, the fall-out of which threatened to topple the McMillan government in the 1960s.
Before coming up to London, he had tried to find some knowledge of pornography law and practice among the older officers at Sussex House but instead, became embroiled in a testosterone-fuelled discussion with the guys sitting nearby who became animated when they heard words like ‘porn web site’ and ‘naked girls,’ or got bogged down in an irrelevant debate about child pornography or extreme porn, the main focus of police forces in this arena.
One very interesting snippet did emerge, though. In the last few decades, very few prosecutions had been brought for creating, possessing or viewing adult porn. It took a wise old sergeant down in John Street, George Watson to recall the last great show trials of the 1960s and 1970s of Oz magazine, Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Larry Flynt and the banning of films such as Straw Dogs and A Clockwork Orange, as legislators and local authorities tried to stem the tsunami of free love and openness that was beginning to sweep the UK after the repression and deprivation of the post-war years.
The main law governing this activity, the Obscene Publications Act came into force in 1959 and was updated again in 1964, but crucially it was conceived before the advent of the internet and there was no way legislators then could have envisaged how it would transform porn into a global industry that could easily circumvent the legislative programmes of individual countries.
At one time, ‘girlie magazines’ were sealed inside plastic bags and placed on the top shelf of a newsagent and their purchase required an age check, a certain amount of embarrassment by the buyer, especially with others in the shop, and the acquiescence of the shopkeeper. Now, the pictures once only seen in the likes of Penthouse, Men Only and Parade were accessible from any personal computer, in the privacy of one’s home and with no controls over who might look at them.
