“Well, it wasn’t exactly what you might call a conventional marriage. He’s a homosexual porn merchant, and she was a retired (or so she said) high-class dominatrix from London. Hoskins says they never had sex, but her PM revealed she was actually very active in that department – and quite recently as well.”
“One of her old client’s, perhaps?”
“Yes, that’s what we thought, but our enquiries in that direction are moving slowly to say the least. She was the subject of News of the World sting operation two years ago, and her activities were plastered all over the paper. It seems that most of her punters were from the upper echelons and they hastily withdrew to their country piles. Most of them pulled up the drawbridge and dropped the portcullis.”
“Was she blackmailing anyone, do you think?”
“It’s possible, but you know the establishment. They’re protecting their own as usual.”
“Hmm, yeah, but murder is a bit different to sleaze.”
“Well, we’ve got two men working with Vice Squad at the Yard, but they keep running into dead ends when it comes to identifying old customers.”
“Any family connection?”
“Suzanne’s mum was a drunk, and the girl was raped by her step-father when she was thirteen. She was taken into care when her mum died, and she was brought up by foster parents.”
“Anything there?”
“A very respectable middle-class couple. Both still alive, but only just. They were very good to Suzanne apparently, even sent her to private school. She left at eighteen and joined the sex industry, pandering to men with a craving for corporal punishment. She eventually ended up running a business of her own – which went south once the newspaper report appeared.”
“And Mr Hoskins?”
“English father, Irish mother, most of his family are still over there. He went to university then went into advertising. At some point, he found he had a talent for photography and, through his gay contacts, was able to run a lucrative little side-line producing dirty pictures for a number of outlets in Soho. We found some kiddy-porn at his house along with a bedroom studio.”
“So, he hadn’t retired then?”
“Apparently not. Anyway, as far as we can see, his cover story holds water. He genuinely did have a funeral to go to in Dublin. We’re still trying to I.D. the boys pictured in the photos we found but no luck so far, locally at least. Someone suggested they might be apprentice jockeys.”
“Very unlikely,” snorted Boxwell. “I know enough trainers on this patch to tell you that all these young riders are dead keen on making it big one day. If they were seen posing in porn mags and got identified, the Jockey Club would pull their licences quicker than that. They’d be out of racing for good. The risk would be just too great for the few quid they’d earn doing it.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what we’ve been told already. But those aren’t the only complications.”
“Go on.”
“Well, traces of cocaine were found at the victim’s house along with a number of fingerprints we can’t yet identify. Also, we uncovered a hidey-hole nearby where drugs have recently been hidden.”
“Was Mrs Hoskins an addict?”
“Not according to the post-mortem; we don’t know about the husband, though. It’s possible he’s a user. If so, it raises another possibility.”
“Yes?”
“The local officer, your man PC Barton, has discovered that two poachers were seen at the scene of the murder some hours before it happened. It turns out these men feature in a large-scale undercover Drugs Squad operation that’s currently underway.”
“And Drug Squad have asked you to back off?”
“Pretty much. Problem is that Barton has already been to see them.”
“But surely that’s not a problem. He can’t possibly have knowledge of the drugs operation, can he?”
“No, and he doesn’t know about the cocaine traces being found either.”
“So, where’s the problem?”
“These two young Herberts have told Barton they saw an off-duty police officer at the scene of the murder shagging an unknown female – who could turn out to have been our victim. The lovers were in the back of a car a few hours before the murder.”
Boxwell went quiet for a minute. He was “old school” when it came to morality and got very depressed when police officers transgressed and let the side down.
“I suppose you know who it is?” he said eventually.
Merryweather explained in detail the facts as he knew them.
“So,” said Boxwell, “et me get this straight. “We are told that someone, who two poachers say was a police officer, but don’t know his name, was seen in a Triumph Herald having sex with an unknown and unseen woman – who may or may not have been Mrs Hoskins. PC Barton thinks the police officer MAY have been Inspector Mollington because he THINKS the inspector MAY own a similar vehicle. Is that about it?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s a bit thin, to say the least, but we’re going to have to follow up on it somehow. What can you tell me about Mollington?”
“He’s not a graduate, but he’s very bright. He passed the sergeants exam, first go, in the top two hundred nationally and got selected for the Special Course. He did his twelve months as a sergeant in Bracknell and got automatically promoted inspector and posted here a few weeks ago.”
“I thought the flyers all went to busy main stations; no offence, Mike.”
Boxwell laughed. “None taken, Phil. Actually, it was his own idea to come here. He wanted to be somewhere relatively quiet to give him time to write a paper on equal opportunities in the service – as part of his Open University degree course.”
“Hmm, or maybe to be close to a girlfriend?”
“Well, either way, it’s rumoured his dad is a close friend the chief constable. So anything we do has to be done right.”
“Any suggestions?”
“I don’t want to get involved with your murder, Phil. However, I suggest you leave this to me and let me approach Mollington from another angle. I’ll make a few discreet enquiries first.”
