Blue Murder

by Graham Ison

  “Do you know a John Tanner, sometimes known as Jock?”

  “Never heard of him,” said Smart.

  And for once, Fox believed him.

  Twenty-Three

  Detective Sergeant Robert Hurley hesitated before tapping on Fox’s office door. He knew that the commander had had a lot on his mind and it was just possible that he had forgotten. Hurley knocked.

  “What is it, Bob?”

  “Lee Watson, sir. You remember that I tracked her down to an address in Epsom, and you said that you wanted to see her.”

  “So I did, Bob.” Fox still recalled the slight note of reproof in Jane’s reply when he had told her that Bernie Watson’s first wife was unaware of the death of her daughter Beverley. He glanced at the clock. “Ready?”

  “Ready, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Fox, standing up. “No time like the present.”

  “Oh, right, sir.” In fact, it was far from right. It was almost six o’clock and Bob Hurley’s plans, to take his wife out, had just crashed. But then, as he frequently told her, she shouldn’t have married a detective.

  “D’you know how to get to Epsom, Swann?” asked Fox, once he and Hurley were being driven down Victoria Street in the commander’s Scorpio.

  “Of course I do, guv,” said Swann. “It’s a racecourse, isn’t it?” Swann prided himself on knowing how to get to every racecourse in the country. And usually Fox was with him.

  The large house to which Mrs Lee Watson had been traced was on the edge of Epsom Downs, not far from Tattenham Comer. Fox imagined that the divorce settlement must have cost Bernie Watson an arm and a leg. But these days he could afford it.

  By the time Fox and Hurley arrived, it was almost eight o’clock in the evening; a pleasant summer’s evening sullied only by the almost constant noise of aircraft, Epsom being on the flight-paths of both Heathrow and Gatwick Airports.

  “Are you Mrs Lee Watson?” asked Fox. The woman who answered the door was of medium height and, he noticed immediately, had the figure of a girl half her age. He knew that she was in her mid-fifties.

  “I am. And you are…?”

  “Thomas Fox… of Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Robert Hurley.” With a flourish, Fox produced his warrant card for the woman’s inspection.

  “You’d better come in then,” said Lee Watson, “although I can’t imagine what you want with me.” She led them through into a room at the rear of the house, her exquisite perfume wafting after her. The room was tastefully furnished and the open French windows revealed a magnificent view of the downs.

  “Wonderful,” murmured Fox. “Truly wonderful.”

  “It is rather nice, isn’t it? Do sit down.” Lee Watson glanced at a clock on the mantelshelf. “I’m just about to have a drink,” she said. “Will you join me? Or do you have a thing about not drinking on duty?”

  Fox waved a hand loosely in the air. “I think we can stretch a point,” he said. “Whisky, if I may.”

  “Blended, or malt?” Lee Watson stood by the drinks table, a hand hovering over the collection of bottles that stood on it, her large blue eyes staring at him through big, round spectacles. Her dress was low-cut, and around her neck she wore several thin gold chains, the lower ends of the loops disappearing between her breasts.

  “Oh, malt. Thank you.” Even someone as experienced in the field of human nature as Fox could not work out why Bernie Watson had exchanged this refined woman for the trollop with whom he seemed set to spend the rest of his life.

  Lee Watson waved the bottle of twelve-year-old Cardhu gently in Hurley’s direction and, receiving a nod of assent, poured two measures of the malt into tumblers. For herself, she prepared a gin and tonic and then sat down opposite the two detectives. “Cheers!” she said. “Now, tell me why you’re here.”

  “We had a job finding you, you know,” said Fox. “The woman with whom you stayed in Pinner, said you’d moved to Brighton.”

  “She was far too nosey for her own good, that Mrs Molloy,” said Lee Watson and smiled. “Yes, that’s what I told her, but it was only for the day.” She frowned. “And those dreadful Sussex policemen did me for speeding.”

  Fox took a sip of his whisky and set the glass down on the occasional table that Lee Watson had placed conveniently beside his chair. “I’m afraid that I have some rather bad news for you, Mrs Watson…”

  “Oh?” For a moment the smile slipped from Lee Watson’s face. “You’re not talking about Bernie, are you? He was my first husband, you know.”

