Blue Murder

by Graham Ison

  “Very well.” Fox turned over a sheet of paper on the table in front of him. “Six packets of white powder were found in the loft of your house.” He looked up and indicated the packets on the other table. “That substance will be taken to the laboratory for testing in due course and I have no doubt that it will prove to be cocaine. In which case, you will also be charged with its possession. D’you wish to say anything about that, Webb?”

  “It is cocaine,” said Webb miserably. “But it’s not mine.”

  “How fascinating,” said Fox, and waited.

  “It was Mike Leighton’s. He asked me to keep it for him.”

  “How very convenient.” Fox, at his disbelieving best, inclined his head.

  “It was when he was going off on his holiday—”

  “When he was murdered, you mean?”

  “Yes. He said that he didn’t want to leave it around and asked me to store it somewhere safe.”

  “Have you any idea where he obtained it from?”

  Webb decided that there was no point in defending his late partner any longer, and to tell the police what he knew might just help him to escape from his present predicament. “He got it abroad somewhere. He didn’t say where but he certainly had plenty of the stuff whenever he came back from a trip in his yacht.”

  “How much did he bring in?”

  Webb shrugged. “I don’t know, but certainly enough to keep him in luxury. I think he must have been trading in drugs in a fairly big way because his fruit machine business was going downhill rapidly, I can tell you that.”

  “He supplied others then?” Fox raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Webb lifted his head, a cynical smile on his face. “You don’t imagine that he’d have told me that, do you?” he asked. “But I do know that he had an arrangement with a black bloke in the West End. Mike would supply him with cocaine and the black bloke would provide him with women to take part in his blue movies.”

  “Name?” demanded Fox.

  “He never mentioned his name,” said Webb.

  “I see.” Fox only half believed that and, in any event, he would still charge Webb with possession, if not with supplying. “Let’s turn now to the videos.”

  “What about them?” Webb looked uncomfortable.

  “One of them shows, quite graphically, you and Pritchard seriously assaulting Miss Kirsty Newman with a whip. A later part of the same video shows each of you, and Leighton, raping her.” Fox had deliberately not posed a question. He had sufficient evidence upon which to base charges, and he knew that he was not entitled to interrogate the prisoner further. Not about the assault and the rape anyway. But if Webb cared to offer some explanation, or make some excuse, then Fox was quite prepared to listen to it.

  “She was acting,” said Webb. “She agreed to all that.”

  “It is a facet of English law,” said Fox portentously, “that no one may give consent for an assault upon his or her own person.”

  “But, Christ, we’ve made dozens of films with that sort of stuff in them. There was a very good market for it. And the girls got paid well. They’d pretend to be resisting, but it was all play-acting. They did it quite willingly.”

  Fox shrugged. “Doesn’t alter the law on the subject,” he said casually, “and that’ll be the first thing the judge explains to the jury.” He took out a cigarette and lit it, smiling at Webb’s startled reaction at his reference to a judge and jury.

  “It was nothing to do with me,” said the anguished Webb. “It was all Mike’s idea.”

  “And he’s not here to deny it,” said Fox mildly.

  “But it’s true. Mike set the whole thing up. He found a market for these films and Harry Pritchard and I just went along with it for a bit of fun. In fact, so did Mike. Not that he made much money out of it, not even enough to cover the overheads. Pritchard got more out of it than Mike did.” For a moment, Webb looked wistful. “Well, would you turn down the opportunity of having sex with all those girls?” He stared at Fox as though trying to will him to agree.

  “Is that all you have to say?” asked Fox, although having seen Webb’s hatchet-faced wife, he almost understood the man’s distorted view.

  “I tell you, the girls were willing.” Webb was beginning to sound desperate now. “Why else did they keep coming back?”

  “Did Leighton give them drugs?” asked Fox.

  Webb looked down at the table. “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” said Fox sharply.

  Webb raised his head. “Yes, he did.”

  “Why?”

  “As a reward, I suppose. A lot of the girls were on it.”

