Omens of Death (The Montague Pluke Cases Book 1)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m sorry to have to call you like this, to ruin your holiday.’

  ‘Think nowt about it, I was worrying about my taties, carrots, and beetroot anyway, wondering if that lass ’ad thought to water ’em now and then.’ And the phone went dead.

  Montague looked blankly at the handset, then slowly replaced it and thanked Mr Holliday.

  ‘We shall need to take a statement from you,’ Wayne Wain informed Holliday. ‘About what has transpired this evening. For our files.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Ephraim who had now produced his vast pipe and ignited the contents which spewed clouds of dense smoke into the atmosphere. It was like being in a railway station of bygone times.

  ‘Thank you for your courtesy, and for helping us trace the Crowthers,’ said Montague Pluke. ‘You have been of great assistance. Now, we will leave you; we have work to do.’ And the two detectives departed, leaving Ephraim to lock up and to ponder the means by which his agency might gain useful publicity from these events.

  ‘You said we had work to do?’ asked Wayne Wain as he settled behind the wheel of their car. ‘I thought we could knock off now, sir, having made such good progress. It is getting late.’

  ‘It is precisely the wrong time to knock off, Wayne,’ said Pluke. ‘Is there not a saying “strike while the iron is hot”? It is very hot right now, and we must reach the parents of the deceased before her killer does likewise.’

  ‘Is that likely, sir?’

  ‘Who can tell, Wayne? And we must also talk to the lady at No 14.’

  ‘No 14, sir?’

  ‘No 14 Padgett Grove. Mrs Peat. The gossip mentioned by George Dunwoody and Cyril Crowther. Gossips are such lovely persons to interview, Wayne. They poke their noses into the affairs of everyone else and love to impart juicy titbits, even to the police and especially during a major investigation. Perhaps we will talk to her tomorrow though?’

  ‘So tonight we are going to West Hartlepool?’ anticipated Wayne Wain.

  ‘Yes, Wayne, we are. Immediately in fact,’ said Pluke, placing his panama on the rear seat as Wain accelerated into the night.

  During the forty-mile drive, Pluke asked Wayne Wain whether he considered Mr Holliday to be a prime suspect and Wayne replied in the negative. There seemed nothing to link the travel agent with the girl’s death and, having aired the possibility, Pluke said he was inclined to agree. A suspect — yes, like everyone in the town — but not a prime suspect, not one to be placed in the frame, as the detectives would say. None the less, Holliday’s movements and background would be scrutinised by one of Pluke’s team.

  After calling at Hartlepool’s Divisional Police Headquarters in Raby Road to acquaint the local police with their presence, Pluke asked if he could examine the electoral register to ascertain the address of the Pellow family.

  He knew it was in Apedale Gardens but did not have the number. Having discovered the Pellows occupied No 79, Pluke next asked the way and was told it was a tower block in West Hartlepool. Under Pluke’s directions, Wayne found his way there without any difficulty, parked on a rubbish-laden patch of concrete and both climbed the urine-saturated staircase to No 79. Pluke, being the leader, knocked on the flaking blue paint of the door on the seventh floor and it was opened by a huge, untidy woman wearing a red track suit.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, not inviting them inside, but puzzled by the man in the panama hat and funny old overcoat.

  ‘Mrs Pellow?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Police,’ said Pluke, showing his warrant card with a flourish.

  ‘Our Darren’s done nowt this time, mister, you lot are allus picking on him and his mates…’ And she prepared to slam the door in their faces. Acting with incredible foresight, Wayne Wain placed a large foot in exactly the right place to hold it open while Pluke thought that this woman was hardly the sort to be a friend of a friend of a friend of Millicent’s or even a friend of a friend of the Crowthers.

  ‘No, Mrs Pellow, it’s about your Sharon. We have some bad news… You see, a body was found…’

  ‘Her on the news tonight? In that Druids’ Circle?’ The woman’s eyes widened in genuine alarm.

  ‘Yes, well, I am dreadfully sorry to have to impart this terrible news to you, but we have reason to believe it might be your daughter, Sharon.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, mister policeman. She’s in her room is our Sharon. Thursday’s her night for washing her hair and doing her nails, so she’s here. Hey, our Sharon, come here…’

  ‘You what?’ bellowed a voice from within.

