Roskov, Book 10, page 28
He checked his notes. ‘The book of your sex ring investigation came out yesterday…’
‘Yes, I’ll be promoting it, and I have started to read it through again.’
‘Is the investigation finished?’
I had to consider my answer. ‘Roger Pearson had friends, and there are around two hundred men that visited the brothel in Portugal that have not been identified or charged.
‘They’re out there, and it seems that they want revenge against me and against those involved in the investigation. We’ve seen newspaper editors acting strangely, and that will continue, because those two hundred men … they’re in the rich list, they have reach and influence in Britain.’
‘They’re high up in British society?’
‘Very high up.’
‘Are you investigating those men?’
‘No, not personally, I only investigate when some idiot newspaper editor starts to attack me for no reason. And if Roger Pearson had not been so cocky he would never have been caught.
‘Instead of keeping a low profile, Roger Pearson boasted of his exploits, a stupid thing to do. If I was a criminal I’d be keeping my mouth shut and keeping a low profile.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘Stupid to boast about it. Ricky Roskov, thanks for coming on.’
‘And … cut. Great, thanks, nailed it in one,’ the floor manager approved.
Out the studios we drove around to the usual hotel, a room booked for me, but instead of me using that room a friend of Dingle’s would be in it tonight, to see if anyone was interested in attacking me here.
Out a side entrance we walked, not seen, and into the minibus up to Leicester. At the house I was more secure, since we still had cameras inside and outside, and my kidnap pager was working. Hopefully. Pat called MI5, and yes - the cameras were working.
Wondering if anything would happen in my hotel room, I sat and read through the book, thinking back to the investigation, which seemed like ages ago when in fact it was just a year.
Never get caught with a hooker
At 10pm the fun started, Dingle reporting his friend in my room getting knocks on the door, a leggy blonde hooker it seemed. His friend ignored the knocks, pistol ready.
The blonde hooker seemed to be in a room opposite, and she knocked again, Bill and Ted curious.
Half an hour later, and the man heard a noise. Through the spy hole he saw her naked, holding a bottle, and waiting, her back to my door.
A minute later she walked to her room as people arrived on that floor, and she slammed the door loudly. As the old couple passed they commented on the naked girl.
A few minutes later the room phone went, so my stand-in answered it, reception apologising and asking about complaints from other people in nearby rooms.
‘Whatever,’ the man reported to me as having said.
‘Whatever?’ I queried. ‘You’re making me sound rude!’
‘You have a distinctive accent, and I’m a fucking northerner, so what could I say?’
‘It smells like a set-up, so don’t be seen. Slip out early, and … leave the door open.’
I called the local Leicester police after discussing it with Pat, Dingle and Bill and Ted, and armed officers came around, a search made of the street, and my cold and damp house bushes. The officers would wait outside a while and take no chances since I had reported a strange man seen.
Half an hour later I invited in the police for a cuppa, and they were witnesses to the fact that I was here at this time.
With the police returning to their vehicles, my impersonator called. ‘Screams coming from the room opposite.’
‘Slip out now, fire exit, door left open. Go quick, don’t be seen.’
He called from the street. ‘That was a nice room, and here I am on the street, in the rain - with no room service!’
‘Go home or back to work, write up what you did, and wait the news in the morning.’
‘What news?’
‘You attacking that hooker whilst pretending to be me.’
‘There are cameras in the corridor, they’d have to be switched off for that to work, and people know you have a detail with you.’
‘I owe you a few quid. Go home.’
‘No, I’ll go install a fucking camera in there! I have one in the car. And you paid for breakfast, which I want to eat!’
At midnight he called me. ‘I can’t get to my camera, local police all over the place.’
‘Flash your badge or something.’
‘I’ll have to chat to the boss first.’
My mobile rang a minute later. ‘Mister Roskov?’
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Davies, Metropolitan Police, and we were hoping you could answer some questions about an incident in your hotel room this evening.’
‘Would that be the incident that MI5 caught on their secret cameras and on their bugging kit, after I faked booking in to the hotel and drove to Leicester with six officers? Is that the incident that you’re referring to?’
After a long pause came, ‘It was a trick?’
‘When I left the BBC I received a tip-off, that there would be an attempted set-up in my hotel tonight,’ I lied.
I added, ‘My police detail suggested a trap after chatting to their bosses, the trap was sprung, and I hope your officers never said anything they shouldn’t have in that room. And don’t forget that if you grab MI5 property there’ll be hell to pay.
‘Is there anything else that I can help you with, a stay at my hotel in Corsica perhaps?’
‘No … no, thank you, sir, and goodnight.’
Smiling, I called back my impersonator. ‘Police know that you were there and that you placed a camera, so go get it, they think you effected a very clever sting operation, permission from upon high.’
‘I’ll go get it then.’
‘Oh, they think there are bugs as well, so … be coy, close the door.’
He laughed as he cut the call. I explained it to the team, and went to bed. Worried.
A small victory, a bad precedent
At 8am I turned on the TV, the news, and there was my usual London hotel. A blonde lady and a man had been arrested, plus a journalist from The Mirror newspaper.
