by Graham Ison
And it was the following morning that Detective Constable George Christofides came up with the goods.
*
DS Robert Hurley eventually found the house in Pinner to which the estate agent in Crystal Palace had said that Lee Watson had moved.
“I remember the name,” said the woman who answered the door. “But she was only here for a couple of weeks. I only do bed and breakfast, you see. It’s not really suitable for long-term letting.”
“D’you happen to know where she went when she left here, Mrs…?”
“Mrs Molloy,” said the woman. “What’s it about?”
“I’m a police officer and—”
“In some sort of trouble, is she?” asked Mrs Molloy, her interest immediately aroused.
“Oh no, nothing like that,” said Hurley hurriedly. “It’s just that we need to trace her. To return some stolen property. Result of a burglary.” He told the lie easily.
“That’s nice,” said Mrs Molloy. “She’ll be pleased. We’ve had our fair share of burglaries, all of us round here, but the police never seem to catch anyone. Still, I suppose you’ve got your work cut out these days, what with all this terrorism and drugs and that.”
“We certainly manage to keep busy,” said Hurley, hoping that the woman would not invite him in for tea. Right now, his fancy was for a pint of lager. “So you’ve no idea where she might have gone, then?”
“No, I’m ever so sorry. She paid her bill and that was that. If I kept a record of everyone who stayed with me for B and B, I’d need a book three inches thick.” Mrs Molloy smiled at the prospect, but suddenly peered over Hurley’s shoulder at a woman emerging from the house opposite. “Now I wonder where that madam is off to, all dolled up,” she said. She tossed her head and glanced back at Hurley. “I wouldn’t mind betting her husband would be interested in knowing where she gets to every Tuesday afternoon. Playing fast and loose, if you ask me.”
“So you’ve no idea where Mrs Watson might have gone to then, Mrs Molloy?” asked Hurley wearily.
“Do what?” asked Mrs Molloy vaguely, as she dragged her attention back to the detective. “Oh, yes, Mrs Watson.” She gave the question some further thought. “Now you come to mention it, I seem to remember that she said something about going to Brighton. Yes, I’m sure it was her. Can you remember what she looked like?”
“No,” said Hurley. “I’m afraid I’ve never seen her.”
“What was this Mrs Watson’s first name?”
“Lee,” said Hurley. “Mrs Lee Watson.”
“Yes, I remember her now,” said Mrs Molloy. “Lee Watson. Yes, she did say something about going to Brighton.”
“I don’t suppose she mentioned whereabouts in Brighton, did she?” asked Hurley hopefully. “Didn’t say anything about staying with relatives or anything like that?”
“No, I’m sorry. It was nearly a year ago, you see.”
“Well, thank you for your help, Mrs Molloy,” said Hurley. “And for your time.”
“Hope you find her,” said Mrs Molloy as she closed her front door.
“So do I,” said Hurley to himself.
*
Kirsty Newman lived in Gipsy Hill, in south-east London, in one of the maze of streets that lay to the north of Westow Hill.
Compared with Anna Coombs’s flat in Wandsworth, Kirsty Newman’s was quite palatial.
“Nice pad you’ve got here,” said Kate Ebdon when, reluctantly, the Newman girl had admitted her.
“You come to admire the decor, love?” asked Kirsty, “or did you want something?” She was clearly unhappy at the arrival of the Australian woman detective.
But Kate knew how to deal with hostile prostitutes. “Yeah, I want something,” she said. “Tell me about Michael Leighton.”
“What d’you want to know?” Although she didn’t really have the legs for it, Kirsty Newman was wearing a tight, black mini-skirt, and a close-fitting red, satin blouse that dipped very low at the front. Kate could see that she was not wearing a bra.
“How long did you work for him?”
“Who said I did?”
“Me,” said Kate. “Our observation team saw you leaving the studio at the back of Waterloo where you took part in making skin flicks.”
“Now just hold on—”
“And we later seized a quantity of videos on which you, Kirsty mate, are to be seen performing some of the most fantastic sexual gymnastics I’ve ever seen.”