  “Yes, I knew that. No, I’m talking about your daughter Beverley.”

  A puzzled expression crossed Lee Watson’s face. “But she’s dead. She died last August,” she said, “just after I’d moved here. Probably as well, I did. I couldn’t have stayed in that house in Crystal Palace.”

  “But when I broke the news to your ex-husband, a couple of weeks ago, he seemed to think that you didn’t know.” Fox sounded surprised.

  “Broke the news? He must be going soft in the head,” said Lee Watson. “He was with me at the funeral. It was the last time we spoke.” There was a constantly breathless surprise in the way she talked, and it was no sudden affectation; she kept it up all the time. “Did he tell you he didn’t know then?”

  “I must have misunderstood him,” said Fox, knowing full well that he had done no such thing.

  “Well, I’m sorry that you’ve had a wasted journey, er, Inspector? You’d better have another drink just to make up for it.”

  Thank you,” said Fox, draining his glass. He let the error about his rank pass. He hadn’t told her what it was and, in the circumstances, it was better that she didn’t know. The advent of a commander calling to tell her of the death of a daughter she already knew was dead, might just cause her to wonder if there was more to it all. And Fox was now certain that there was.

  Lee Watson dispensed more drinks and sat down again. “I love policemen,” she said.

  “Oh, really?” said Fox, somewhat taken aback by this sudden admission. “Surprising really, in the circumstances.”

  Lee Watson paused for only a second, and then she laughed. “Because of Bernie, you mean? Oh, I know he was a crook, but he was good fun. When we were young, we went to every night-club in the West End, and we danced and danced. Oh, how we danced. Then when Beverley arrived—” she gave Fox a sly grin. “—a little unexpectedly I may say, Bernie was absolutely delighted, and he ruined us both. Of course, it wasn’t so much fun when he was inside, but he always made up for it when he came out.” There was a faraway look in her eyes as she recalled the good times she had enjoyed with her ex-husband. And even Fox found difficulty in accepting that she had once been married to the south London villain he knew so well. He certainly couldn’t visualize her in the sort of south London drinking clubs that had been frequented by Bernie Watson and his like in their youth. “Of course, it got lonely when he was away, but at least I had Bev to bring up in those days. And…” She paused and smiled again, but obviously thought better of making what Fox imagined would be a compromising admission. “Well, let’s just say it was lonely and leave it at that.”

  “When did you last see Bernie, Mrs Watson?” asked Fox.

  “At the funeral, last August. I told you.”

  “I wonder if I could ask you a favor?” Fox sipped at his whisky.

  “Anything, my dear,” said Lee Watson, a twinkle in her eye.

  “I would rather like to see Bernie myself to sort out this slip-up. So if you do happen to speak to—”

  “There’s no danger of that,” said Lee Watson sharply. “Have you seen that creature he’s got himself tied up with now? Well, I ask you. I don’t know what he sees in her, but he’s besotted. And she’s just a gold-digger. When I think of all I put up with over the years, what with Bernie in prison. And then that fat madam comes along and that’s it. No, Inspector, there’s no danger of me speaking to Bernie Watson. Ever again.”

  Fox acted with swiftness the moment that he an
d Hurley left Lee Watson. Getting through to DI Evans at the Yard on his mobile telephone, he instructed him to get a search warrant for Bernie Watson’s house and to be ready to execute it early the next day.

  *

  It was nine o’clock the following morning when Fox and Evans arrived at Welling. Fox had not brought a strong team with him; he wasn’t expecting any trouble from a professional like Bernie Watson.

  “Well, well, if it ain’t Mr Fox.” Watson, attired in a gaudy silk dressing gown, was his usual expansive self when he opened his front door. “I must say you’re an early bird. Come in, come in. We’re just having breakfast. I daresay you’d like a cup of coffee.” He walked away from the front door and shouted for his wife. “Gerry, it’s that nice Mr Fox. See if you can rustle up two more cups of coffee, will you?”

