Scene of Crime (28 page)

The publicity photographs had been done, as promised, and then the payoff—nude modeling. The subsequent photographic sessions had been held all over, as Dexter had said. Abandoned warehouses, secluded woodland, the back rooms of clubs, occasionally in the Welchester studio itself. Watson would pick him up and take him to wherever he had chosen for that day’s shoot.

But Watson had moved on in twelve years, and one day Dexter was taken to Watson’s house. Watson had driven into the garage, let Dexter in by the kitchen, and they went upstairs, then up again into the windowless roof space that Watson had converted into a film studio. Dexter had been very impressed by the secret loft hatch.

Dexter confirmed that Mrs. Bignall had seen him at Watson’s house once and asked him what he was doing there. But he hadn’t told her. He confirmed that he had
never, until last night, been injured by Watson in any way, that Watson himself had never taken part in the films, just directed other people. It was only for a few hours a week, and he got paid for it, so he didn’t mind it all that much.

Indeed, Dexter seemed to have taken it all in stride. But who knew how Estelle had felt about it at the time? Perhaps it was only later, when she tried to form real sexual relationships, that her problems had begun. Or perhaps her problems had begun long before that, when her parents died. Perhaps that was why everyone could, and did, exploit her. Dexter was different; he had his mother and his brother, and whatever their shortcomings, their love was unconditional.

His mother blamed herself for not finding out what had been troubling Dexter, but Lloyd didn’t blame her. With a hell-raiser like Ryan to keep an eye on, she would relax her vigilance with the apparently trouble-free Dexter, put any moodiness and secretiveness down to his age. He suspected that with one son constantly breaking the law and the other exposed to child porn, she wouldn’t get the social services people out of her hair for some time to come, but he still felt that as a family, they could make it.

What seemed clear was that Eric Watson didn’t want to use overwise street kids; he wanted innocence, and got youngsters into his clutches on a pretext, offered financial inducements, introduced them to what he required of them bit by bit, and then used blackmail to ensnare them if they showed signs of wanting out.

He doubtless only approached the ones he recognized as vulnerable to his initial offer, and had homed in on Dexter’s desire to act, just as he’d homed in on Estelle’s wish to be a model. And Lloyd didn’t suppose it was an
accident that they were both children who lacked the traditional complement of parents, though he could already hear Judy giving him an argument about that. She believed that one-parent families were just as viable as any other, that values were instilled by example, and one parent could set an example just as easily—perhaps more easily—than two.

He wondered where she would stand intellectually on the responsibilities of parenthood now; would she hold Mrs. Gibson entirely responsible for failing her sons, or would their own impending responsibility temper her judgment? Would she be a little more sympathetic to the traditional setup once she knew what an enormous undertaking it really was?

When Dexter had finished his statement with regard to Watson’s usual activities, Lloyd turned to the assault.

“What happened yesterday, Dexter?” he asked.

“He came to see me after my mum had gone to work,” said Dexter.

“What time was that?”

“About half four. He said I had to go with him to his house. I said it was supposed to be just Saturday mornings, but he said Saturday was part of the Christmas holiday and I wouldn’t be needed then. He said I had to go because he’d paid for three other people to be there.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said I couldn’t because I had a rehearsal for the pantomime, but he said I’d better get out of it. So I called Marianne and told her I wasn’t well.”

Lloyd nodded. “What happened when you got to his house?”

“We went up to the studio, but someone came knocking
on the door and wouldn’t go away. He went down, and I could hear Estelle and him arguing. She said she knew what he was doing and she was going to go to the police about it.”

Lloyd could see the tears not far away; he let Dexter gather himself without hurrying him.

“Then he came back up and we worked for about three hours. Then at eight o’clock I said I had to go home because it would take me an hour to walk it and my mum comes home at ten past nine. He said the others could have a break, and went down into the house. I got dressed, and when I went down he was waiting for me in the kitchen, and he just went ballistic at me. He said I’d been talking to Estelle about him. I said I hadn’t told her anything, but he didn’t believe me. He said he couldn’t use me anymore because she knew about me. It was ten past eight, and I said I had to go, but he swore and came at me, so I ran out through the garage. I thought it would be dark and I would be able to hide from him, but the security light was on so I just ran out, but he caught me at the door and dragged me back in.”