  “Or to make them less inhibited? Make them perform better?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Not the view of some of the women we’ve interviewed,” said Fox mildly.

  “It was nothing to do with me. It was all Mike Leighton.” Still Webb was trying to avoid the consequences of his own actions. “He only started all this blue film business to provide himself with a ready supply of women. He used to get a terrific kick out of watching the videos of him and a group of girls having sex. He only did it for his own gratification.”

  “And yours, I gather.”

  Webb didn’t reply to that, but hung his head again.

  “Strange that you should say there was no profit in it,” Fox continued, “because he wasn’t sending them to Karel van Hooft in Mons as an act of charity.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “But you sent a consignment to van Hooft after Leighton’s death, Webb, so don’t tell me you know nothing about it.” Fox had learned the name of the recipient of the tapes from the Brussels gendarmerie. “Incidentally, Mr van Hooft was very cross about that last consignment.” He didn’t know that for certain, but it was a guess that was unlikely to be contradicted. “You see, all the tapes were blank.” For the benefit of the tape recorder, Fox announced that the interview was now terminated and switched off the machine. Then he looked at Webb again. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if van Hooft came over here to do some sorting out.”

  Webb looked up sharply, a trace of fear crossing his face. “What?” he gasped.

  Fox grinned. “Don’t worry, old sport,” he said. “He won’t be able to get at you where you’re going for the next few years. Not unless he’s got friends in Parkhurst.”

  “I think I need to see my solicitor after all,” said Webb, his face ashen. He was perspiring freely now.

  “First sensible thing you’ve said so far,” said Fox as he stood up.

  *

  Following Webb’s arrest, Kate Ebdon had gone straight from Richmond Police Station to Kirsty Newman’s flat in Gipsy Hill. What with the pouring rain and the traffic, it took her all of two and a half hours to get there.

  “Oh, it’s you again.” Kirsty Newman was attired in an unflattering dressing gown and had clearly been awoken by Kate’s ringing of the doorbell.

  “Yeah, it’s me again. I want to talk to you.”

  “Better come in then. I’ll put some coffee on.” Kirsty waited until Kate had settled herself in the sitting room and then walked through into the kitchen. “What d’you want now?” she shouted.

  “I’ll tell you when you’ve made the coffee,” replied Kate and started to read a two-day-old copy of the Daily Mirror.

  “Have you found out who murdered Leighton then?” asked Kirsty, coming back into the room a few minutes later. She set the coffee down and began pouring it.

  “No, not yet.”

  “What d’you want then?”

  “Thanks.” Kate took the proffered cup of coffee from the other woman. “We’ve turned up a video showing you being whipped by Webb and Pritchard, and then being raped by them. And Leighton.”

  “So what?” Kirsty sat down opposite the woman detective. “I told you that had happened.”

  “You didn’t say anything about being raped.”


  “Get real, love,” said Kirsty. “What d’you think skin flicks are all about if it’s not about women getting screwed? Just because it looks as though we’re being raped doesn’t mean that we are.”

  “Looked pretty real to me.”

  “Oh, you know all about that, do you? Been raped often, have you?”

  “They wouldn’t live to tell the tale,” said Kate mildly, and for a moment, Kirsty looked at her, knowing that what she had said was undoubtedly true. “We arrested Webb and Pritchard earlier this morning,” Kate went on, “And my guv’nor’s charging them with GBH on you and with raping you.”

  Kirsty Newman put her cup down with more force than usual and some of the coffee slopped over into the saucer. “You’ve done what?” she said, unable to conceal her surprise.

  “You heard me.” Kate took a sip of coffee. “And we want a statement from you detailing all that was done to you. And we’ll want you to go to court.”

  “You must be bloody joking,” said Kirsty, clearly alarmed at the prospect of becoming involved in any proceedings.

  “We can always subpoena you,” said Kate quietly.

  “Well, you bloody do that, but you can’t make me say anything. I’ll just stand there and stay shtum. Even if they do send me down for contempt of court.”

