Authors: Nicholas Rhea
‘I still say it is pornographic material, Wayne,’ said Montague. ‘And Sharon was one of the girls used for filming? And Tracy?’
‘Yes, sir, and through Ron I managed to obtain a full name and address for Tracy. She was also used in the filming, stills as well. Artistic poses.’
‘Well done. Good, so your overtime work was worthwhile?’
Wayne explained that Tracy was Tracy Bretton with an address in Stockton-on-Tees; she was thirty-one years old and had been married but divorced two years ago. Wayne had traced Tracy’s father to break the awful news and had asked him to visit the mortuary at 12 noon today, Friday, formally to identify his daughter. He had also given a description of Tracy’s red mini, complete with its registration number.
‘Good man,’ said Pluke. ‘This is remarkable progress, Wayne. Early identification of the victim is vital in such enquiries. Now we need to trace all her movements and contacts in recent weeks.’
‘She had come to work in Crickledale, sir, to make a film. She was replacing Sharon Pellow as we had been told. She was using 15 Padgett Grove, sir. For the filming. This is what the girls do, sir, Sharon was right. Through a network of contacts, they offer to house-sit for people who are going on holiday, then use the houses for making pornographic films. It seems there is a whole group of houses, some used regularly throughout the year, and the owners know nothing of the filming. They know a house-sitter is in residence, sir, but not that they are inviting film crews and photographers in to make pornographic films.’
‘That supports our views on 15 Padgett Grove, then, Wayne? Are the forensic and SOCO teams doing their examination of the house today?’
‘Yes, sir, they’ll be reporting here very soon.’
‘Good. Now this man Ron Brown, otherwise known as Marcel Boussicourt. Do we need to put a team on to him and his operations?’
‘Yes. We do need to know which of his many film crews — freelances they are, sir — was due to shoot tapes of Tracy at No. 15. Remember our last visit? There were unwashed-up pots and pans in the sink, with prints on. And that inhaler. It was Tracy’s, I believe. Her father said she suffered with asthma and wouldn’t go anywhere without one. When SOCO have done their stuff, we can check all Ron’s freelance crews against the prints we find — for elimination. And we might take the opportunity to see which houses they have been using recently. If only in our town, sir. Crickledale might well turn out to be a den of iniquity, sir.’
‘Not when it is within my purview, Wayne. This is a decent town and it must remain so. Even if there is no criminal offence in taking pornographic pictures in private houses, the matter should be halted, Wayne. On moral grounds.’
‘You’d have to be very careful how you did that, sir!’
‘I am sure the decent citizens of the town would rally round in support, Wayne. But we have more immediate matters to concern us. Now, it is time to prepare for the CID conference.’
At 10 a.m. precisely, Detective Inspector Pluke addressed the fifty or so detectives who had assembled. After repeating his account of the bizarre circumstances of the discovery of the body, he outlined everything that had happened since, placing due emphasis upon the possibility that empty houses were being used as sets for filming, probably without the knowledge of the property owners. That information was not for the press at this stage, but the possibility must be borne in mind during the enquiries. Any information about an influx of cameras and equipment at the homes of absent owners should be noted. The names of those involved were vital — one of them could be the killer of Tracy Bretton. Tracy’s movements in the town had to be traced too, along with her car. Where had that gone? Now that its registration number was known, it should not be difficult to locate. Once the girl had been formally identified by her father, details of her car and of her own personal description would be given to the press in the hope that members of the public had noticed her during her brief stay in Crickledale.
Detective Inspector Horsley followed up by displaying a magnified map of Crickledale divided into sections comprising housing estates and manageable areas embracing streets and roads. Teams of detectives would saturate each of those well-defined areas and ask about Tracy and her car, or other evidence of film-making in private houses or other premises. He allocated all the teams to specific tasks.
