by Graham Ison
“Well, good luck, is all I can say to that, mate,” said Weaver. “There are over a hundred and fifty thousand people living in the Brighton area, plus the tourists, daft bastards.” He sighed. “Why anyone wants to come here for a holiday beats me. Personally, I prefer Portugal.” He stood up. “Best place to start is the front office. We can do a search of the “Stop” Books, see if she’s been turned over for anything. We’ll try the Charge and Persons at Station Books, too.” He paused. “Got a driving licence, you said?”
“Yes,” said Hurley. “But the address is shown as Crystal Palace. We know that she moved from there to Pinner in Middlesex about a year ago. And we also know that she only stayed in Pinner for a fortnight. She told the woman she lodged with that she was coming here.”
“We’ll do the Fixed Penalty Notice Register as well then, just to see if she got a parking ticket.” Weaver grinned. “Most people coming to Brighton get one,” he added. “And just for good measure, we’ll do the Process Register too.”
And that is how, four hours later, DS Hurley got lucky. Mrs Lee Watson had been stopped for speeding on Marine Parade two weeks previously and had been reported for that, and for failing to notify the DVLA at Swansea of her change of address.
It was a big stroke of luck, too. Mrs Watson wasn’t living in Brighton at all. The address that the traffic police had recorded for her was in Epsom. In the Metropolitan Police District.
*
“Got it,” said the chief security officer of the credit-card company, an ex-policeman called Peter Telford, as he turned from the VDU. “John Tanner reported the loss of his card by phone from Cyprus. I don’t know why the girl put this on, but there’s a note saying that he seemed in a bit of a stew about it, apparently. Anyway, she told him not to worry and that he wouldn’t be charged for its misuse now that we knew about it.” He scribbled a few lines on a sheet of paper. “And that’s his address,” he added, handing it to DI Morgan. “Incidentally, he said that he didn’t want a replacement card and sent a cheque a few days later to clear his account. As far as we’re concerned, he’s no longer a client.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Morgan. “Didn’t think it’d be that easy. Wore out a lot of shoe leather tramping around Cyprus, I can tell you.”
Telford grinned. “Glad I’m out of it,” he said. “Thirty years in the job is enough for anyone.” He glanced back at the VDU. “Want the name of his bank, Charles?” he asked. “Might come in useful.” He took back the piece of paper from Morgan and wrote down the additional details. “Dick Campbell’s their security director now. Used to be a DAC.”
“Thanks,” said Morgan. “Incidentally, is there any record of his having used his credit card in Cyprus?”
Telford turned back to the VDU and brought up Tanner’s record of transactions. “Nothing,” he said, and turning to face Morgan once again, added, “but it can take ages for vouchers to come through, particularly from somewhere like Cyprus. If they do, we’ll send him another bill.”
Morgan grinned. “I’m not worried about your money,” he said, “but I’d be interested to know if anything turns up.”
“If it does, I’ll give you a bell,” said Telford.
*
When he received the four hundred cassettes that Fox had seized from the studio at Waterloo, Detective Inspector Bradley of the Obscene Publications Squad had seated himself in front of a video-player and wearily began the onerous task of making evidential notes for the Crown Prosecution Service. Needless to say, it took him some considerable time and, contrary to popular belief, the task did not stimulate him. Or any other policeman whose thankless job it happened to be. But it wasn’t only the obscenity aspect that interested Bradley; he was conversant with the main points of the enquiry into the triple murder and knew what his commander was looking for.
Now, some eight days later, DI Bradley telephoned Fox. “I’ve got one on the screen that I think you ought to see, sir,” he said. “It’s the one you mentioned, of a couple of girls being beaten. Have you got a minute to come down?”
“Too bloody right,” said Fox. Stopping only to collect Kate Ebdon, who knew more of the participants in this ugly business than anyone else on the team, he pushed open the door of the viewing room. “What have you got?” he asked.
“A bit nasty this one, sir,” said Bradley, swinging round in his chair. “And a dead cert for prosecution.”
