Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  “Good to hear it. Right then, if it’s okay with you two, I’ll sit in the back and go through some paperwork while you guys sit up front and have a chat. Just forget I’m here.”

  “Okay, sarge,” said Don

  “Look, Don, I’m serious, it’s Dave, for today at least. I really don’t want an IRA bullet in the back of my neck because of your rank-conscious Traffic bullshit. Okay?” Johnson was smiling, but there was no doubting he meant what he said.

  “Okay, er, Dave, no problem.”

  The journey to London along the M4 went surprisingly smoothly in the early morning traffic, and they arrived at Queens Building at Heathrow Airport just under an hour later. The two travellers bade Tim goodbye, and, under Johnson’s directions, they made their way to the Special Branch office where they reported to the duty officer. The officer asked them to wait in a small anteroom, and a few minutes later, a very well-spoken and dapper young detective wearing an immaculate dark suit came in and introduced himself.

  “Gentlemen, good morning, I’m James Partridge, how do you do.” He shook hands with Don and Johnson. “Have you had breakfast? No? Then let’s pop along to the canteen and have a quick chat before I take you to your flight.”

  The “quick chat” turned out to be a comprehensive lecture on the dos and don’ts of operating in Ireland in the existing political climate. With the ever-present threat of terrorism, police officers had to be especially vigilant. The canteen breakfast, however, was excellent.

  “The IRA would have a field day if they could get their hands on a couple of British police officers conducting an investigation in the Republic,” their host told them. “So, no talking to anyone other than the people you’ve gone to see. A sergeant named Rogan from the Garda Siochana will meet you at Dublin airport. He’ll look after you while you’re over there. He’s a good man; we’ve dealt with him before, so take heed of any instructions he gives you. Oh, and don’t be taken in by his somewhat laid-back attitude. He’s as sharp as they come...” and so it went on.

  Partridge stayed with the two officers until it was time to depart. He eventually took them through to Terminal One via a secure rear connecting corridor. He then escorted them all the way out onto the tarmac and over to the staircase that led to the door of the aeroplane.

  “It only takes one phone call from the public area to put us in danger,” Partridge explained. “It could be a fellow passenger, a cleaner, or anyone. There are IRA sympathisers everywhere. We take nothing for granted working here. Well, goodbye, gents, have a good trip.” He handed Johnson a folded newspaper he’d picked up somewhere en route. He shook hands with the two men then turned smartly and marched back into the terminal.

  Up to that point, Don had been quite ambivalent about the threat to his safety. After all, the troubles were focussed in the north of Ireland, and one rarely heard of problems in the south. However, watching Partridge walking away, Don felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable. As he followed Johnson onto the plane, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he would be very happy once this little adventure was safely behind him.

  They were the last passengers to board the flight and, despite having economy class tickets, Don was pleasantly surprised to be directed to the first-class seats at the front of the aircraft, well apart from the other travellers. Don had never flown first class and was grateful for the fact that he didn’t have to pay for the upgrade. How the other half lives! he thought.

  They declined the offer of champagne from the elegantly dressed stewardess but, once airborne, they both ordered coffee. With two steaming cups on the folding tables in front of them, they lit up cigarettes and relaxed into the luxuriously upholstered seats.

  “Now, it’s time for us to have a chat,” said Johnson as the cups were cleared away. He handed Don the newspaper he had been carrying. “Have a look at this.”

  Don noticed it was the News of the World.

  “Shitty death!” spluttered Don as he looked at the banner headline across the front page. His lighted cigarette fell from his mouth, and he had a frantic few seconds trying to retrieve it before he calmed sufficiently to look back at the newspaper. Johnson smiled to himself and continued looking out of the window.

  LONDON SEX GODDESS BRUTALLY MURDERED

  The article went on to say that an infamous dominatrix known to her clients as Mistress Stern was found battered to death the previous Tuesday morning. Her body had been found in some woods, near to her home in the village of Brompton in Berkshire.