“I’m fine with that, it’s probably just another red herring anyway. I really can’t see a bright young prospect like Mollington risking throwing his career away for the sake of a retired tart from London. It just doesn’t add up.”
“What about PC Barton, will he keep it to himself, do you think? The last thing I need is a load of vicious rumours running round the place.”
“I don’t think he’s stupid enough to start gobbing off, but I’ll be honest, I’m not at all sure about young Barton. It well may be you have a wrong ‘un on your hands there. Anyway, I’ve got Dave Johnson looking after him, and if anyone can keep the lid on, it’s Dave.”
“Absolutely, I worked with him back in the City days. You’re right, they don’t come much better than Johnson. Okay, Phil, give me a couple of days, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, Mike, for my part I’ll do my best to keep you advised of any other developments.”
“Right, well, thanks for dropping in, even if it was to bring bad news. I suppose I better back to these appraisals …”
Chapter Thirteen
Churchers’ Cottage
There was nothing Alan Churcher liked better than to sit in the garden on a sunny day and read comics. As a boy, Alan had not been very popular at school, but he did have one special friend, a rather overweight and equally unpopular kid called Tony. Tony was in the same class as Alan, and his parents were fairly well off. He used to get comics delivered to his house each week, and he always passed them on to Alan once he had finished reading them.
Tony’s family had emigrated to Australia when the boys were just fourteen, but Alan had kept all the comics in a pile under his bed. Although he was now twenty-two years of age, he still loved reading them when he got the chance.
His favourite was The Eagle, a real boy’s paper, and Alan was happily sitting in his back garden, imaginin
g himself flying through the cosmos with Dan Dare, when he heard the sound of tyres crunching on gravel. The noise was coming from the front of the family cottage and signalled that brother Frank was finally home. Frank, being two years his senior, had been Alan’s father figure and mentor throughout most of the young man’s life.
The boys’ father had passed away when the boys were young, and their timid mother had been left with bringing the boys up on her own. She proved to be an admirable mother and had worked all hours to see that her sons were provided for, but she lacked firmness in her character.
The boys had not exactly run wild, but they had certainly been allowed to go increasingly further astray as the years passed. Since they had been grown up, she’d had very little control over them.
Alan’s reverie was rudely interrupted by the sharp pain of a tennis ball hitting him on the back of the head.
“Oi, dozy bollocks! Get your nose out of that stupid comic. We’ve got stuff to talk about.”
“Hey, Frank, that bloody hurt! Watch it, will you!”
“Serves you right for being a wimp. Those comics are for kids, not grown men. What do you think the mistress would have done if she’d caught you reading them?”
Both men were silent for a moment at the reference to Suzanne Hoskins. She had been a powerful influence in their lives, and now she was dead.
Their first meeting with her was seared into their memories:
“What are you doing in here?” Suzanne Hoskin’s voice was as sharp as a whip. “You’re supposed to be mending the tap in the kitchen, not sneaking around the bedrooms.”
Steven Hoskins had arranged for the young odd-job men to come to the house and take care of a few routine maintenance matters. However, he’d had to go to London, so his wife was left to supervise the work alone. She’d given the men their instructions then gone out into the garden. Frank, however, had decided to have a little look around.
If Frank Churcher was the slightest bit startled or perturbed at being caught rummaging, instead of getting on with the work he was being paid to do, he made no show of it. He turned towards Suzanne and gave her a cheeky grin.
She’s not bad for an old ‘un, he thought to himself. Quite tasty, now he looked at her properly.
“Don’t worry about the tap,” he said. “My brother’s taking care of it. I wanted to see what you got up to in here – it’s not like any bedroom I’ve ever seen. It’s more like some sort of studio. Are you a film star or an artist or something?”
Suzanne put her hands on her hips, and, standing with her legs slightly apart, fixed Frank with a glare. “It’s none of your business, you cheeky little bastard,” she hissed.
“I found this in the cupboard. The headmaster had one like it when I was at school.” Frank held up a two-foot length of bamboo cane with a curved handle at one end. “Are you one of them women that gets money for beating up dirty old men?” he asked.
“I’m quite capable of hurting young men as well,” she said menacingly.
His smile widened. “What sort of things do you do?”
Now it was her turn to smile.
“I can do all sorts of things,” she said slowly. “Perhaps I’ll show you.”
“What? If I’m a good boy?”
“Maybe, but it’s much more fun if you’re a bad one.”
She walked across the room and took the cane from Frank’s unresisting hands. She held it in front of his face with the curved handle in her right hand whilst slowly running her left hand along its entire length. She finished the move with her index finger tapping the rounded tip. She flexed the cane a couple of times in front of the fascinated young man, then she turned to one side.
In a lightning-fast movement, she slammed the rod down with a sharp crack onto the end of the bed, causing a small cloud of dust to fly into the air.
“Were you often naughty at school?” she said sweetly.
His mouth had gone dry. “Sometimes,” he croaked.
“I’m rather good at dealing with naughty boys,” said Suzanne. “I think you’re being naughty now.”