“Run it through,” said Fox, pulling a chair over and sitting down beside the DI.
“I’ll fast-forward it to the bits I think are of interest, sir,” said Bradley and pointed the remote control at the set.
The first frame at which Bradley stopped showed a naked girl chained by her wrists to a cross-bar above her head. “That’s the Waterloo studio,” said Fox, leaning forward. “And that’s probably Beverley Watson,” he added as the camera moved to the girl’s face. Then Michael Leighton came into camera-shot wielding a whip, with which, he began unmercifully to beat the girl. Her screams were very real.
Bradley fast-forwarded the video again and stopped to reveal another girl being subjected to similar treatment. This time it was Pritchard dealing out the punishment, but after a short while, his place was taken by Raymond Webb, leering sadistically. The camera obligingly zoomed in on the girl’s tear-stained and terrified face.
“That’s Kirsty Newman, sir,” said Kate.
A few frames later, Kirsty Newman appeared again, this time shackled to the bed that dominated the center of the studio, and was then raped, in turn, by Pritchard and Webb. And finally, by Michael Leighton. Despite her bonds, there was no doubt that she was resisting violently. Either that or she was a damned good actress; but Fox chose to think that she was not that good.
“I shall derive a great deal of pleasure from nicking those bastards,” he said angrily.
*
There was no way that Fox was going to miss the arrests of Webb and Pritchard. He had known that they would come eventually, but he had wanted something substantial with which to charge them. And now he’d got it. But, unfortunately, he could not be in two places at once and it was essential that both men were arrested at the same time. Fox opted for Raymond Webb and sent DI Evans to arrest Pritchard.
It was still hot, though less humid because of the pouring rain when, at six-thirty the next morning, Fox, golfing umbrella raised, hurried up the path of Raymond Webb’s house in Richmond followed by Kate Ebdon. Six other detectives remained in their cars outside, the windscreen wipers moving lazily to and fro. The job of these extra detectives would be to search the house after Webb had been arrested.
Fox approached the front door and pressed the bell-push. Somewhere inside the house a set of chimes played a mellifluous tune. Fox wrinkled his nose and muttered something about lack of taste.
The door was opened by a woman in a quilted housecoat. “Oh!” she said. “I thought you were the postman.” She looked disdainfully at Fox, in the act of shaking his large, colorful umbrella, and at Kate in jeans and a tee-shirt that was wet across the shoulders. “What d’you want?”
“Are you Mrs Webb?” asked Fox.
“Yes, I am.”
“Police,” said Fox tersely and, in no mood for niceties, pushed past Webb’s wife.
“What d’you want?” demanded Mrs Webb again, her voice rising to an indignant screech. “You can’t just push in here like that. Raymond!” She shouted in the direction of the staircase.
Raymond Webb, wearing a dressing gown, appeared at the top of the flight of stairs. “What’s the matter?” he called, but seeing Fox in the hall, hurried down. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded angrily. “I… I… I’ve had just about enough of this… this harassment.” He was clearly outraged by the arrival of the police and was stuttering badly.
“And I’ve only just started,” said Fox nastily. “Raymond Webb, I am arresting you for being concerned in the making of obscene films.” He paused, and as Webb was about to say something, added, “And for causing gr
ievous bodily harm to Kirsty Newman with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. And finally, and most importantly, that you did, on divers occasions, rape the said Miss Newman.” He was being deliberately and unnecessarily formal, but he wanted to impress Webb with the seriousness of the charges. “Anything you say will be given in evidence.” And with that, he handcuffed Webb.
“What on earth are you talking about?” screamed Mrs Webb and started to attack Fox with her fists.
Kate Ebdon seized the woman’s right arm and forced it up her back in an old-fashioned and crippling hammer-lock and bar before pushing her against a wall from which a long-case barometer stared down. “Shut your racket, missus,” she said quietly, her Australian accent grating on Mrs Webb’s suburban ear, “and behave yourself, or you’ll get nicked too.”