Briefing of the detectives lasted until 10.45 a.m. when it was time for the morning press conference. As the detectives were despatched about their enquiries, a band of reporters and photographers were arriving for their news conference. This was held in the lecture room at the police station and when Pluke arrived, it was full of journalists — the death of a nude woman in a fake druids’ circle had stimulated their interest — and that was of benefit to the enquiry because the story would be read by thousands of potential witnesses and informants. Montague Pluke stressed that the cause of death was not yet known and that, at the moment, he could not confirm it was a murder enquiry. He did confirm, however, that the death was suspicious, that a forensic examination of the body had been arranged and that the investigation was based on a murder-type enquiry. Without giving the suspected name of the dead girl, Pluke went on to say that it was believed the deceased was a model from the Teesside area, aged about thirty, with long blonde hair and a well-developed figure. He did not refer to Ron Brown and his studio — he guessed the press would ferret out such a connection anyway — they’d know of all the local studios which produced such films and would make their own enquiries.
Pluke did say, however, that the investigation was concentrated in Crickledale where house-to-house enquiries were under way. He added that the deceased girl was thought to have had a red mini, qualifying that by saying neighbours had seen such a car in Crickledale, while not making any reference at this stage to No. 15 Padgett Grove. He did not give a full description or registration number because the girl had not yet been formally identified; her family had to know of her death before details appeared in the news bulletins. If any readers, listeners or viewers had noticed a red mini used or abandoned hereabouts, they were asked to ring the Incident Room at Crickledale Police Station while being told not to touch the vehicle.
In the question time which followed, Pluke was asked a range of leading questions about sexual scandals in semi-detached Crickledale, orgies in ordinary suburbia, debauchery in druids’ circles and fornication with frolics in far-flung forests. He parried all the questions with aplomb, knowing that some elements of the tabloid press would produce their own brand of so-called news. Even if such innuendo did not help the enquiry, it might provoke some kind of tourist influx to Crickledale. Busloads of ghouls and gawpers would come hunting nymphs in forest glades with pensioners’ outings wondering why life hadn’t been like that in their youth.
When the press had departed to telephone their stories for their evening editions or more immediate news bulletins, Pluke returned to his office, whereupon he was met by Detective Sergeant Tabler. He had a fist full of developed colour prints.
‘Winton’s film, sir,’ he said, handing the package to Pluke. ‘He’s not taken any photos of the corpse, they’re all innocuous shots of the Druids’ Circle. Three dozen in all, one film fully used.’
‘Is there anything of evidential value, do you think?’ Pluke asked the sergeant as he speedily scanned the collection, his heavy brow wrinkling at some of the scenes.
‘I’ve examined every picture, sir, by blowing up each one to eight times its normal size on screen. I could even count the flowers in the grass, but I found nothing further which I felt was connected to our investigation. Some bits of litter show up quite well, but we’ve got those logged. I was looking for something else in the background, but found nothing. I don’t think they are of any value to us.’
‘But you have retained a copy of each of these, duly endorsed? For the file?’
‘I have, sir.’
‘Good, well, the negatives and one set of prints can be returned to Mr Winton as soon as possible with our compliments. He requires them for his work.’
‘I will send one of my men to Fossford with them, sir.’
‘No, I would like to take them, Sergeant. I wish to see where this man Winton lives, I wish to have another chat with him on his home ground and to discuss these pictures with him. I think it would be a very useful exercise.’
Leaving the teams of detectives to undertake their local investigations, Detective Inspector Montague Pluke with Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain at the wheel, set off for Fossford just before noon that Friday.
During the journey, Pluke examined the photographs more closely, studying the dramatic effect of light and shadow at the Druids’ Circle. They were good photographs of a highly professional standard, but his initial inspection had suggested that Winton was a liar — this closer examination had confirmed it, but he kept that opinion to himself for the time being.
‘It’s rather odd, sir, the officer in charge of an investigation performing a chore of this kind? Couldn’t a patrol car have done it for us?’
‘There are questions I wish to ask Mr Winton, Wayne. Please be patient.’
