Chapter 19
During the supposed golden age of pornography, the late sixties to the mid eighties, when everyone in the industry was making money hand over fist, literally, Buckby had run sex shops all over the city.
According to Susan Hawksworth, he had made films, starred in films, distributed films, and sold films directly out of his shops.
He had some minor arrests on his record, but nothing serious.
These days his office was a grubby little pub called the Fennell Arms. They found him in the back.
Poe wasn’t expecting him to be wearing an I LOVE TITS T-shirt, but he could have had the decency to look a little bit grubby.
It was like he wasn’t even trying. He was a bland sort of man.
Forgettable. A little bit bald, a little bit paunchy.
A nose that would have better suited a cartoon dwarf.
He was wearing an England cricket top and watching a game on TV while he finished a phone call.
A one-day international. England versus New Zealand.
England were losing. He put his hand over the speaker and said, ‘Are you Poe?’
Poe confirmed he was.
‘Get yourself a drink, mate, I’ll be with ya in a minute.’
Poe walked to the bar. It was stickier than warm sugar.
He asked for a pint of whatever local cask ale they had.
The barman poured him a London Black, a nitro porter brewed by Anspach & Hobday.
Poe waited for it to settle, then took a sip.
He nodded appreciatively. The Fennell Arms might be a shithole, but they knew how to keep beer.
He got Bradshaw a sparkling water. No ice, no lemon.
‘Anything else?’ the barman asked.
‘Whatever Mark Buckby’s drinking.’
The barman poured a neat gin into a tulip-shaped glass. Poe carried the drinks to Buckby’s table while Bradshaw got a VAT receipt. Business expenses. Poe brushed some crisp shards off a stool and sat down. Bradshaw cleaned hers with a wet wipe.
Buckby finished his call and said, ‘Cheers.’ He swilled the gin around the glass. Examined the side like he was a wine expert. ‘Now, what can I do for my pals in the National Crime Agency?’
Poe passed him one of his gumshoe business cards. Buckby read it without comment and tucked it into his shirt pocket. Poe brought out the printed screenshot of the woman Esmerée claimed was her mother. Handed it to Buckby. ‘I’m trying to find this woman.’
Buckby didn’t look at it. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve been asked to track her down.’
‘And what happens to ’er when you do?’
Poe shrugged. ‘That’s not up to me.’
‘I won’t be part of anything illegal. If this woman belongs to someone, I ain’t helping you catch her. I ain’t one of them bleeding-heart liberals, but I won’t ’ave any truck with trafficking gangs. Fucking monsters, the lot of them.’
‘On that we agree,’ Poe said. ‘And if you want to check me out, I can wait.’
Buckby did. He took Poe’s details and made some calls.
‘Seems you two ’ave been in some hairy shit,’ he said when he came back. He offered them his hand. Poe shook it. Bradshaw declined.
Poe nodded at the printed screenshot. ‘How can I find her?’
‘It’s a bit blurry, mate.’
‘It’s a still from a twelve-minute clip.’
‘You got the whole thing?’
‘We have.’
Bradshaw opened her laptop.
‘You mind if I watch a bit of blue, Kev?’ Buckby called over to the barman. Kev shrugged. It wasn’t as if it could lower the tone of the pub, Poe thought.
Bradshaw pressed play and Buckby immediately said, ‘It’s gonzo.’
‘Gonzo?’ Poe asked.
Bradshaw pressed pause.
‘What do you know about porn, Mr Poe?’ Buckby said.
‘It’s just Poe, and I know next to nothing.’
‘There are three main categories – feature, gonzo and amateur – although there are a thousand and one subcategories. Features have scripts and plots. Costumes and soundtracks. Expensive sets. It might be a variant of “the woman can’t pay the plumber” plot, or it might be a parody, like they did with Edward Penishands.
The main thing is they have high production values.
As well as the talent and the production employees, there’ll be make-up artists, caterers, security guards, solicitors, accountants, publicists and a whole load of behind-the-scenes workers. ’
‘Expensive.’
‘But back in the day, the return on your investment was astronomical. Like printing your own money.’
‘But not now.’
Buckby shook his head. ‘Gonzo and amateur porn ruined the business. When porn films were on VHS and DVD, punters expected a feature-length product. But these days, with everything being online, most porn is a single clip. Amateurs upload whatever crap they’ve filmed and the gonzo lot film a load of scenes back-to-back then upload ’em all at the same time. ’
‘I presume amateur is what it says on the tin?’
‘Yeah, any Tom, Dick or Harry can do it. All they need is a smartphone and an internet connection. They bung the woman fifty quid, film it in someone’s house or a hotel room, then upload it to one of the video-sharing websites.
They get a cut of the ads the site owners run.
Or even worse, someone uploads their own sex vids after they’ve had a barney with the missus.
It’s against the law now. Revenge porn, they call it, but you can’t un-ring that bell, mate.
Once it’s on the ’net, it’s on there for good. ’
‘Gonzo sits somewhere in the middle, then?’
‘It does. It’s professionally shot but has a minimal budget.
Little to no plot, no costumes, no fancy sets, no nothing.
The performers could be anyone. They’re rarely porn actresses, though.
They’re housewives, or students, or anyone who fancies a bit of pin money and doesn’t mind getting filmed having sex.
Sometimes the cameraman is part of the action, sometimes he’s just filming.
The production company – and I use that term loosely – will rent a hotel room or something, nothing expensive.
Back in the day I used to rent me mate’s barge for the weekend.
Shoot a film on the Saturday, another on the Sunday.
We were making good money, and the girls were happy.
’ Buckby waved his glass in the air until the barman nodded.
‘Most films are gonzo these days. There’re still some Yank companies in the San Fernando Valley doing features, but most have gone belly-up. ’
‘Because it’s free to view?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. The big studios tried to start a movement a few years back.
Had one of them hashtags and everything, payforyourporn, but it was too late.
The second the punters got used to getting porn for free was the second they didn’t want to pay for it no more.
Can’t get that cat back in the bag, Poe.
I reckon eighty per cent of porn filmed in the last ten years is gonzo. ’
‘There’s no way to tell who made it, then?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Buckby said. ‘Just means it won’t be obvious, is all. But here, you go and get my drink off Kev, save his bunions. I’ll start watching this.’
Bradshaw pressed play, and Buckby immediately hit pause. He leaned closer to the screen. ‘What’s that on ’er foot?’ he said.