Blue Murder

by Graham Ison

  *

  Pritchard wasted no time in getting to Fulham, despite the inordinate cost of the cab fare. Neither did he wait for the receptionist to go through the niceties of announcing his arrival. He bounded up the stairs and pushed open the door of Webb’s office.

  “What the devil d’you want?” demanded Webb, surprised by Pritchard’s aggressive entrance.

  Pritchard slammed the office door and advanced threateningly across the room. Leaning over the desk, he grabbed hold of Webb’s shirt front, pulling him close, and said, “What the bloody hell are you playing at, sport?”

  “What the hell…? Have you gone stark, staring mad, Harry?” Webb tried to release himself from Pritchard’s grasp.

  “Listen to me, you little toad,” said Pritchard. “I’ve just had an uncomfortable quarter of an hour with Bernie Watson and some hood who wrecked my bloody studio. Those sodding tapes I sent you somehow got nicked after I delivered them to you and before they got to wherever. Belgium, wasn’t it?”

  Webb laughed nervously. “They couldn’t possibly have done,” he said. “Perhaps they got seized by customs. It does happen sometimes, you know.”

  Switching his hold, Pritchard grabbed Webb’s tie and pulled it tight around his neck, before standing upright. “And they put blank tapes in our original covers when they do that, do they? Just so none of us’ll be out of pocket. Well, Raymond, listen to this, and listen good. You’re going to find out what happened to those tapes. And you’re going to pay for the damage that Bernie Watson did to my studio. Because if you don’t, mister, the first phone call I make when I leave here’s going to be to your missus. And I’m going to invite her to a very private viewing of some of the videos in my possession. Got it?” It was an empty threat; all the videos featuring Webb were now in Fox’s possession.

  “Look,” said the red-faced Webb as he attempted to unknot his tie, “It’s no good going on at me. What would I switch those tapes for? There’s no profit in that. This sideline operates on trust. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know that, Raymond, but the question is, do you? I’ll tell you this much, though. One more slip like that and you’re dead meat.” Pritchard paused at the door. “And it won’t be me who does the business. It’ll be Bernie Watson. I tell you, he’s one angry man.”

  *

  There was an almost beatific smile on Fox’s face as he listened to the report of the detective sergeant in charge of the surveillance team. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Bernie Watson and an assistant turned up at Pritchard’s studio and left twenty minutes later, looking unhappy. Right?”

  “Right, sir,” said the DS.

  “And then our Mr Pritchard promptly hightails it down to Fulham in a growler, where presumably he interviewed Mr Raymond Webb. Finally, the aforementioned Mr Webb left for his Richmond abode looking somewhat distraught.”

  “That about sums it up, sir,” said the DS, grinning.

  “From which,” mused Fox, “one might deduce that news of the missing blue videos has reached them.”

  “Certainly looks that way, sir,” said the DS.

  Fox nodded amiably. “You know,” he said, “it gives an entirely new twist to the old saying about the biggest cock-up since Mons.”

  Thirteen

  The morning after the coming together of Watson and Pritchard, and Pritchard and Webb, Fox decided to interest himself in what had been going on. It was not that he really hoped to learn anything that would take him nearer a solution to the three murders, but Fox was a great collector of snippets of information. Often in the past, he had found that among all the minor scraps of intelligence that came his way, there would eventually come a dawning. But apart from anything else, Fox was inveterately inquisitive; no bad thing in a detective.

  “I see that our Mr Pritchard has acquired himself a security intercom, Denzil,” said Fox as he pressed the bell push at the door of the photographer’s studio.

  “Who is it?” asked a distorted voice, squawking through the metal box.

  “Thomas Fox… of Scotland Yard. And friend.”

  There was a buzzing noise as the lock was released and Fox and Evans made their way up the stairs.

  “Good heavens,” said Fox as he gazed at the heap of wrecked floodlights and their stands, now piled in a corner. “Have an accident, did you?”

