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Authors: Peter Bleksley
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husband. Then she wanted Margi to have the baby to make things complete and this was arranged through some sort of artificial insemination agency, with Christine present at the birth like a proud dad.
Apparently, it all got stranger and stranger with Christine becoming more and more butch, wearing men’s clothes when she was off-duty from her business and even buying men’s Y-fronts from Marks and Spencer’s. At the same time, she demanded that Margi wore more feminine sexy clothes, see-through nighties, stockings and suspenders. But it wasn’t what she really wanted. Margi told me she was a gay girl and wanted to make love to another woman, not a make-believe man. The last straw came, apparently, when Christine said she wanted to go the whole hog and have a sex change.
I was pleased with the outcome of the case. Right at the start, one senior officer came into the office and said, ‘Just do enough to keep the relatives happy.’ Now that really pissed me off. She might have been aprostitute, she might have been a lesbian, but she didn’t deserve any more than anyone else did to end up murdered. So we did a little more than keep the relatives happy. We put the men who killed her behind bars for a long, long time.
I still shudder at the depravity of those two women. If I live to be 100, I’ll never understand how anybody could pay good money to have electric nipple clips fitted to their bodies, their testicles beaten or thrashed over a whipping stool, bound by their hands and ankles. Apparently, Christine once had a punter in for slave treatment and set him polishing her floor. Then she went out for the rest of the day and came home at night to find him still hard at work and in possession of just about the shiniest floor in London. He loved it.
5: sleeping with the enemy
I suppose it should have been ‘Not Tonight, Josephine’ or even ‘Not Any Night, Josephine’. But this particular Josephine was irresistible. A slim, superfit, gorgeous aerobics instructor working at the top keep-fit studio in London. Great figure, great personality. The trouble was, she was up to her beautiful armpits in the drug scene, not so much a dealer but a go-between for jet-setters looking to buy recreational drugs. And she was heavily hooked on cocaine herself.
She came on to the scene when a reliable informant of the undercover unit told us he could arrange a meet with a woman who was actively touting for business involving large amounts of cocaine. The snout said she was claiming to be in a position to introduce would-be buyers to a big-league dealer who could supply substantial quantities ofgood quality coke, or ‘Charlie’ as she called it. It looked like a tasty lead. Senior officers approved a covert operation and I was briefed to go in as a potential buyer.
I was introduced a few days later to Josephine in a pub in Fulham, the normal sort of ‘neutral’ territory favoured by undercover detectives in this sort of operation. I would always nominate pubs, hotel bars, hotel rooms, clubs, restaurants, some public place or other, partly for security reasons and partly for the right atmospere, where all parties would feel comfortable dealing with the business in hand.
There was an immediate spark between us. She was a good-looking woman, intelligent and witty and really toned-up from working at the top health studios in central London. She was a little older than me, but you would have been hard pushed to tell if we stood side by side. We got on well at our first meeting. As far as she was concerned, I was an up-and-coming dealer looking for some coke; she clearly had contacts who could supply it. ‘I’ve got a friend who has plenty,’ she said.
We talked it over in general terms, nothing heavy to start with. She made it clear that she was a go-between and would have to introduce me to the man who controlled the operation, Fernando Perez, who lived in Kensington in a plush apartment and worked for the Peruvian
Apparently, it all got stranger and stranger with Christine becoming more and more butch, wearing men’s clothes when she was off-duty from her business and even buying men’s Y-fronts from Marks and Spencer’s. At the same time, she demanded that Margi wore more feminine sexy clothes, see-through nighties, stockings and suspenders. But it wasn’t what she really wanted. Margi told me she was a gay girl and wanted to make love to another woman, not a make-believe man. The last straw came, apparently, when Christine said she wanted to go the whole hog and have a sex change.
I was pleased with the outcome of the case. Right at the start, one senior officer came into the office and said, ‘Just do enough to keep the relatives happy.’ Now that really pissed me off. She might have been aprostitute, she might have been a lesbian, but she didn’t deserve any more than anyone else did to end up murdered. So we did a little more than keep the relatives happy. We put the men who killed her behind bars for a long, long time.
I still shudder at the depravity of those two women. If I live to be 100, I’ll never understand how anybody could pay good money to have electric nipple clips fitted to their bodies, their testicles beaten or thrashed over a whipping stool, bound by their hands and ankles. Apparently, Christine once had a punter in for slave treatment and set him polishing her floor. Then she went out for the rest of the day and came home at night to find him still hard at work and in possession of just about the shiniest floor in London. He loved it.
5: sleeping with the enemy
I suppose it should have been ‘Not Tonight, Josephine’ or even ‘Not Any Night, Josephine’. But this particular Josephine was irresistible. A slim, superfit, gorgeous aerobics instructor working at the top keep-fit studio in London. Great figure, great personality. The trouble was, she was up to her beautiful armpits in the drug scene, not so much a dealer but a go-between for jet-setters looking to buy recreational drugs. And she was heavily hooked on cocaine herself.
She came on to the scene when a reliable informant of the undercover unit told us he could arrange a meet with a woman who was actively touting for business involving large amounts of cocaine. The snout said she was claiming to be in a position to introduce would-be buyers to a big-league dealer who could supply substantial quantities ofgood quality coke, or ‘Charlie’ as she called it. It looked like a tasty lead. Senior officers approved a covert operation and I was briefed to go in as a potential buyer.
I was introduced a few days later to Josephine in a pub in Fulham, the normal sort of ‘neutral’ territory favoured by undercover detectives in this sort of operation. I would always nominate pubs, hotel bars, hotel rooms, clubs, restaurants, some public place or other, partly for security reasons and partly for the right atmospere, where all parties would feel comfortable dealing with the business in hand.
There was an immediate spark between us. She was a good-looking woman, intelligent and witty and really toned-up from working at the top health studios in central London. She was a little older than me, but you would have been hard pushed to tell if we stood side by side. We got on well at our first meeting. As far as she was concerned, I was an up-and-coming dealer looking for some coke; she clearly had contacts who could supply it. ‘I’ve got a friend who has plenty,’ she said.
We talked it over in general terms, nothing heavy to start with. She made it clear that she was a go-between and would have to introduce me to the man who controlled the operation, Fernando Perez, who lived in Kensington in a plush apartment and worked for the Peruvian
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