  There were photographs of a younger Susanne Hoskins, as well as a picture of her house, a shot of the scene of the murder, and some archive footage of what appeared to be a mediaeval dungeon, complete with whips, canes shackles, and other torture equipment.

  “The paper did a number on her two years ago,” explained Johnson, saving Don the trouble of reading the whole article. “One of their reporters pretended to be a punter and did a big story exposing her naughty goings-on. She and two other women were offering their professional services to masochistic males, mostly bankers and big company executives. All very discrete – and very expensive.

  “Once we found that out, we got onto the Yard and, according to the Vice Squad chappies, she’d been on their radar for years. It turns out she’d been a very successful domme until the paper blew her cover. After the article appeared, her clients deserted her – hardly surprising. She lost a lot of business and eventually sold out to another sex worker. Last the squad knew, she’d retired to the country.”

  “Bloody Hell!” exclaimed Don. “I would never have guessed that. So could her murder be a session with a client that went wrong?”

  “Who knows?” said Johnson. “But that’s not all, there’s these.”

  He extracted a brown envelope from the leather briefcase he had stowed under the seat in front of him. However, before he handed it over to Don, he had a good look around the immediate vicinity.

  The photos inside were black and white images of two teenage boys. The shots were of excellent quality and obviously professionally produced. The lads in the pictures were completely naked and were posing in a variety of sexual positions. Nothing was left to the imagination.

  Don was shocked. “How old are they, they look like kids?” he asked quietly.

  “Probably thirteen or fourteen is the best guess, but until we find out who they are, we can’t be sure. The Obscene Publications Unit have been aware of Hoskins for years, but they don’t recognise these two.”

  “If they’ve known of him for years, why hasn’t he been pulled?” asked Don.

  “Well, up till now he’s only photographed adults; proper models, porn actors, and the like. He’s never been sussed as a kiddie-fiddler. If he was, his feet wouldn’t have touched, ages back.”

  “The dirty bastard,” said Don. The pictures had really turned his stomach, and he felt quite ill.

  “Now listen, we’re being careful who else we show these to. This is not to get out to the press, got that?” Johnson was deadly serious.

  “Of course, but what has all this filth got to do with the murder?”

  “Well, you weren’t to know it, but one of the bedrooms in the Hoskins house had been set up as a photographic studio – complete with a double bed and expert lighting. We found these on an unexposed roll of film in a dark room they’d set up in the shed out the back. Obscene Pubs tell us Hoskins used to run a lucrative little side-line supplying homo pictures to dirty book shops in Soho.”

  “Used to?”

  “There’s the odd thing; they were sure he’d packed it all in around the time his wife gave up her dungeon. He was apparently going all respectable and was sticking to his day job as an advertising exec in the City. So, Master Hoskins has got a few questions to answer. But whether he will actually answer us is anybody’s guess.”

  The weather had been fine and bright when they’d taken off in London, but the sky over Dublin had turned a steely-grey as they landed and, judging from the wet tarmac, it had recently rain
ed. Following instructions from the flight attendant, the two men remained onboard the aircraft until the other passengers had alighted.

  A tall, barrel-chested man in a blue suit was waiting for them at the foot of the steps as they eventually exited the plane. The big man had his arms folded over the red tie that hung down over his chest, and the expression on his face was cold and hard.

  Don felt a knot in his stomach.

  “Mister Johnson and Mister Barton, I presume,” he said in a gravelly voice. He glared at the two English officers for a moment, then, suddenly, his face split into a huge smile, revealing his large white teeth. He roared with laughter and held out his hand.