  ‘Here, now!’ screamed the mother. ‘There’s the old bill…’

  After a lapse of a few moments, a beautiful blonde girl with a massive bust and deep-blue eyes appeared at the doorway, clutching a dressing-gown about her ample body. It was moments like this that made Wayne Wain forget any regrets about having to work late.

  ‘Yeh?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you Sharon Pellow?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  Montague Pluke had to think with uncharacteristic speed at this stage. This girl was supposed to be dead. ‘I understand you were to make use of a bungalow in Crickledale, Sharon, for a few days while the owners were away, so that you could do some work there…’

  ‘Yeh, but it fell through. Tracy went instead.’

  ‘Tracy?’

  ‘A lass I met at the studio. She said she’d do it, so I said about the house and off she went.’

  ‘So who is Tracy?’

  ‘Dunno.’ She shrugged her shoulders and her breasts wobbled under the dressing-gown. Pluke tried not to notice; Wayne couldn’t help but notice. ‘Just Tracy.’ There followed a few moments’ silence as Wayne attempted to drag his eyes from the intriguing bodily movements and Pluke tried to decide what to ask next.

  ‘Sharon, we have reason to believe that the girl who occupied the bungalow — the girl we thought was you — has died in suspicious circumstances. I am sorry to bring this news.’

  ‘Murdered, you mean?’ she screamed. ‘Tracy?’

  ‘We want to know whether the dead girl is Tracy. We thought it was you, you see, which is why we are here…’

  ‘Oh my God… the bastards…’ she screamed.

  ‘Sharon, will you come with us now, to Crickledale, to look at the girl who has died? To tell us if it is your friend — and if so, we will need to find her next of kin. Maybe you know where we can find her family? Her address?’

  ‘You’ll have to go, our Sharon… thank God it’s not you… I saw it on the news,’ said Mrs Pellow, now speaking more quietly. ‘You never think it’s as near home as that, do you… so you go with the er, gentlemen, Sharon…’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll be happy to drive you back home,’ breathed Wayne.

  ‘Give me five minutes to get summat on, then.’ And Sharon smiled at Wayne as she engineered a final wobble of her chesty bits.

  Her dazzling smile would have melted the heart of the most severe of men — it certainly gave Wayne the biggest thrill of his day so far and even made Pluke think she was beautiful. The snag was she’d be like her mother in a few years’ time; you couldn’t make silk out of sows’ ears…

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sharon’s mother, to the dismay of Wayne Wain.

  ‘No, we’ll be fine…’ said Sharon, smiling again at Wayne.

  ‘You never know who’s about,’ said Mrs Pellow. ‘Come on, our Sharon, hurry up and get summat on.’

  ‘We’ll wait in the car,’ said Pluke as Wayne Wain withdrew his foot from the doorway while Sharon vanished inside, with yet another smile in his direction.

  They waited, with Wayne thinking romantic thoughts about the physical attributes of the gorgeous Sharon and deciding to display for her benefit his prowess as a highly trained police driver, while Pluke wondered what on earth was happening in Crickledale.

  Millicent settled down to watch the regional news which followed News at Ten. There was a brief item about the body that had b
een found at the Druids’ Circle and a picture of Montague outside the police station. He looked at the camera and described his victim, then asked for possible names for her, but there was no suggestion she was May Crowther’s niece.

  Millicent felt very proud of Montague at that stage and wondered what time he would be home for his cocoa.

  Chapter Ten

  During the hour’s drive from West Hartlepool to Crickledale, Detective Inspector Pluke established from Sharon that she and Tracy were models. When he asked what they modelled, meaning did they work for fashion houses, catalogues, department stores, or mail order companies, Sharon said it wasn’t that sort of modelling.

  ‘It’s not the posh sort, Mr Pluke,’ she tried to explain. ‘Me and Tracy don’t go jettin’ off to sunny places to have our pictures taken in smart clothes or even wearing bikinis or less. We work here, in the North-East.’

  ‘Yes, I gather that.’ Pluke was half-twisted round in his passenger seat so that he could observe them in the rear as Wayne Wain, using all his considerable driving skills, guided the fast-moving car across the expansive moors. ‘But I am still not absolutely sure of the kind of modelling you undertake.’

  ‘Page Three work, Mr Pluke,’ butted in Wayne Wain.