The commentator began, ‘Last night, Ricky Roskov received a tip-off that he was going to be set-up, so he booked a room here at this hotel, then left via a side entrance with his police detail.
‘MI5 officers then hid in the room, cameras and bugging equipment set-up. A woman in the room opposite was seen knocking the door, then walking around naked, and later she claimed that she had been attacked by Roskov after having sex in his room.
‘Roskov was in Leicester with four bodyguards and four local armed officers at the time, getting reports fed to him of the action unfolding at this hotel room.
‘A woman, a man, as well as a journalist from The Mirror newspaper have been arrested and will be facing charges of Conspiring to Pervert the Course of Justice.’
Trench called a few minutes later. ‘You want us to go after them?’
‘Fuck yes, but get the evidence first, and make sure that the newspaper knew what their staff were doing, the reporter might say that he was freelancing.’
‘The upmarket hooker would have cost him a small fortune, to be involved with something like this. That money never came from his own back pocket, that’s for sure!’
‘Investigate if you can. Thanks.’
Paul Merton called at 10am. ‘Can you do a show, if you’re not in a hotel room with a hooker that is?’
I smiled widely. ‘Yes. 2pm?’
‘2pm then, bring the hooker.’
At 1.30pm we arrived at the studios, two snappers taking my photo outside. I smiled at them as I walked inside, soon sat having a cup of tea with Paul and Ian, mostly talk of hotels in Corsica.
Make-up done, my cheap suit checked, and out we went to a loud applause, Angus in the centre seat again, a modestly well-known male comedian sat with Ian.
When the applause ended, Angus began with a humorous summary round-up of the topical British news, which ended with images of my hotel, people arrested. ‘So what happened in this hotel last night?’ Angus posed.
Ian began, ‘Some Leicester boy had a leggy blonde hooker in his room, at least that’s what The Mirror journalists had hoped for, but he was a hundred miles away with ten police officers around him.’
‘Eight,’ I correct Ian. ‘Two are Interpol.’
‘Eight then.’
Angus faced me. ‘It was a set-up?’
‘They wanted to set me up, but we set them up. I had a tip-off, but I went ahead and booked the room, sneaking out the side entrance.
‘I was at home in Leicester when the fun started, the blonde walking around the corridor naked.’
‘That never happens to me,’ Paul complained, the audience laughing.
I told him, ‘You need to upset the tabloids a bit more.’
‘I try, I do.’
Ian asked, ‘So the blonde and her cohorts were arrested?’
‘So it was reported to me, yes, but you know what caused the biggest problem? The undercover officers wanted to order room service on my credit card, and claim the breakfast in the morning, but they failed, so voices were raised.’
The audience laughed.
Angus began, ‘So the drama … was not the staged attack by you on a lady of the night, it was a missed breakfast by the police…’
‘Hell yes, mad they were.’
The audience laughed.
‘But I will have to apologise to the hotel staff, because an officer answered the room phone pretending to be me, but he’s from the north and it sounds like he was rude.’
‘I’m from the fucking north!’ the comedian put in. ‘Don’t call us all bastard rude.’
The audience laughed.
Ian put in, ‘A rude northerner? Never!’
The comedian faced me. ‘So is the editor of the Mirror part of some sex crime ring?’
‘I have no idea,’ I told him. ‘We’re investigating who was behind it.’
‘Was he in the book?’ Paul asked.
‘Not that I know of, no.’
Ian held up the book. ‘This book in no way exposes the corrupt elite in Britain.’ The audience laughed. ‘So buy it, everyone.’
‘Do you make anything from the book?’ Angus asked me.
‘A tiny percentage, it’s not my book, but I did contribute and I edited some of the detail.’
Angus faced me. ‘So if you had been in the room, and the blonde lady had knocked the door, what would you have done?’
‘The police always answer the door for me, so they would have probably invited her in.’ They laughed. ‘I would have used the spy hole and called hotel security.’
‘And if the twins had been there?’ Angus asked.
‘They would have politely invited her in and asked about some modelling work, then smashed her face in.’
The audience laughed.
‘And how many assassins did you kill on your recent holiday to Corsica?’ Angus asked.
‘Just the one, and his trousers never matched his suit jacket, so he had to die.’
The audience and the panel laughed.
‘Seems that you’ve recovered from the plane crash injuries…’ Angus floated.
‘I have, yes, and the twins are grateful, my hips are fine now.’ The audience laughed loudly. ‘What?’ I asked with a straight face. ‘My broken hips are fine now.’
‘It’s our usual audience,’ Paul put in. ‘Had a drink before they came on.’
‘And who sent this particular assassin?’ Angus asked.
‘The Mafia, but he was after a guest at the table, nothing to do with me and my party.’
‘You moved quickly…’ Angus noted.
‘I often do. Sometimes I walk around a corner and kick some old lady, then have to apologise.’
‘Have you … hit someone by mistake?’ he asked.
‘No. Not yet at least. But when I was trying to find a short-cut out of Ikea I came close.’
The audience laughed.
The comedian began, ‘What I liked about it, was that he put his drink down first, then went back and picked up the drink and sipped it.’ They laughed. ‘Man after my own heart; never waste your drink just for an armed assassin.’