  “This isn’t a social call, Bernie,” said Fox when the three of them were in Watson’s tasteless sitting room.

  “It’s not? What’s the problem then?”

  “I saw Lee last night, your first wife.”

  A slight frown crossed Watson’s face. “What did you see her for?” he asked.

  “To tell her about the death of your daughter, Bernie.” Fox gazed steadily at Watson.

  “That was very nice of you, I’m sure,” said Watson nervously.

  The gross figure of Geraldine Watson appeared in the doorway carrying a tray of coffee. She was dressed in a track-suit made of some furry pink material that, unfortunately, was tight-fitting. And it was difficult to tell whether she had combed her hair or whether she regarded its wild appearance as the latest fashion. Her long finger-nails looked like great crimson claws. “Good morning, Admiral,” she said, her face breaking into her idea of a fetching smile.

  “I keep telling you, Gerry dear, Mr Fox isn’t in the Navy. He’s a commander in the police.”

  “Do what, dear?” said Geraldine, a vacant expression on her face.

  “Oh, never mind,” said Watson impatiently. “Just pour the coffee, there’s a good girl.”

  Fox managed to keep a straight face at Watson’s description of his wife as a girl. “Lee Watson said that you knew about Beverley’s death and that you’d attended her funeral,” said Fox.

  “Really?” Watson was seemingly mystified by this statement.

  “But you told me that the last time you’d spoken to Lee was some two years ago when Beverley first disappeared. And you gave a very good impression of being shocked when I told you about your daughter’s death.”

  “It must have slipped my mind,” said Watson lamely.

  “I’ve got a search warrant for these premises, Bernie,” said Fox, ignoring the cup of coffee which Geraldine had placed on a table near his chair.

  “You have? Whatever for?” Watson contrived to look genuinely surprised, even though, over the years, his properties had been the subject of more search warrants than, to coin his own phrase, most people had had hot dinners.

  “But I don’t have to execute it, Bernie, not if you’re co-operative.”

  Watson’s mouth opened and closed. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Mr Fox,” he said.

  “You know what I’m looking for, Bernie, don’t you? I’m looking for the video tape of your daughter Beverley being whipped and raped.” Fox paused. “As a matter of interest, I’ve arrested John Tanner for the murders of Michael Leighton, Patricia Tilley and Karen Nash.”

  That announcement clearly came as a terrible shock to Watson. Suddenly the image of the jovial villain vanished as his face creased into an expression of rage and his fists began to open and close threateningly. But his fury was not with Fox; only rarely was the anger of real criminals directed at the police officers who apprehended them. “That bastard’s grassed, hasn’t he, Mr Fox?”

  Fox sighed. “You’re not obliged to say anything, Bernie, but anything you—”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s all right, Mr Fox, I know the form.” Watson laughed cynically. “I bloody ought to after all these years. And Tanner was supposed to be a professional an’ all.” He glanced at Geraldine who seemed puzzled by what was going on, although in fairness, she was hard of hearing. “Gerry, love, pop up to the bedroom, will you? You’ll find a couple of video tapes in a cardboard box on the top shelf of my wardrobe, behind the bag with the camcorder in it.”

  “Do what, dear?” Geraldine smiled at her husband.

  “Oh, never mind, I’ll get the bloody things myself.” Watson stood up and walked wearily from the room.

  “He’s not been sending more of those dirty sex films abroad, has he?” asked Geraldine, gazing at Evans. “I told him he’d get into trouble with the police if he kept doing that. He’s a businessman now, is Bernie. I told him there was no need for that, but he said it was just a bit of fun. But I told him.”