“Know all about sexual gymnastics, do you? Be a bit different from the sort I do, I imagine.” Kirsty leaned back in her chair, an insolent smirk on her face. The implication was clear: that because Kate was a policewoman she was also a lesbian.
“Cheap little whores like you make me tired,” said Kate without raising her voice. “And if you’d like a trip down to Gipsy Hill nick where, for a start, we’d have you searched, you just say the word. But if you don’t, you’ll wipe that sneer off your tarted-up face and answer a few questions.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” said Kirsty, sitting up slightly.
“I just did,” said Kate. “So what’s it to be?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” said Kirsty defensively.
“Look, sweetie,” said Kate, “I don’t give a bloody toss about you screwing for the viewing public, but I’m interested in murder and I’m interested in drugs. So, if you want to play it the hard way, that suits me. Got it?”
Kirsty Newman clearly did get it. “I don’t know anything about murder or drugs,” she said, a little too quickly.
“Let me spell it out for you then. Michael Leighton, who was screwing you on what we call Exhibits Numbers Seventeen, Thirty-four and Seventy-five—” Kate reeled off the first three numbers that came into her head “—was found shot to death aboard his yacht, along with two of your fellow actresses.” She laid sarcastic emphasis on the last word. “And we know that they’d all taken drugs. And we also know that Leighton had offered drugs to most of the girls who turned tricks for him. Were you one of them? Yes or no?”
“I never took any.” Quite suddenly, Kirsty began crying.
“You can knock that off, too,” said Kate sharply. “Doesn’t cut any ice with me. So, who offered you drugs and what was it?”
Dry-eyed as quickly as she had been crying, Kirsty shot Kate a hostile glance. “Marijuana was all he offered me,” she said softly.
“What about cocaine? Flash coke about, did he?”
“Not to me.”
“What about Beverley?”
“Beverley?”
“Look, Newman, don’t sod me about. I don’t have the time for it. Yes, Beverley. According to another witness—” the police rarely identified one witness to another. “—She was well under Leighton’s thumb, apart from other parts of his anatomy. He fed her cocaine and he chained her up and he whipped her. But only because the part called for it, as most nude actresses say,” she added caustically.
“He did me too,” said Kirsty softly.
“And you stood for that?” Kate was amazed at what some women would do for money.
“Had to. I was tied up,” said Kirsty with just the trace of a smile.
“Why the hell did you stay with him then?”
“Because he threatened that he would hand me over to the police if I didn’t. He said that he’d got a copper on his payroll and he only had to say the word and that would be that. He said he’d make sure I never worked again.”
Kate didn’t believe that for a moment, but she had to pursue it. She knew that if she didn’t ask the question, Fox would want to know why she hadn’t. “Did he say who this copper was?”
“Course he didn’t.”
“How did you meet this Leighton bloke?” asked Kate.
“Booked me one night. I was doing house calls then…” Kirsty Newman paused. “Are you going to do me for this?” she asked.
“Christ no,” said Kate. “I’ve got more important things to worry about than stupid tarts hawking their mu
tton. So what happened?”
“I’d been putting my telephone number in phone boxes. You know the sort of thing. And I got a call from him one night. Asked me to meet him at a hotel down Victoria somewhere.”
“And you had sex?”
“No. He stripped me off and looked me over. Then he asked me if I wanted to make some blue movies. The money was good so I said yes.”
“And that’s where it began?”
“Yeah. I went to this studio, the one you mentioned near Waterloo Station. We’d do a session about twice a week. Did it with Leighton and Harry Pritchard. Well, you’ve seen the films, so you said. Oh, and there was some nasty little bastard called Ray who used to turn up every so often. That would have been funny if it hadn’t been so sick.”
“Why did Leighton pick you?” asked Kate. “Did he say? I mean, there must have been dozens of girls he could have chosen from.”
“Haven’t a clue,” said Kirsty, but she sounded insincere.
“You must have big boobs then. I’m told he was a boobs man.”