  “What can I do for you?” Pritchard ignored the question and lowered his camera. “That’ll do, gorgeous,” he said to a naked black girl, her hair in dreadlocks, who was performing contortions on the green satin sheet that covered the bed. “I think we’ll call it a day. Doesn’t look as though we’re going to get the chance to do any more, not with all these interruptions.” He shot a sour expression in Fox’s direction as the black girl stood up and sauntered across to a screened area in the corner of the room.

  But Fox was not to be so easily diverted. “What happened here?” he asked, looking around.

  “Had a break-in,” said Pritchard, a surly tone in his voice.

  “Oh, bad luck,” said Fox. “Particularly after you’ve had that expensive security device fitted to your door. How did they get in, as a matter of interest?”

  “Dunno!” said Pritchard. “Must have left a window open.”

  “You’ve reported it to the local police, I presume?”

  “What’s the point? They never catch anyone.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Fox sympathetically. “It’s all the minor crimes getting in the way. Tends to divert resources from the mainstream, if you take my meaning. Criminal damage, for instance.” He looked pointedly at the pile of wreckage in the corner, and at Evans who was examining it with apparent interest.

  Pritchard followed the detective’s gaze nervously. “Yeah, well it happens a lot these days, doesn’t it? Yobs breaking in and smashing things up, just for the sheer hell of it.”

  “See you, honey,” said the black girl, now dressed in a white satin blouse, scarlet leggings and high-heeled shoes, as she emerged from behind the screen.

  “Yeah, see you, honey. Be good.” Pritchard waved a hand.

  The girl sashayed across the room and out of the door leading to the stairs.

  “Seen Bernie Watson lately?” asked Fox suddenly.

  But Pritchard was not easily caught out. “Who?” he asked innocently.

  “Bernie Watson. Thought you might know him. I understand that he’s something of an entrepreneur in the blue film world.” Fox continued to gaze airily around the studio. “I do hope you’re insured, Harry, dear boy,” he said.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” said Pritchard earnestly. “I’m covered.” He glanced ostentatiously at his watch. “Look, I’ve got another session in a few minutes. Was there something particular you wanted to talk about, or have you just dropped in for a chat?”

  “D’you remember a girl called Beverley?” asked Fox, switching back to the subject of the Watson family. “Used to be one of your porn actresses, so I hear.”

  “Beverley, Beverley?” Pritchard looked thoughtful. “Seem to remember someone of that name,” he said.

  “Died of a drugs overdose last August,” said Fox helpfully.

  “Oh yeah, I did hear something about that. What’s the problem then?”

  “I’m told she was Michael Leighton’s girlfriend.”

  Pritchard laughed. “One of many,” he said. “To be perfectly honest the only reason he took an interest in the skin flick game was so that he could have his pick of the available talent.” He leaned against the edge of the bench that, until yesterday, had held most of his camera equipment. “There’s not a lot of money in this racket, you know. Not any more. There’s so much of it on the market that the prices are rock-bottom. And for us, in this country, to try to compete with the stuff coming out of Holland, Denmark, Sweden and now the Eastern European countries, is a bit of a non-starter.”

  “Why d’you do it, then?” asked Fox.

  “The money,” said Pritchard, with a grin, as though that was the
sole reason for doing anything.

  “But you just said there wasn’t any profit in it,” said Fox.

  “Not for Leighton there wasn’t,” said Pritchard, “but what he was really doing was paying for his fun, and he paid me well, so I didn’t complain. It was just a form of prostitution really. Leighton seemed to get some weird satisfaction out of being filmed having it off with kids young enough to be his daughters. I suppose he showed the videos to his cronies, just to prove that he was still up to it. And he paid the girls well for their services.”

  “What did the girls think about it?”

  Pritchard shrugged. “You know what these girls are like,” he said. “Once they’ve got used to the idea, they don’t give a toss, if you’ll pardon the expression. They’ll take their clothes off and screw with anyone if the price is right. After all, it’s a short-lived career, if you think about it. Most of them are raddled old toms by the time they’re thirty. I don’t think they liked it much, and they liked doing it with Webb even less. I suppose when they started they thought they’d be performing with some handsome young stud, but that’s not the way Leighton worked. He’d convinced them that the market called for young girls doing all sorts of stunts with older men.”