  Silently, Watson re-entered the room and handed Fox two video cassettes. “They’re the ones, Mr Fox,” he said as he sat down. For some seconds he stared gloomily at the empty York stone fireplace before looking up. “I couldn’t let that bastard Leighton get away with what he done to my Bev, could I, Mr Fox?” he said. “I mean, it ain’t natural, is it? He fed her drugs, poor little bitch, and then he got her involved in his skin flicks. I told her to leave it out, but she was always a headstrong girl. She could have had anything she wanted. I’m not short of the odd bob or two, so I don’t know what she done it for. The thrill of it, I suppose. But the whipping and the raping, just for his bloody amusement. Well, I tell you, Mr Fox, that wasn’t on. See, you can’t rely on the police to deal with…” He broke off, ironically fearful that he may have offended the detective sitting opposite him. “No disrespect, Mr Fox, because it’s not your fault, is it? It’s the bleedin’ government. They don’t give a toss about law and order any more, do they? See, it was different when I was at it. Well, you know that, don’t you? It was just between us and the Old Bill. We all knew where we was, and if we got nicked for something what we hadn’t done, well, we knew that made up for all the things what we had done and had got away with. Know what I mean?” His face cracked into a sort of lopsided smile. “But these days, when the newspapers and the bloody television interfere in things that ain’t none of their business…” He shrugged and spread his hands. “Well, what could I do? I couldn’t let that go, could I?” He shook his head. “Cost me twenty-five grand an’ all,” he added. “But it was worth it. He had to be sorted, Mr Fox, did that bloody Leighton. I tell you, when I saw that video—” he gestured at the cassettes on the table. “—I just saw bloody red.”

  Fox stood up. “You’re nicked, Bernie,” he said. “Want to get dressed?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Mr Fox.” Watson stood up and made his way upstairs to his bedroom.

  “Want me to go with him, guv?” asked Evans.

  Fox shook his head. “No, Denzil, he won’t do a runner. He’s an honest villain, unlike the nasty bastard he had topped.” And Fox reflected on the difference between Watson and the odious collection of individuals, Webb and Pritchard mainly, who had surrounded the equally odious Leighton. “There are times, Denzil,” he added, “When I think what an unfair world this is.”

  Twenty-Four

  Fox didn’t bother to sit down when John Tanner was brought into one of the interview rooms at Brixton Prison. He just dropped three bound copies of a statement on the table. “You’re entitled by law to that,” he said.

  “What is it?” Tanner glanced down at the neat pile of paper but made no attempt to pick it up.

  “It’s a statement made yesterday by Bernard Watson in which he admits having solicited you to murder Michael Leighton. And he further states that he paid you the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds to commit that murder. You’re not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence. And if you wish to make a statement in rebuttal of Watson’s statement, you are, of course, free to do so.”

  “The stupid bastard.” For the first time since his arrest, Tanner’s face showed some emotion, some reaction to the trouble
he was in. “What the bloody hell did he do that for? Got religion or something, has he?” He sat down suddenly. “I didn’t want to kill the women,” he said. “But they were there, and I couldn’t leave any witnesses, could I? I tried setting fire to the bloody thing but obviously it didn’t catch.”

  Fox turned to leave the room but paused at the door. “The one thing that’s been puzzling me,” he said, “is how you managed to get that M62 rifle out to Cyprus and back again, given the stringent controls at airports.”

  Tanner grinned. “And it’s going to go on puzzling you, copper,” he said.

  *

  “I’m afraid, Mr Fox,” said the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor, “that it has been decided not to proceed against Webb and Pritchard on either the count of rape or the count of causing grievous bodily harm with intent.”

  “What?” Fox was clearly outraged by this decision.

  “The problem is, you see,” the solicitor went on smoothly, “The lack of corroboration.”

  “But you’ve got the bloody video. What the hell else d’you want?”

  “The factor that swayed the decision was the reluctance of…” The solicitor paused to extend an elegant forefinger and move the piece of paper that was in the center of his desk. “Ah, yes, the reluctance of this Miss Kirsty Newman to testify. The whole business of pornographic films is a very gray area these days. Society tends to be more tolerant and although the offences do exist in law, the fact that Miss Newman won’t come to court does imply, I’m afraid, that she was a willing party to the treatment she received. She had, after all, been engaged in the making of pornographic films for some time, voluntarily. I suspect the jury would take the view that she was just a very good actress.”

  “They’re not going to get the chance to make that judgment, are they?” said Fox angrily. “I just hope it never happens to your daughter.”

  “I don’t have any children, Mr Fox,” said the solicitor blithely.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Fox and he swept out of the office, slamming the door.