I smiled widely.
Ian asked his guest, ‘That’s what they do in Wigan, is it?’
‘Hell yes, drink down safely first, then knife someone.’
Angus showed the next picture, a baby being operated on. ‘And this is…’
‘Maybe the baby that I arranged to be sent to New York, a spinal operation. Any news?’
Angus responded, ‘Operation went well, they said, be flown home in a week, the mother was on an American TV station.’
‘Hopefully a happy ending then,’ I commented.
‘And you went into Leicester hospital and put two babies to sleep in three seconds flat…’
‘I seem to have an effect on them, much jealously amongst young parents around the UK.’
‘And in a hospital in Rome you diagnosed a baby with a tumour?’
‘Not really. I saw the bulge behind his eye, and I had read about the cause just a week before in a magazine. It could do no harm to check.’
‘And you diagnosed the baby with the spinal problem…’
‘Well, I held him and he had a big lump in his back, so … yeah, a brilliant diagnosis again after the mother told me what was wrong with him.’
Ian put in, ‘You’re killing your reputation as a miracle worker, you know that.’
‘Good, it’s all bollocks.’
Paul touched my arm. ‘We can’t say bollocks on the BBC till after 9pm.’
‘What time will this go out?’ I asked.
‘9pm, so we’re OK.’ The audience laughed.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ the comedian put in. ‘Put in on Channel 4, they’ll show it at 9am.’
I nodded at that.
Angus displayed an image, of one of my Traffic Jam devices. ‘And this is?’
‘It’s a device that you put on your car’s dashboard after you program in a route, such as M42, M5, M25. The GPS system knows where you are, and messages come in via the mobile phone network.
‘If the message relates to a road you programmed in, and you’re getting close to that road, it plays a message along the lines of: M5 blocked ahead, twenty mile tailback.’
Paul began, ‘Does it say: pull over and get a brew on?’
‘It does, yes, after ten minutes of your car being stationary.’
Ian asked, ‘When will this be available?’
‘It’s out already and being tested, and we’re improving it, be in the shops soon, the RAC will offer it to all of their customers, so too the AA.’
‘So that covers everyone in Britain,’ Ian noted.
‘Pretty much, yeah. So in the future you’ll get a warning in time and exit the motorway. That or sit in traffic for six hours, brew on or not.’
‘Do you make any money from this?’ Angus asked.
‘I do, yes.’
‘Finally,’ Ian quipped. ‘The Leicester Boy will make some money from a project.’
‘I’ll make a few quid, yes, we’ll roll it out in a few European countries.’
‘Can’t wait to get one,’ the comedian began. ‘Hours I waste on the pigging motorways!’
‘We all do,’ I told him. ‘That’s why I was interested in the project, a joint venture with Northern Logistics, now the RAC and AA as well.’
Angus asked, ‘And all this building work in Corsica and Leicester, does that leave you financially stretched?’
‘Hell no, we have more investors’ money than we know what to do with. We think we’ll spend a hundred million quid in the next six months in Corsica, but we were offered over a billion.
‘And in the spring we’ll sell what we’re building, not have money tied up for long. And when the nursing home is open we’ll sell the apartments, and that makes millions for us, so the capital outlay comes back quite quickly.
‘But we hit a snag with the use of the beach -’
‘The beach?’ Angus queried.
‘The nursing homes will have a private beach, top quality, but it’s France and … they like nudist beaches. We’re going to impose a rule, no nudists over eighty years old.’
The audience laughed along with the panel.
‘Why?’ Angus joked. ‘Who’s going to see them?’
‘The staff will see them for starters,’ I put in. ‘And I will when I visit with the twins.’
The comedian screwed up his face. ‘Ninety-year-old nudists. We’ll have to get the ironing board out, get them creases out.’
Angus faced Ian. ‘Have you been to a nudist beach?’
‘No, and I’m not planning on visiting any.’
‘Undersized?’ Paul asked, the audience laughing.
‘Yes,’ Ian responded. ‘I’m only five foot two.’
Angus showed an image of my new graveyard. ‘And this is?’
‘Our new cemetery, up behind the nursing homes. It has a sea view.’
They laughed.
‘A sea view?’ Paul asked. ‘They’re dead!’
‘Yes, but a sea view in the afterlife is important,’ I told them, making the audience laugh.
‘Do you believe in the afterlife?’ Angus asked me.
‘No, but I know how to sell some cemetery space with a sea view!’
Ian put in, ‘You’re not known for being much of a ruthless salesman…’
‘People want a grave with a sea view, so we’ll give them a sea view. Simple. A few graves sold already, first few customers lined up.’
‘Do you issue suntan cream?’ the comedian asked, the audience laughing.
‘Got to,’ I told him. ‘Health and safety regulations.’
Ian began, ‘There was a guy in America that wanted to be stuffed and preserved, in a glass case, with a view.’
Angus faced me. ‘What type of funeral would you want?’
‘Blasted into space,’ I told them. ‘Then I’d come crashing back down and wipe out Blackpool.’
They laughed.
‘Not a bad plan,’ the comedian noted. ‘It needs a make-over.’