  “How did he convince them of that?” asked Fox.

  Pritchard held up his hand and rubbed the thumb across the tips of his fingers. “Pay them enough and they’ll do anything,” he said.

  “So this Beverley wasn’t any more than another one of his videoed bed-mates then?”

  “She might have believed it, but he didn’t. Soon as he tired of one, he’d replace her with some other chick. So long as she had big boobs.”

  “And is that what happened to Beverley?”

  “Search me,” said Pritchard. “But why are you so interested in her? I mean, OD-ing on drugs sends bad vibes, but it’s not exactly news, not these days.” He paused. “You’re not saying she was murdered too, are you?”

  “No,” said Fox mildly. “I’m interested because she was Bernie Watson’s only daughter. But as you’ve never heard of Bernie Watson, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Like I said, name means nothing to me.” If that piece of information had shocked Pritchard, he did a very good job at concealing his surprise. And that gave Fox a subject for serious consideration.

  *

  Realizing that he had been neglecting Lady Jane Sims of late, Fox made a point of calling on her that evening.

  “Oh, Tommy, it’s you. I’ve only just finished drying my hair.” She was wearing a white Terry robe when she answered the door. “A little earlier and you’d’ve caught me in the shower.”

  “Really?” said Fox with feigned indifference as he followed her into the living room. “Thought I’d take you out to dinner.”

  “Wonderful,” said Jane. “Be a dear and pour us a drink while I get dressed.” She touched his arm lightly and disappeared into the bedroom on the other side of the flat’s narrow hall.

  Fox poured two stiff measures of whisky and walked through to the small kitchen in search of water. “Sorry I’ve not been to see you lately,” he called as he returned to the living room.

  Jane had left the doors open so that they could talk while she dressed. “You could have phoned,” she shouted.

  “Yes, I suppose I could, but I’ve been too busy searching a studio where they make blue movies.”

  “What?”Jane’s head appeared briefly round the bedroom door.

  “I thought that’d get you going,” said Fox, smiling as he sat down in one of the armchairs. “It was full of naked women.”

  “I despair of you, Tommy,” said Jane, retreating once more into the bedroom. “Is it connected with these Cyprus murders? Or was that just a good excuse?”

  Fox laughed. “It’s supposed to be connected,” he said, “but quite frankly, I seem to be getting further and further away from solving them.”

  “Bring my drink in, there’s a love,” Jane called.

  When Fox entered the bedroom, Jane was attired in bra and briefs, and was sitting at her dressing-table applying her make-up. She smiled at him through the mirror. “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, turning to take her drink. “But you’ve probably had your fill of nudity for one week.” She took a sip of her whisky and set the glass down. “One of the chaps at that dinner you took me to at the Yard last year said that policemen on the Vice Squad often ask to be transferred because they get fed up with the sight of naked flesh. Is that true?” She paused, lipstick pointed at her face, and gazed quizzically at him, again through the mirror.

  “I don’t know what it is about coppers,” said Fox, “but whenever they get into conversation with a pretty woman, they always have to talk about sex.”

  “Who said anything about sex?” said Jane and closed her lips over a tissue, blotting them.

  “It’s a pretty sordid world, Jane,” said Fox, for once without a trace of cynicism in his voice. “Some of the girls in this set-up were given drugs so that they’d perform more actively.”

  “And did they?” Jane was only half sure that Fox was telling her the truth. He often teased her, and the world he so rarely mentioned was completely alien to her. That her sister, Lady Dawn, had been following a life of high-class prostitution when she was murdered had come as a terrible, and even now unbelievable, shock to her. Jane stood up and put on her tights, doing her best to make the inelegant procedure as graceful as possible, before stepping into an expensive sheath dress. Since meeting Fox, some eighteen months previously, she had been persuaded by him to improve her appearance. Whereas formerly she had slopped about in old rugby shirts and jeans, and had even been prepared to go out dressed like that, she had recently bowed to his wishes and begun to take a real interest in her clothes. “Do me up, Tommy, please,” she said.