  ‘Page Three? Page Three of what publication, might I ask?’

  ‘Where have you been, Mr Pluke?’ Sharon laughed. ‘I mean, everybody knows what Page Three means, although it’s page five in some papers and other pages in other papers.’

  ‘Topless modelling, sir…’ Wayne Wain added his comments.

  ‘They was always hoping for better things, Mr Pluke,’ interrupted Mrs Pellow. ‘You’ve got to start somewhere, you know, it’s a tough life, you can only do it while you’ve got the looks, it’s a very short life at the top…’

  ‘So, you met Tracy at a studio while modelling?’ Pluke pressed on.

  ‘Yes, in Middlesbrough. There’s this agency, run by a bloke called Ron. He finds girls and does deals with magazines and video companies, films and things.’

  ‘Modelling deals?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘Photographic modelling deals, sir,’ put in Wayne.

  ‘Oh, I see. So you have your photographs taken for specialist magazines and get paid for that work? By this man Ron?’

  ‘Yeh, that’s about it, except Ron doesn’t actually take the pictures. He gets somebody else in for that. Ron trained us up, you know, showed us how to stand or sit or lie, to show our best bits off, if you understand. Bits of tape help a lot…’

  ‘Bits of tape?’ puzzled Pluke.

  ‘For the boobs, to keep ’em where you want ’em when pictures are being taken,’ advised Mrs Pellow.

  ‘They’re nude models, sir,’ clarified Wayne Wain.

  ‘Nude? Really, for artists?’

  ‘Not the sort of artists you think, sir.’ Wain smiled. ‘These people are not your Rembrandts and Renoirs.’

  ‘They are artistic models, Mr Pluke.’ Mrs Pellow grinned from the rear seat. ‘Nudes, doing poses, artistic poses, doing other things an’ all if the money’s right. Our Sharon’s in films.’

  ‘You mean porn films?’ suggested Wayne Wain.

  ‘We don’t call them that, er, Wayne,’ breathed Sharon. ‘We call them artistic productions.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this,’ muttered Pluke, beginning to understand what had really been happening in Crickledale and having a suspicion, just the tiniest of suspicions but real nonetheless, that the Crowthers might somehow be involved. Maybe his officers should research their backgrounds as they would for a murder suspect? It seemed they could not, at this stage, be eliminated from his enquiries and so he made a mental note to investigate Cyril and May before continuing, ‘Are you saying that you and Tracy were involved in pornographic modelling for films and video tapes?’

  ‘I’m saying me and Tracy were involved in artistic work for still cameras, videos, and films, Mr Pluke. Very versatile we are, according to Ron. I didn’t say it was porn. Our stuff’s not for dirty old men, Mr Pluke; it’s for men of distinction, men with money. You’ve got to earn a living and well, me and Tracy are not bad looking, big, busty, and blonde, as Ron says, and that’s all we need — and it was work, Mr Pluke. There was none of the other business, you understand.’

  ‘Other business?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘You know,’ said Sharon. ‘None of that.’

  ‘Drugs you mean?’ Pluke suggested.

  ‘No, none of that neither. We was never mixed up in drugs, Mr Pluke,’ stressed Sharon. ‘We kept ourselves clear of that. We never broke the law. Ron made sure of that; he never wanted none of his lasses getting in bother with the law.’

  ‘Tell me about this Ron,’ asked Pluke.

  ‘Nowt much to say really,’ responded Sharon. ‘He has this place, studio, off Dunthorpe Road. Up that alley opposite Kitto’s Kaff, No 4.’

  ‘For taking photographs? So he is a photographer, is he?’

  ‘Not really, no, like I said, he doesn’t actually take the pictures. He fixes things. Does deals. If a magazine wants summat, they’ll ring Ron and Ron’ll find a girl or two, and a bloke or two if they’ve got to perform, and then a photographer or cameraman or somebody with all the gear, lights and that. Then they fix up a day to start shooting…’

  ‘Always in the studio?’ asked Wayne.

  ‘Oh, no, we go out. Woods, moors, lakes, quiet places. Houses, flats, and things.’

  ‘But some pictures are taken in the studio?’