She glanced down and, with the end of her cane, gently tapped the bulge that had appeared in the front of his tight jeans. “Boys like you need a mistress to keep them in order. How would you like me to be your mistress?”
Frank felt as though he were dreaming. “Oh, yes,” he managed to say finally. “I think I might at that.”
She held his gaze for a long moment.
He was totally transfixed by her eyes and didn’t see the cane lash upward in a vicious arc. The bamboo went “thwack” as it made solid contact with the end of his penis. Even through the heavy denim of his jeans, the pain was excruciating. He let out a high-pitched yelp and clutched his bruised part with both hands.
Suzanne laughed as she watched him dancing around the room, holding himself.
“When you speak to me, you address me as Mistress,” said Suzanne sharply. “Now take all your clothes off and bend over that chair.”
“Can I fetch my brother first, please, mistress? We share everything. We always have and always will.”
“Has he been naughty as well?”
“Oh yes, mistress, very naughty indeed.”
“I don’t want to talk about her,” said Alan sullenly. “She was nothing but trouble when she was alive, and she’s even more of pain in the arse now she’s dead.”
“What? Don’t you miss her, then?”
“I miss the sex, she was good at that, but I don’t miss the other stuff, no.”
“Come on! You loved it!”
“I didn’t, Frank, it was you that liked it, not me. I just did it to keep you happy.”
“Anyway, forget about that. There’s a bloke in Newbury will give us five hundred in cash for the Jag, no questions asked.”
“What! It’s worth loads more than that!”
“Yeah, but who’s gonna give it us? We aint even got the logbook. Look, this geezer will put it through his books at five grand and give us a receipt. That way we can finally spend some of our drugs money without getting into bother if anybody asks where the dosh has come from. We could give Mum a bit of a treat, buy her something nice for a change.”
“Yeah, but what if that copper comes back, what then?”
“He can’t prove nothing. The car’s legit, don’t forget. It’s not as though we nicked it, is it? Anyway, they’re not even looking for it. It’s not been on the telly or in the papers. We’d have seen something by now if the motor was hot.”
Alan wasn’t convinced but said, “I suppose so. If you say so, Frank. So, what have you done with the dosh and all the gear?”
“It’s all somewhere nice and safe, don’t you worry.”
“Yeah, but where have you hidden it?”
“Like I said, somewhere safe.”
“Half of that’s mine, you know. I’ve a right to know where you put it.”
“Yes, bruv, you have,” said Frank patiently, “but I’m not telling you.”
“What! Don’t you trust me or summat?”
“Look, I know you aint gonna steal it, but I also know you can’t keep your trap shut. So, if the law or anyone starts asking questions, you can’t tell them nothing if you don’t know nothing.”
“I can keep my trap shut!” Alan was angry. “And I’ve a right to know where the stuff’s hidden.”
Frank wanted to thump his brother but decided to try to placate him instead.
“Tell you what, here’s twenty quid.”
“What’s that for?”
“So you can take me to the pub and buy me a pint, dopey!”
The brothers looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Come on,” said Frank. “Put the comics away, the boozer’s been open for ages.”
Chapter Fourteen
Brompton Police Office
Don considered himself a fairly pragmatic character, certainly not overly given to introspection or, heaven forbid, self-pity. But as he sat in his one-man
office, staring at the pile of paper on his desk, the pangs of loneliness and isolation that had been his constant companions for the past few days were as real and tangible as the cup of tea that sat cold and unconsumed in front of him.
It was several days since he had heard anything from the murder incident room, and Rosemary was still refusing to speak to him, even on the telephone. To take his mind off his misery, Don had immersed himself in the routine of rural police work.
He had manfully tackled the trayful of document productions, accident statements, summonses, and warrants that had accumulated over the past couple of weeks, and his sergeant would be well pleased to see just how up to date Don was with his work. However, there was scant satisfaction in a job well done when that job was, itself, lacking in appeal.
A sharp knock at the door brought him out of his reverie, and Don was genuinely pleased to see Ian waiting at the door.
“They’ve put me on Area Car today,” grinned the young officer. “So, I’m fully legit wandering off my own patch for a change, and I was wondering where to get a cup of tea.”
“I’d better put the kettle on then,” said Don. “Grab a pew, mate, and I’ll be with you in two shakes of a…”
“No need to say it, just get a brew going.”
Don went through the connecting door to his house and re-emerged a few minutes later with two steaming mugs in his hand. He saw Ian staring intently at one of the close-up photographs of the young boys that Don had inadvertently left out on the desk.
“I know this little fucker,” said Ian. “Why have you got his picture?”
Don knew that knowledge of the pornographic pictures was still officially under wraps but felt there was no harm in trusting Ian. After all, Don had already shown the snaps, albeit without explanation, to a quite a number of other people.
“Do you know him then?” asked Don.
“Yes, he’s one of the boys from Burridge House. You know, the children’s home on my ground for kids who the courts say are in need of care, protection, or control. Not offenders, necessarily, but always on the verge of trouble. The councils in London send them out to the sticks to get them away from bad influences in the city.”
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