  “I’m Mike Rogan,” he said as he shook hands. “You can call me Mike, or Michael if you prefer, but,” he held up a warning finger, “whatever you do, don’t call me Mick, I can’t stand it.” He roared with laughter again. “Don’t look so worried, young Don, you’re in safe hands with Mike Rogan, ask anyone.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dublin

  Rogan checked that the English officers had no luggage, other than the briefcase Johnson was carrying, so he led the way. They ignored the doorway and walked past the airside wall of the terminal to a quiet car park situated at the rear of the main buildings.

  A thin, youngish-looking man in casual clothes was smoking and lounging against the side of a metallic blue, somewhat used-looking, Ford Cortina 1600E. He straightened up and trod out his cigarette as he saw the three men approaching.

  “All quiet, Tim?” Rogan asked as they got nearer.

  “I’m not sure, Mike,” the man replied. “There’s been a Transit van pass the other side of the fence a couple of times. It could just be workmen, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Any markings, registration number?” asked Rogan.

  “No, plain white workers’ van, too far away to get a number plate.”

  “Well, it’s probably nothing, but you’d best do a spot of dry cleaning on the way to the RV. You can never be too sure with these things.”

  Rogan turned back to his guests and said, “Don, you climb in the front there and have a chat with Tim. Dave, you and I will squeeze in the back of this little motor and talk to each other about murder and suchlike.”

  Once aboard, the men were driven away from the terminal to where a uniformed police officer was standing by a tall wire gate set into the perimeter fence that surrounded the airport. The officer opened the gate as the car approached and nodded to the occupants as they drove out past him.

  “A spot of dry cleaning, you say, Mike?” Tim called back to Rogan.

  “Okay, but don’t go too mad; we want to get there in one piece,” the big man answered, then turning to Dave, explained, “It’s what the Special Branch lads call it when they think they may be followed. We basically shake off any tail.”

  “Is it that bad?” asked Dave.

  “As far as bombs and shootings go, there’s nothing at all going on in the South,” Rogan said, “but the IRA still have quite a presence down here – despite the organisation being illegal in this country. They keep their heads down most of the time, but we don’t take any chances. Anyway, what can you tell me about this killing?”

  “Well, basically, this man Hoskins’ wife was found dead at the side of the road, about a mile from her home, near the entrance to a local wood. She’d received one very hard blow to the back of the head that cracked her skull, and she died from a bleed in the brain. When we went to look for her husband, he was missing and turned up over here a few days later.”

  “So, you think he might have done it?”

  “We were fairly certain of it to start with, but now things have got a bit complicated.” He handed Rogan the newspaper and photographs. The big man made no comment as he handed them back.

  “Well, isn’t it simple enough?” Rogan said. “All you have to do is establish if Hoskins was here at the time of the killing.”

  “I wish it were that easy,” Dave replied. “We have no way of knowing if he killed her then ran off to Ireland or was he already in the Republic when she died.”

  “But surely, if you have the time of death, all you need to establish is if he was already here when it happened.”

  “Yes, of course, we have the time of death, but it doesn’t help a lot in this case. Whoever clobbered her hid her body in some bushes about fifty feet from the road, but what he didn’t realise was that she was still alive, if only barely. The poor woman must have regained consciousness at some point then dragged herself over to the edge of the road. God only knows what she suffered, but we have no way of knowing how long it took her to expire.”

  “So, you have a time of death, but not the time of the actual assault? Tricky,” Rogan mused.

  The car had picked up some speed but slowed down as it entered the city. Don was very impressed at Tim’s superb driving skills.

  “Now, don’t you boys be worried,” shouted Rogan. “Tim here is the finest driver on the force. Hasn’t he got medals and trophies all over the house from the races he’s won? We’ll be all right – just close your eyes and hang on!”

  The next twenty minutes passed in a blur. Don was a highly qualified advanced car driver and motorcyclist, and he had attended some hair-raising training sessions in his time. However, he was lost in admiration for this Irish policeman as they drove through the back streets of Dublin. They hurtled along as though the town were deserted and they had the streets all to themselves.