Lloyd made a mental note to come back to that. “And what did Watson do then?”

“He said I’d be sorry I’d talked to Estelle.”

“Did he call her ‘Estelle’ when he said that?” asked Lloyd.

“No,” said Dexter, and told Lloyd what Watson had called her.

Lloyd had the exceedingly small satisfaction of knowing he’d been right in the first place about the “woman” Jones had heard being assaulted.

“And then he hit me. He said if anyone asked, I had fallen down some steps, and if I said anything different,
I’d get worse the next time. He went back into the house after that.”

“And what did you do?”

“I stayed there. My nose was bleeding and I felt sick. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t know what I was going to tell my mum and Ryan—I knew Ryan wouldn’t believe me if I said I fell. I stayed there until I heard the window break. I was scared he’d think I’d done it, so I ran. I heard him yelling at me to come back, but I just kept running as fast as I could.”

Lloyd sat back and looked at Dexter. “Do you think you could say all this in court, Dexter?” he asked.

“Will my mum be there?”

“Probably,” said Lloyd. “But I think she’ll have a good idea what’s been going on anyway.”

Dexter looked resigned, and nodded.

“Now—could I just go back over your statement and ask you some more questions?”

Dexter nodded.

Lloyd cleared up a few details and then moved on to the ones that interested him in regard to Mrs. Bignall’s death and the supposed burglary.

“You ran into the garage at ten past eight, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And the security light was on? Had someone else arrived by the back way after you?”

“No. They were all there when I got there. And Estelle came to the front door.”

“Can you remember when the light went off again?” Lloyd asked.

“It went off just as he caught hold of me.”

“So that would still be at about ten past eight? And did it come on again while you were in the garage?”

“No. It was dark all the time until I ran away. It came on then.”

“Good lad. Now, we’d like to take photographs of these bruises, and get your statement typed up for you to sign. Your mum’s waiting for you—she’ll go with you.”

Then he remembered that Dexter was a witness, of sorts. “When you ran away from Watson’s house, did you see Ryan?”

“No.”

Lloyd smiled. That was always going to be the answer as long as he thought that saying he had seen Ryan would mean getting his brother into trouble. And perhaps Ryan hadn’t arrived when Dexter emerged from Watson’s garden. The next question was a little more important.

“Did you see a car?”

“No.”

“Is that the truth, Dexter?”

“Yes.”

Lloyd went back to Stansfield and arranged for another dawn raid to take place. He’d be heading this one himself, which wasn’t something he would choose to do, but he’d sent Tom Finch home after they handed Leeward over to the custody sergeant, because Tom had been practically asleep on his feet. Lloyd didn’t hold out much hope for the raid; Watson had had a great deal of police interest, and Lloyd doubted that anything worth seizing would be left in his studio.

But there was a fax on the machine that told him the fingerprints on the window frame and the shoe prints on the patio were none other than Eric Watson’s, and at first
Lloyd felt excited about that, until he realized that it meant very little. Forensics had found nothing to suggest that the person on the patio had gone inside.

Which was a pity, because he wasn’t convinced that Denis Leeward had killed Estelle. Watson had seemed a good bet, if just for a moment.

Judy opened her eyes as Lloyd slipped into bed beside her, and shifted herself into a more comfortable position.

“Sorry,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t.” She knew that already. Sleeping had never presented a problem to her; she’d always been able to sleep, no matter what, and waking up in the middle of the night had once been unheard of, but Lloyd’s habit of watching old movies until two in the morning had gotten her used to it, and she would just go back to sleep, unless they could think of something more interesting to do. But at the moment going back to sleep was difficult, and the diversion simply too awkward. “Are you sleepy?” she asked.