“See for yourself,” said Kirsty angrily, and ripped her blouse open.
*
Detective Constable George Christofides was smiling broadly when he met Craven-Foster and Morgan in the foyer of their hotel the following morning.
“You’re looking pleased with yourself, George,” said Craven-Foster.
“I have found your man for you, sir,” said Christofides, still beaming.
“You have?” With a look of astonishment on his face, the detective superintendent sat down in one of the wickerwork chairs and ordered coffee. “Tell me about it.”
“After I left you last night, sir,” said the Cypriot policeman, “I had an idea. I thought to myself that if this man Jock was a typical ex-soldier, he would have had to find himself a woman. So I made some enquiries in the red-light quarter of Paphos.”
“And?” Craven-Foster leaned forward.
“And that is your man, sir.” Christofides laid a credit card on the table. “He is called John Tanner.”
“Where in hell’s name did you get that from, George?” asked Morgan, picking up the credit card and examining it.
“From a prostitute called Andrea Nemitsas.”
“What was she doing with it?” asked Craven-Foster.
“She stole it, sir.” Christofides grinned. “I asked lots of questions around the quarter. And when the police start questioning prostitutes, they get worried. If they know anything, they tell you, just to get rid of you. One or two of the women had had sex with this man Jock. Apparently he told them that was his name. One of the girls told me that he had also been with Andrea Nemitsas, but when I spoke to her she was not happy to tell me anything about him. She does a lot of business with the British. She speaks good English, you see.”
“So how did you get it out of her?” asked Morgan, moving slightly to allow the waiter to set down the tray of coffee.
Christofides shrugged, as though the answer was obvious. “I searched her room, sir, and I found the credit card.”
Craven-Foster threw back his head and laughed. “Well, George,” he said, “I’ve got to hand it to you. That was bloody brilliant. What’s going to happen to her?”
“That’s up to you, sir. I could have arrested her, but I thought that I’d ask you first. If she’s arrested, then we have to try to get in touch with this John Tanner, and it might not be good to alert him. Not before you’ve arrested him, eh?” Christofides grinned again and took a sip of his coffee.
“Well, if you ever want a job in the Metropolitan Police, George,” said Craven-Foster, “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“I might,” said Christofides. “My uncle has a restaurant in…” He paused. “Yes, in Harlesden. You must go there. He’d be pleased to see you. Tell him I sent you.”
*
“Well, if there was a copper on Leighton’s payroll, I’ll have the bastard,” said Fox when he had listened to Kate Ebdon’s account of her interview with Kirsty Newman. “But I’m not having bloody CIB tramping about all over my enquiry.” Fox was unimpressed with the way the Yard’s Complaints Investigation Bureau dealt with matters concerning corrupt policemen. Fox would hand him over, if in fact he existed, when, and only when, it suited him. He glanced up at the woman DC. “Thanks, Kate,” he said. “You did a good job.”
Kate was just closing the door behind her when she paused and stuck her head back round it. “By the way, guv’nor,” she said, “Kirsty Newman did have big boobs.”
“Get out,” said Fox.
*
Even though it was not yet midday in Paphos, several prostitutes were already loitering in the mean, narrow street where Andrea Nemitsas conducted her business. Children played in the hot sunshine and several mangy dogs, when they weren’t fighting each other, made forays into the unsavory food shops with which the street was lined, to be chased away by irate shopkeepers wielding brooms.
In common with whores the world over, the Paphos street-women had an innate ability to recognize the police, and the appearance of Christofides, Craven-Foster and Morgan set in motion a bush telegraph that alerted all the women to their presence within minutes.
“This is the place, sir,” said Christofides, turning into a passageway at the side of a coffee shop and leading the way up a flight of stone steps. At the top, he banged loudly on a door. “Andrea, are you there? It’s the police.”
Moments later, the door opened an inch or two and the frightened face of a young girl peered round it. Seeing that it was Christofides, she opened the door wider. “What d’you want?”