During the drive, Pluke observed that Wayne Wain was looking even more shattered than he had earlier this morning. His eyes had vanished into a pair of panda-like black rings, but he insisted he was fit to drive and had no wish to miss anything remotely connected with the investigation. He wondered what Pluke had discovered — he realised his boss had not telephoned Winton to announce his proposed arrival either, so he must hope to produce an element of surprise. No doubt he regarded that as beneficial in the circumstances and he was somewhat relieved when he noticed Winton’s vehicle parked outside the flat.
‘Our man is at home, so come with me, Wayne,’ ordered Pluke.
The flats were in a converted and spacious pre-war terraced house. The front door was standing open and was held in position by a large metal knight on a white horse. The floor was tiled and polished and at the distant end was a staircase to the upper floors. There was a range of doorbells on the wall outside, one marked ‘Flat 2’ with the name Winton. Pluke pressed the bell and waited. They heard it ring inside, apparently in an upstairs room, but got no response.
‘He won’t be in bed, will he?’ yawned Wayne, thinking that’s precisely where he would like to be — and alone for an hour or two. He looked up at the first-floor window; the curtains were open.
‘It’s nearly lunch-time, Wayne,’ snapped Pluke. ‘All good freelances work a solid day, they don’t lie-a-bed hoping to earn money without working ... try again.’
For the second time, the bell echoed in the big house and this time it produced a response. A middle-aged woman wearing an apron and hair curlers materialised from behind a curtain on the ground floor; the curtain shielded a corridor which led past the staircase and into her flat. She padded towards them in her bedroom slippers and greeted them on the threshold.
‘Is it Mr Winton you want?’ She peered at them short-sightedly, rubbing a plate with a grubby tea towel as she addressed them. She saw a tall, smart young man and a shorter fellow in yellowish checked clothes, a blue dicky bow and a hat that looked too small. She wondered if they were salesmen.
‘Yes, we do. Would you know if he’s in?’ asked Pluke in his most policeman-like voice.
‘Well he was in last night because I saw him, eight or nine o’clock it would be, because he was getting something out of his car, a camera I think. I haven’t heard him go out this morning if that’s what you mean,’ she responded. ‘He usually gets his breakfast with Radio 2 blaring away, but not this morning. Is his car still there?’ She peered down the street towards the parking place.
‘Yes, it’s outside, parked just down there. Mrs ... er ...’
‘Pallister, Emily Pallister. This is my house, you know, I rent it out as flats, that’s since my husband died, I need the money, you see, and — you’re not bailiffs, are you? He doesn’t owe money, does he? He’s always good with his rent, I must say that for him ...’
‘If his car is there, Mrs Pallister, does it mean he’s likely to be nearby?’
‘He never goes anywhere without his car, mister, not even down to the chippy or the shops. Young folks never walk these days, do they? Not like in my day when you had to walk a mile to get a loaf of bread and then carry it back ...’
‘We’re not bailiffs, Mrs Pallister, but we would like to speak to him. I have some things I wish to return to him, you see, important things, to be received by him in person.’
‘Some of his pictures, eh? Well, I should come in and hammer on his door, if I were you, just in case his bell isn’t working. Upstairs, first landing. There’s a number two on the door.’
As she vanished through her curtain they climbed the carpeted stairs and turned sharp left at the top. There was a first-floor flat with bathroom at the top of the stairs, and two further rooms on the same landing. One door had ‘No. 2’ upon it, a plastic figure from a DIY shop by the look of it. Wayne Wain, having the biggest fist, volunteered to hammer on the door. He did, with resounding and thunderous noises, but it produced no response. He then resorted to shouting ‘Mr Winton’, but this produced no response either.
‘We’ve missed him,’ said Wayne Wain. ‘We should have rung.’
‘Or he might be inside, injured,’ said Detective Inspector Pluke, looking steadily into the dark, bloodshot eyes of his battle-weary colleague. ‘I think we should check, Wayne.’