  “You seem very conversant with legal procedure,” said Kate, knowing full well that what Kirsty had just said was absolutely true.

  “You get to learn the wrinkles when you’re on the game,” said Kirsty in matter-of-fact tones. “But there’s no way I’m saying a bloody word. Christ, d’you realize what you’re asking? If I turn up at court and start telling the tale, I’ll never work again. It’s the whores’ code, love,” she added. “Take what’s handed out and keep your mouth shut. Or get out. And I can’t afford to get out.”

  “But you said the other day that you’re not on the game any more.”

  Kirsty gave a cynical laugh. “There’s no difference. There are plenty of girls who’d take part in porn movies if they got the chance, but those who give evidence against the blokes who make them don’t work again. And you can forget being a call-girl too. The sort of clientele I was dealing with have got a lot to lose, and word would soon get out that I was a mouth. Best I could hope for after that would be King’s Cross, and frankly I don’t fancy the idea of earning my living being screwed every ten minutes by a drunken Mick up against the railings. Forget it, love. I don’t want to know.”

  *

  Dick Campbell, one-time Deputy Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations, and now security director of the bank which held Tanner’s account, stood up, walked round his desk and shook hands with Detective Superintendent Craven-Foster. “John, good to see you,” he said.

  “Good to see you, too, guv’nor,” said Craven-Foster. “You seem to be doing all right,” he added, casting a glance around Campbell’s large oak-paneled office.

  “Can’t grumble.” Campbell waved a deprecatory hand. “And you can forget the ‘guv’nor’ bit,” he said. “I’m not in the job any longer, thank God. What can I do for you?”

  Craven-Foster explained the problem of John Tanner’s disappearance from his Catford address and went on to tell Campbell why police were anxious to interview him.

  “A customer’s account is confidential, John,” said Campbell gravely. “And I’m afraid there is no way in which I can divulge any information about it or about him.” He grinned at Craven-Foster’s sudden frown. “What d’you want to know?” he asked.

  “His present address,” said Craven-Foster.

  “You’ll have to give me a day or so,” said Campbell. “I’ll have to make an excuse to examine the account, like we think he’s fiddling the bank, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” He stood up and shook hands. “Give that old rogue Tommy Fox my best, will you?” he said. “He’s a commander now, I hear.”

  “Yes. In charge of SO1 Branch. And me.”

  Campbell laughed. “Well, don’t let him get you down. He’s got some strange working practices, but he’s a bloody good detective.”

  “So he keeps telling me,” said Craven-Foster.

  Eighteen

  Compared with Webb, Pritchard was coolly confident. Before being taken from his Soho studio, he had pulled his hair back into its usual pony-tail and donned a white, cotton tee-shirt that was deliberately tight enough to display his bulging biceps.

  Having placed his prisoner in a cell at West End Central Police Station, where he now lounged truculently, DI Denzil Evans telephoned Fox at Richmond to report that Pritchard was in custody. “D’you want to interview him, sir?” he asked.

  “No thanks, Denzil,” said Fox. “I might be tempted to hit him. We don’t need anything from him to prove the offences, so just charge him. Do the business with the Crown Prosecution Service and go for an eight-day lay down at Marlborough Street tomorrow. Usual objections to bail. Interference with witnesses. You know the form. Then, if we need to talk to him about anything else, we’ll know where he is.”

  “Yes, sir.” Evans sighed; nothing changed.

  Minutes later, Pritchard was brought into the custody suite and formally charged with raping Kirsty Newman, causing her grievous bodily harm with intent, and publishing obscene matter, namely video-recordings. For the first time since his arrival at the police station, he appeared to lose some of his confidence. “This is all bloody rubbish,” he said. “She agreed to it.”

  The custody sergeant impassively wrote down this response, and then glanced up in case the prisoner should say anything else.

  “But aren’t you going to question me about this, with my brief here?” Pritchard was irritated that the police appeared not to want to interrogate him about what they kept referring to as “the alleged offences”, and clearly thought that the arrival of his solicitor would be followed, shortly afterwards, by his own departure from the police station when the whole silly nonsense was cleared up.