  They flew along the small streets from junction to junction, sometimes indicating a turn, sometimes not. Occasionally, they indicated one way then turned the other, and at every turn, Tim checked his mirror to see if anyone else had copied their manoeuvre.

  Fortunately, Tim’s skill in handling the car was matched by his knowledge of the city’s road system, and they soon found themselves back out of town and negotiating the twisting lanes of the Irish countryside. Here, Tim was really in his element, and Don noticed that the speedometer on the car frequently showed them to be travelling at well over a hundred miles an hour, sometimes along roads barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass one another.

  It was on one of these roads that they encountered the white Transit.

  The van was approaching them at low speed between two rows of parked cars. With no room to pass both vehicles had to stop. Don could now clearly see the other driver, a thin young man with black wavy hair. He was wearing working clothes. A heavier, older man, similarly dressed, was sitting beside him, smoking a cigarette.

  “Stay here,” growled Rogan as he opened his car door.

  Don looked up as Rogan passed him, and he noticed for the first time that the Irish policeman was armed with a revolver. It was tucked neatly away in a shoulder holster under the armpit of Rogan’s suit. Don could feel his mouth go dry, but he made a conscious effort to appear calm.

  The big detective strode straight up to the driver’s side of the van and motioned for the window to be wound down. He then leant into the vehicle and spoke to the driver and his mate.

  Don couldn’t hear what was being said, but from the body language, it was obvious the two men were getting a roasting. Rogan finally stood back from the vehicle and motioned with his thumb back along the road in the direction the van had driven from.

  “Right, now fuck off, the pair of you!”

  This time Don could hear his colleague quite clearly.

  Rogan got back into the Cortina and said, “Nothing to worry about. Sure, I know them two well enough. They just got curious when they clocked this so-called undercover police car at the airport. What a feckin’ joke! It’s time the commissioner forked out and got us some new kit.”

  “So, what did you tell them?” asked Johnson.

  “I said they were interfering with a surveillance operation to catch a gang of bank robbers – and if they didn’t clear off, they’d be looking at five years apiece for obstructing the police.”

  “Will they report back to anyone?” said Johnson.


  “Them two fucking tearaways? Sure, they wouldn’t know who to report to even if they did want to. No, they’re too scared of the law to do anything that stupid.”

  “But suppose they call your bluff?” asked Don.

  Rogan put a heavy hand on Don’s shoulder. “Who’s fuckin’ bluffing?” he said quietly, then burst out laughing.

  There were no more sightings of the van, and eventually, they arrived at the small seaside town of Skerries. Tim slowed down to a sedate 30mph as they negotiated the picturesque coastal road that led into the harbour. They arrived at an imposing (if rather dated) hotel and Tim pulled in through an arched entrance and parked in the small car park at the rear, well out of sight of the road.

  “Hoskins has refused to be interviewed in a police station,” said Rogan, “so we agreed with his solicitor to see him here. We’ve used this place before, and the owner is fully vetted. Besides which, he’s married to my cousin.” Rogan gave them a toothy grin.

  “What about the brief?” asked Johnson.

  “We know him quite well. Sure, Dublin’s not that big you know, so you get to know them all in time. He’s a sharp one but straight as a die. He’ll do us no favours in the interview, but he’s never been suspected of being a security risk. We should be okay.”

  Tim stayed with the car while Rogan led Don and Johnson in through a rear entrance and along a wood-panelled corridor to a small private function room. The room contained a number of round tables with wooden chairs, and there was a small bar that, to Don’s disappointment, was currently locked up.

  There were two men sitting at a table in the middle of the room, one of whom Don instantly recognised as Steve Hoskins. Hoskins was dressed in a dark suit sporting a black armband. Although the suit appeared expensive, the wearer looked dishevelled. He was unshaven, red-eyed and visibly startled when he looked up and saw Don.

  “Hello, Mr Barton,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to see the local village bobby out here. Are they running short of detectives in the Thames Valley?”