“These gentlemen are from Scotland Yard. They want to talk to you.” Christofides pushed his way past the girl. A double bed dominated the room and an ancient wardrobe stood in one corner. Alongside it was a wash-stand with a bowl and a large jug. A small table and two old chairs completed the sparse furnishings. There was a small rug on the otherwise bare boards that, in one place, were wide enough apart to be able to see the shop below, from which came a constant aroma of coffee.
Andrea Nemitsas was about eighteen and typically Greek in appearance, with dark skin and black, shiny hair that reached her shoulders. Dressed ready for work, she was wearing tight-fitting shorts of some shiny blue material, a red satin blouse that strained over her large breasts and left her midriff bare, and a pair of shoes with high, spindly heels.
“I am very sorry, sir.” Andrea addressed Craven-Foster, the oldest of the three policemen, in the hope that he could exercise some clemency in her favor. “I did not mean to steal it. I found it on the floor after the man had gone.”
Craven-Foster was not in the least interested in what was, at best, a minor theft. “I want you to tell me about the man,” he said. “We are not bothered about the credit card.” Christofides had agreed to forget the matter in the interests of getting the girl to talk more freely. Apart from which, it would give him a lever when he wanted information from the girl about other crimes.
“He came here three times.” With a sweep of her hand, Andrea indicated the double bed.
“How long did he stay?” asked Craven-Foster.
“Not long. He was…” Andrea paused, searching for the right word. “He was very urgent.” She raised a quizzical eyebrow and a brief frown crossed her face.
Craven-Foster smiled. “Yes,” he said, “I think I know what you mean. Did he talk about anything? About hiring a boat? Or about a yacht that might be here in Paphos? Did he say, for instance, that he was here on holiday?”
Andrea shook her head. “No, sir. He was very silent. He just wanted sex and when he had finished with me he left.” She shrugged as though disappointed that she could not help the British policeman any further.
“Tell me what he looked like.”
Andrea described the man as fully as she could recall. According to her, he was six feet tall and very muscular – she particularly remembered his thighs – and had very even, white teeth. His hair was brown and short, like a sol
dier’s. “And he had a birthmark here,” she said, and turning slightly, placed a finger in the center of her left buttock.
Sixteen
“You reckon this John Tanner is our man Jock then, do you?” asked Fox, fingering the stolen credit card that Craven-Foster and Morgan had brought back from Cyprus.
“As sure as we can be, sir. The prostitute’s name was Andrea Nemitsas and we went to see her with young George Christofides. Good copper, that lad. He’d obviously frightened the life out of her and she was only too willing to co-operate. We got a good description of Tanner and she particularly remembers a birthmark on his left buttock.” Craven-Foster grinned. “So we went to see the two squaddies who you had brought over here, Corporal Higgins and Private Farmer, and they confirmed parts of the description that Andrea Nemitsas had given us.”
“Not the birthmark, I trust,” said Fox mildly.
Craven-Foster smiled. “No, sir, not the birthmark.”
“Any idea where he was staying? Or for how long?” asked Fox.
Craven-Foster shook his head. “No, sir. As you know, the two soldiers spoke to him on the twentieth of June and the murders took place on the thirtieth, so it’s reasonable to assume that he was there for the whole of the time between those two dates.”
“If he’s our man.”
“Exactly, sir. If he’s our man,” said Craven-Foster. “George Christofides suggested that he probably stayed at one of the cheaper hotels in Ktima, or even took a room somewhere, but there are so many of them that it was impossible to check, not in the time available anyway. The local superintendent agreed to let George make some enquiries and he’ll let us know if he turns up anything.”
“Right then.” Fox handed the credit card back to Craven-Foster. “Get someone to find out where this character lives, John, and we shall talk to him. In a kindly fashion.”
*
Detective Sergeant Robert Hurley’s first call was at the Central Police Station in Brighton where he told Detective Sergeant Weaver of the Sussex Police about his search for Lee Watson. Weaver was sitting at his desk in the CID office, his tie slackened off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up in an attempt to combat the sweltering heat.