  Fox deftly did up the fastener at the back of Jane’s dress and then stood back, thinking that to watch a woman getting dressed was almost as provocative as watching her disrobe. “One of them died of a drugs overdose,” he said.

  Jane turned to face him. “That’s awful, Tommy. Whatever did her parents think?”

  Fox shrugged. “It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid,” he said, “And her parents didn’t know about it. Not until I told them eleven months later. Or at least, her father.”

  “You mean her mother still doesn’t know?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Fox. “She’s divorced from the father and he doesn’t have anything to do with her now. As far as I know. He said that he’d last spoken to her at the time of the girl’s disappearance, about two years ago.”

  “Well, don’t you think you should find her, just to let her know?” Jane looked quite shocked at the thought of a mother not knowing of the death of her daughter.

  “We’re not running a welfare service.” Fox spoke defensively but, he thought, there might be some profit in tracing the first Mrs Watson; it could well provide him with another lead. He made a mental note to get one of his officers to start looking for her, first thing tomorrow. Then, noting Jane’s sudden seriousness, he clasped her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You look good,” he said.

  “I suppose that’s a real compliment,” said Jane, “coming from you.” And smiling, she picked up her handbag.

  *

  “I’ve got a job for you, Bob,” said Fox.

  “Yes, sir?” Detective Sergeant Robert Hurley stood up behind his desk in the incident room.

  “When you did the death search on Beverley Watson, you also did a birth search and found that Bernie Watson was her father.”

  “That’s right, sir.” Hurley took a sheet of paper from among the pile in his pending-tray.

  Fox waved the proffered search-form away. “I know what’s on it,” he said. “You found that her mother was Lee Watson, nee Frith.”

  “Yes, sir.” In common with many of Fox’s other officers, Hurley was always impressed by his commander’s ability to recall minor details.

  “Find he
r,” said Fox. “But don’t talk to her. I’ll do that. And don’t ask Bernie Watson where she is either. I don’t want him to know that we’re taking an interest in his ex-wife. Not that I think he knows where she is anyway.”

  “Any idea where I might start looking, sir?” asked Hurley, knowing that Fox did not always share his fund of information with the rest of the team.

  “Not a clue,” said Fox. “But you’re a trained detective. Detect!”

  Hurley grinned. “You mean beat on the ground and see what comes up, sir.” He had rapidly become conversant with the new commander’s favorite catch-phrase.

  Fox nodded gravely. “You’re learning, Bob,” he said.

  *

  Given the constraints he had placed upon DS Hurley, Fox had set him an almost impossible task. Hurley started, as all good detectives start, by interrogating the Police National Computer. But unless the individual had been convicted of a crime, or was wanted for one, or had been filed as a missing person, the PNC wouldn’t help. And it didn’t in this case. Mrs Lee Watson, nee Frith, had not come to the official notice of the police.

  The London telephone directory didn’t help either. Discounting those subscribers whose first name had been included, there were still forty-three Watsons with the first initial “L”. And that meant an awful lot of telephone calls. To complicate the search even more, Hurley was mindful of the fact that as Bernie Watson lived in Welling, it was also possible that Lee Watson was living in the suburbs. And given that there were a further five telephone directories that covered the areas outside the London postal district, the task assumed insurmountable proportions.

  On the other hand, thought Hurley miserably, Lee Watson may have decided, at some time since her divorce, to move to Birmingham, or Cornwall, or Wales. Or even abroad.

  In common with most detectives facing such an awesome task, Hurley knew, deep down, that he would finish up doing what every other detective usually finished up doing. One hell of a lot of legwork.

  There were other options, of course, but they were dependent upon the co-operation of officials who sometimes claimed privilege or client-confidentiality in their dealings with the police. And unless the subject of the search was wanted for a serious crime, it was unlikely that Hurley would get any assistance from those quarters.