  “We don’t need to,” said Evans dismissively. “We’ve got all the evidence we need to take you to court. You can have a solicitor if you want one, but there’s nothing else to be said.” And with that, he glanced at the custody sergeant. “He’s all yours, skip.”

  “Right, sir.” The custody sergeant beckoned to the constable who was doing duty as gaoler. “Put him down, lad,” he said. “Number Three.”

  *

  “It looks as though we’ve drawn a blank as far as Tanner’s concerned, sir,” said Craven-Foster. “I’ve had a call from Dick Campbell at the bank and the address they hold for him is the one we turned over in Catford.”

  “Well, surely to God he must go into the bank from time to time,” said Fox.

  “Apparently not, sir. Seems that a lot of people don’t go anywhere near their bank these days. He can pay in cash at any branch and he can draw money from a cash machine.”

  “Seems that I shall have to go and speak to Dick Campbell,” said Fox.

  Craven-Foster looked doubtful. “He did remind me that bank accounts are confidential, sir. I know he was half joking, but I think it meant don’t push too hard.”

  Fox waved a hand vaguely in the air. “I’m the soul of discretion, John,” he said.

  *

  Later that afternoon, Fox was ushered into Campbell’s office.

  “Tommy, you old devil. How are you?”

  Fox looked gloomy. “I’d be a lot happier if I could crack this triple murder, Dick,” he said.

  Campbell grinned. “Well at least you’ve made commander. Congratulations. I hear you inherited my secretary Brenda, too. She’s a good girl.”

  “She’s all right now I’ve taught her how to make coffee,” said Fox, sinking down into a chair opposite Campbell’s desk and mopping his brow. “At least your air-conditioning’s working better than ours at the Yard,” he added.

  “Well, what can I do for you, Tommy?” asked Campbell. “As if I didn’t know.” He stood up and poured a couple of whiskies.

  �
��I’m pretty convinced that Tanner’s our man, Dick,” said Fox, “but until we can lay hands on him, we shan’t know for certain. But he looks like one bad bastard.”

  “John Craven-Foster told you that we only have the old address for him, I suppose?” asked Campbell, sipping his Scotch.

  Fox nodded. “Yes, he did, but I don’t really want to wait until he deigns to tell you where he’s moved to. Could be months before he thinks of that, but my guess is that he won’t. I’m betting that the loss of his credit card in Cyprus put the frighteners on him. You see, he had to ring the company and tell them it had been nicked. And he had to tell them he’d lost it in Cyprus just in case it was used the very next day. That Cypriot whore did us a favor. She unwittingly forced Tanner into admitting that he was in Cyprus at the crucial time.”

  Campbell laughed. “Dangerous things, credit cards,” he said.

  “So are prostitutes,” said Fox drily.

  “However, all is not lost, Tommy.” Campbell leaned forward and picked up a computer printout. “It seems that in nine cases out of ten, Tanner uses the same cash machine to draw money. And he does so about once a week. And it’s the maximum amount allowable, too.”

  “I suppose you didn’t happen to notice where this cash machine was, Dick,” said Fox airily.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” said Campbell. “It’s in Victoria. And, as an old copper, I would guess that it’s miles away from where he lives.”

  “Bloody wonderful,” said Fox as he contemplated the difficulties of keeping observation on a cash machine in central London. “Why couldn’t it have been somewhere like a remote Sussex village?”

  “Because we don’t have any cash machines in remote Sussex villages,” said Campbell. “And even the machine that he uses in Victoria isn’t one of ours, the cunning bastard.”

  “If he’s drawing a lot of money every week, perhaps he’s trying to empty his account rather than tell you of his change of address,” said Fox.

  “He’ll have to do a lot of drawing then,” said Campbell.

  “Got a lot of money then, has he?” asked Fox, gazing out of the window with a disinterested expression on his face.