Mrs Webb, still restrained by Kate’s grip, now turned her wrath on her husband. “Raymond, do something.” And then she frowned as the realization of her husband’s arrest dawned on her. “What have you been up to?”
“Nothing, dear,” said Webb. “It’s all a mistake.”
“I’ll get on to our solicitor then, straightaway,” said Webb’s wife, “If you’ve no objection,” she added sarcastically, turning her head to address Kate.
“No, don’t do that. Not yet,” said Webb. “I told you. It’s a mistake. I’ll sort it out.”
“In that case, I shall complain about it.” Mrs Webb was calmer now and Kate released her. “It’s not a police state, not yet, and you can’t just come in here and do this.” She gestured at the abject figure of her handcuffed husband, standing in his dressing gown and slippers, his hair tousled. “You’re surely not going to take him out like that, are you?” she demanded. “My God, Raymond, what d’you suppose the neighbors will think?” She appeared to be far more concerned about her reputation in the genteel area of Richmond where they lived than about the fate of her spouse.
Fox glanced at Kate. “Take her into another room,” he said.
Kate steered Mrs Webb into the sitting room, leaving the woman’s husband to face Fox in the hall. “What the hell’s this about rape and… what was it you said?” asked Webb.
“Causing grievous bodily harm,” said Fox mildly.
“But this is nonsense,” said Webb.
“It might be nonsense to you, but I doubt if Miss Newman saw it that way.”
“Where’s your proof? You’re not going to take the word of a whore, are you?”
“Even whores have rights,” said Fox, thoroughly enjoying Webb’s discomfiture, “but to put you out of your misery, the whole thing’s on a video which is now in police possession.”
Suddenly, Webb slumped on to the bottom step of the staircase, sitting with his head bowed and his manacled hands hanging limply between his knees. “I didn’t know they were filming that,” he said in a whisper. “He told me that the cameras had been switched off.”
“Who told you?” asked Fox.
“Mike. Mike Leighton.”
Fox laughed. “I should have thought that you, of all people, would have known not to trust him,” he said.
*
Evans had noticed, on his previous visits with Fox, that Pritchard lived in the back room of his studio in Soho, and at the same time as Fox was arriving at Webb’s house, the DI rang the bell, regretting that there was no shelter from the torrential rain.
After a while, Pritchard’s voice responded. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Police,” said Evans.
“I don’t receive visitors at this time of the morning.” The distortion of the intercom failed to disguise the sarcasm in Pritchard’s voice. “Come back later.”
“Please yourself.” Evans spoke mildly into the box on the wall. “You can either open the door or we’ll break it down.” He was a man not easily aroused, but he too had seen the video of Pritchard and Webb abusing the two girls. One of the DCs with Evans grinned, and hefted his sledge-hammer nearer the door. But he was to be disappointed. There was a buzzing noise as Pritchard released the lock and Evans pushed the door open.
Pritchard was standing at the top of the stairs as Evans and three other detectives ascended. “What the bloody hell’s the meaning of this?” he asked truculently. He was wearing only a pair of jeans, and his hair, normally gathered into a pony-tail, was loose around his ears.
“I have a warrant for your arrest,” said Evans as he reached the first floor, and he recited the same three charges that Fox was at that moment putting to Webb in faraway Richmond.
“What’s happening, Harry?” A sleepy blonde, with just a sheet wrapped around her, appeared from behind Pritchard.
“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart,” said Pritchard. “Go back to bed.”
“And who are you, miss?” asked Evans.
“Cindy,” said the girl.
“Cindy who?”
“Cindy Evans.”
DI Evans glared malevolently at the DC beside him who had had the temerity to snigger. “And what are you doing here?” he asked the girl.
“What does it look like?” said Cindy with a cheeky smile and promptly returned to the back room.
“What’s this all about?” asked Pritchard.
“I’ve just told you,” said Evans. “Now, you can either get dressed, or you can come as you are. It’s up to you.”