“No,” he said, turning on the light. He grinned at her. “We could play cards, I suppose.”

“You can bring me up to date.” Judy rearranged her pillows and sat up. “How did the interview with Leeward go?”

If all police officers were like Lloyd, she thought, there would be no need to tape interviews. Unlike her, he remembered every word uttered. She had to write things down, but with Lloyd it was as good as being there. It was the same with films, or TV programs—she often
thought she’d actually seen something that she had been told about by Lloyd.

He didn’t say so, but she could tell Lloyd wasn’t convinced that Leeward had murdered Estelle, and there was something in his account of the interview that had seemed wrong. She couldn’t quite pin it down, but she would. She glanced at the clock, frowning when she saw the time. She assumed it would be the middle of the night, and it was just after midnight—early evening as far as Lloyd was concerned. “Why are you in bed so early?” she asked.

“I have to be up at half past five.”

She felt even sadder about Estelle Bignall when Lloyd told her about Watson. He didn’t hold out much hope for the raid.

“I’m not even certain we can get him for assaulting Dexter,” he said. “One witness who saw nothing and couldn’t identify the voices—it isn’t good. If he denies it …” He shrugged. “With no Estelle to back up what Dexter’s told me, I’m not sure we’re going to get anywhere.”

“But you know he was at the scene of the crime and has denied being there,” Judy said. “That’s something to go on, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Lloyd. “But he couldn’t have done it. The only time he could have, we know where he was, because Dexter’s told us.”

“
I
know that,” said Judy. “And
you
know that. But would the Crown Prosecution Service know that? Would a jury know that?”

Lloyd smiled. “You seem to be suggesting framing him,” he said. “I presume it’s your hormones again.”

She hit him. “No,” she said. “I’m merely suggesting that if you discount what Dexter’s told you—which he
will be urging you to do—then you could build up a case against Watson. I shouldn’t have thought letting a little thing like knowing he didn’t do it put you off—you
don’t
know he didn’t do it. You don’t
know
Dexter’s telling the truth.”

Lloyd’s eyes widened as he understood what she was suggesting. “Brilliant,” he said, and kissed her. “I think I’d better try to get some sleep—do you want me to leave the light on?”

“No,” she said, adjusting her pillows once more, and maneuvering herself into her sleeping position.

When the light was out, and she was awake, thinking about what Lloyd had said, she knew what had been bothering her about Leeward. “Lloyd?” she said into the darkness.

“Here.”

“How did Leeward get glass in his shoe?”

They’d been all over the house like a plague of bloody locusts, taking away all the equipment, all the props, everything they could lay their hands on. Nearly twenty years he’d been doing this, and had virtually no trouble at all, certainly not since he’d been doing it full-time. No cops had ever so much as crossed the threshold except for that raid that left them with egg on their faces. Even though he worked out of a backstreet studio so sleazy it might as well have had a sign outside saying
CHILD PORN AVAILABLE HERE
.

Because he’d been careful. Never went so far that the kids would go running to the police despite the consequences. Just got them to do enough to keep the pervs happy, and paid them enough to keep quiet about what they were doing. And in all that time, he had only once
made the initial approach to someone who told his parents, and he’d smoothed that over. Just a misunderstanding. Only two of his employees had needed a reminder to keep their mouths shut, and Dexter was the first one of the kids to cause a problem. Dexter was why he was sitting here now, but Dexter wasn’t the original cause of his problems.

Since he’d moved to Malworth, he’d had cops in the house five times, thanks to that madwoman next door. She was the one who got to Dexter, and despite his advice to the boy, Dexter had told the cops everything; obviously, because they’d shown him the search warrant, gone straight upstairs to the landing and released the ceiling molding to get into the loft. But they found nothing worth finding, because he had made sure of that. They’d raided the Welchester studio, too, but they wouldn’t find anything there either.

So all they had was Dexter Gibson’s word against his about everything, including the assault. He’d be walking out of here in no time, and he had decided to let his expensive solicitor stay in bed this morning. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and he could handle this himself.