  ‘Yeh, it’s amazing. He can make it look like a desert island with palm trees or a mountain top or a lake side or, well, owt he wants. He uses drapes and things, props. He once did a street scene in the middle of Paris, without going out of the studio, for that one we did about the Frenchman with big onions. Amazing, is Ron, a real Mister Fixer.’

  ‘So who is he, this Ron?’ asked Wayne.

  ‘Dunno, just Ron. Everybody calls him Ron.’

  ‘So if we wanted a word with him, about Tracy, if it is Tracy we’re going to see, how would we do it?’

  ‘Go to the studio. I don’t know where he lives or owt else about him.’

  ‘Been good to our Sharon, has Ron,’ said Mrs Pellow. ‘Not often she’s out of work, he really sees to her, he really does. Don’t know what she’d do without Ron. Pays cash an’ all, no cheques or tax worries with Ron.’

  ‘So your friend, Tracy…’ Pluke decided to quiz the women about Tracy. ‘Tell me about her links with Crickledale.’

  ‘You don’t really think it’s her, do you, Mr Pluke? Dead, I mean? It should have been me, you see, on that job. I could be dead, couldn’t I? It makes you think, it really does…’ Sharon’s voice was subdued now. ‘There was this job to do, in the woods out there.’

  ‘Job?’ queried Pluke.

  ‘Filming job, an artistic film in the woods, nymphs and shepherds.’

  ‘A job that Ron had fixed?’ suggested Wayne Wain.

  ‘Yeh, Ron had set it up.’

  ‘And you couldn’t do it?’ pressed Wayne.

  ‘No, I wasn’t fit that time, so I asked Tracy if she’d take it on. Ron said it was all right because she’s big, busty, and blonde, just like a nymph, he said, so it was all right.’

  ‘So if Tracy replaced you, how did she come to be living at Mr and Mrs Crowther’s house?’ asked Pluke. ‘We have reason to believe she was living for a while in the house, as a house-sitter, while Mr and Mrs Crowther were on holiday.’

  ‘It should have been me in that house. My mum heard about it, through some friends…’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ chipped in Mrs Pellow. ‘A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of mine, Elsie she’s called, well, she’d heard May Crowther was going off on holiday and was thinking of having somebody in to look after the place while they was away. So when our Sharon got this offer, we asked if she could use the house and the Crowthers said yes, delighted. So they left a key under a brick in the drive, for that Saturday when they went. If Sharon had g
one and done that job, she would have used the house.’

  ‘Just to live in?’ Pluke asked Sharon.

  Sharon did not answer for a moment or two, then said, ‘Well, no, not exactly, Mr Pluke. We might have done a bit of filming there, you know, in a real house in a real bed, not a lot, but we always tidy up afterwards.’

  ‘You mean you use other people’s houses for making porn films?’ cried Wayne Wain.

  ‘It saves the expense of renting places,’ she replied. ‘Very expensive is renting houses for filming, Ron says, so we use the places we house-sit in… I mean, we never leave a mess or owt like that. You’d never know we’d been.’

  ‘But the owners do not realise this?’

  ‘Oh, no, we never tell them; they’d want money, wouldn’t they? And we are doing them a good turn by sitting in the houses for them, stopping burglars and things. Watering plants an’ that. I mean, when television hires houses for filming they pay a fortune, but Ron hasn’t that sort of cash, Mr Pluke. Not yet, anyroad, but he will, when he gets into the big time, when he makes his million or summat.’

  ‘So when they gave permission for their bungalow to be used by you, Mr and Mrs Crowther had no idea it would be used for filming — pornographic filming in fact, Sharon?’ Pluke was shocked.

  ‘Not porn, Mr Pluke, artistic films. No, they wouldn’t know, but why should they have to know? I mean, if I house-sit for them, look after the place and keep it dusted, what’s it matter to them what I do with my time? I ask you! They wouldn’t want to know if I listened to Beethoven or had friends in for a pizza or what, would they? Or if I practised my violin or studied French. So why shouldn’t I let a mate take a photo of me in bed with a bloke, doing what folks do in bed? There’s no harm in that, is there? I allus washes the sheets afterwards.’

  ‘And when you home-sit and then use a house for filming, you never tell the owners?’

  ‘No, not ever.’

  ‘So it is quite feasible that somebody who knows Mr and Mrs Crowther and who has been to their house could recognise it if they saw the film?’