Seventeen
Fox and Evans, and their respective teams, were not the only officers out in the early hours of that morning. At six o’clock, Detective Superintendent John Craven-Foster was also out and about. And getting wet. But he was in Catford where those residents of a quiet street not far from Hither Green Cemetery who happened to look out of their windows, were surprised to discover their road full of silent but aggressive policemen in blue berets and overalls, and carrying guns.
The house that these policemen now surrounded was where John Tanner lived, according to the information that DI Morgan had obtained from the credit-card company. Stealthily, a number of armed officers made their way round to the back of the house, seeking what sparse cover there was in the shadows of garden fences and one tree.
During the briefing the previous afternoon, there had been a prolonged discussion between Craven-Foster and the chief inspector of the Yard’s Firearms Branch, known internally as SO19, about the tactics to be employed. One option was to break into Tanner’s house and chance being confronted by a ruthless criminal; the alternative was that they should use a loudhailer and call on him to surrender, thereby risking the possibility of an extended siege and real danger to anyone else in the house whom he might take hostage. It was what the police tend to call “a no-win situation”. After a certain amount of desultory debate, it was agreed that police should attempt to gain entry through a window and rely on the fact that Tanner would probably be in bed. And, with luck, asleep.
With two other armed policemen covering him, a third eased open the downstairs front-room window, fortunately unlocked, and slid over the sill, instantly aware of an overpowering stench of boiled cabbage. Rapidly, other officers followed and quietly searched the ground-floor rooms. Then, just as silently, they ascended the staircase, once pausing as a board squeaked alarmingly.
Working on the principle that people usually slept in the front bedroom, the officers looked into the other two bedrooms first. And into the bathroom. Satisfied that those rooms were empty, an officer violently kicked open the door of the master bedroom and he and several others rushed in and surrounded the bed, training their guns on it.
The crash of the door being kicked open had awoken the two occupants of the room and they sat up in alarm. Both clearly in their sixties, the man was bald-headed and the woman had her gray hair in curlers.
“Armed police,” one of the officers shouted. Given that they were in uniform and openly carrying firearms, it seemed an unnecessary observation. But it was in the rule-book, so he said it.
“What d’you want?” The man seemed strangely unconcerned that his bedroom was full of armed policemen at
twenty minutes past six on a Thursday morning.
“Where’s John Tanner?” demanded Craven-Foster who had brought up the rear of the raiding party.
“He don’t live here any more,” said the man.
“Where is he then?”
“Search me, guv’nor,” said the man, yawning. “He left here about three weeks ago.”
“Is he a relative of yours?” asked the infuriated Craven-Foster.
“Nah, mate. He just had a room here. Dunno where he’s gone. He never said. Just said as how we was to tear up any post what come for him.”
*
The forlorn figure of Raymond Webb sat on a hard-backed chair in the interview room at Richmond Police Station. A nearby table bore a pile of video-cassettes and several packets of white powder, all of which had been found secreted in the loft of Webb’s house by Fox’s search team.
Having gone through the rigmarole of starting the tape recorder and telling it the who, why, where and when of the interview, Fox turned to face the prisoner and cautioned him, yet again. “And I have to remind you that you are entitled to the services of a solicitor,” he said. He had already explained this aspect of the law to Webb prior to removing him from his house, and now he did so again. Although he might have had grounds for denying Webb access to legal advice, Fox was not prepared to risk it. He wanted to be absolutely certain that the charges he intended to bring would not be thrown out because of some procedural omission. And apart from anything else, it didn’t matter much what Webb said, or if he said nothing at all. Fox was quite satisfied that he had sufficient evidence upon which to convict Webb, but the man might, even at this stage, be able to throw some light on the murder of his erstwhile partner Leighton.
“I don’t want a solicitor,” said Webb glumly. Even now, he hoped to talk his way out of what he firmly believed to be a misunderstanding, and the last person he wanted told of these unsavory accusations was the family solicitor. And the prospect of discussing it all with someone whom Fox had described as a duty solicitor, appalled him even more.