by Graham Ison
Murchison examined the copy of Harley’s death certificate, reading it several times. Finally, he pushed it in Fox’s direction and leaned back in his chair. ‘So what?’ he said.
‘I take it that Mr Harley’s demise does not upset you greatly,’ said Fox, folding the copy of the certificate and handing it back to Gilroy. ‘At least, not in the way that one is normally afflicted by news of the death of a close and dear friend.’
‘I keep telling you, I’ve never heard of him.’
‘I see. Just a working partner, was he?’
Murchison weighed up the pros and cons of his predicament. After what seemed an eternity of soul-searching and introspection he looked at Fox and said, ‘I ain’t saying nothing and that’s final.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Fox appeared to be quite unmoved by Murchison’s rehearsal of his rights.
There was a long, silent pause during which Murchison continued to pick at the table’s edge.
‘I hope you’re not intent on destroying the whole of Her Majesty’s table,’ said Fox, nodding towards Murchison’s nervously active fingers.
‘All right, so I nicked a set of wheels. I’ll have that —’
‘You don’t have a great deal of choice there, Jim,’ said Fox mildly.
‘But I’m not having no bleeding robbery. I never heard nothing about it till after.’
‘Till after what?’
‘Till after the job.’
‘Perhaps you’d better begin at the beginning, Jim.’
Murchison paused yet again. ‘Will this help me out, Mr Fox?’ he asked finally.
Fox smiled and leaned forward across the table. ‘Give it your best shot, Jim, and we’ll see what we can work out, eh?’
That was not an entirely satisfactory reply for Murchison, but he knew that it was about the best he could hope for at this stage. ‘I never knew no Harley nor no Wilkins. It was another geezer what set me up.’
‘Name?’
Murchison looked thoughtful. ‘Harry something.’
‘Harry what?’
‘Never knew his last name,’ said Murchison.
‘That reckons,’ said Fox. ‘Go on with your fairy tale, then.’
‘Well, he said as how he’d got a little tickle lined up —’
‘What sort of little tickle?’
‘It was a scam, like.’
Fox sighed. ‘This is like pulling teeth,’ he said. ‘For Christ’s sake, get on with it.’
‘Yeah, well like I said, it was a scam. This Harry and his bird was con merchants, see. They were going to this hotel to meet this geezer and take him for a few grand. Something to do with stocks and shares, he said.’
‘Oh, God!’ said Fox.
‘That’s what they told me.’ Murchison sounded defensive. ‘And they wanted a set of wheels so’s they could look the real thing, like. That’s why I was wearing chauffeur’s rig. But when they come out, this Harry said as how it had all gone bent and I’d better take off like the clappers because the Old Bill’d be there in no time.’
Fox smiled disconcertingly. ‘What a fascinating yarn, Jim. But there are one or two flaws in this little fantasy of yours …’
‘Do what?’
‘For instance, why steal a car? Why not hire one?’
‘Hire one!’ Murchison sounded horrified at the prospect. He could not see the logic in hiring a car when the streets of London were littered with them, just waiting to be stolen. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘And secondly,’ continued Fox, ‘none of my reliable witnesses happened to mention that you were wearing chauffeur’s livery.’ That was true. Not that it meant anything. Although the linkman at the hotel was the only person to have seen the getaway car, he had said nothing about the driver being in uniform. There again, of course, Dibbens had not had a great deal of time to absorb such minor details. ‘Furthermore, we didn’t find any such uniform at your address when we searched it.’
‘Yeah, well I dumped it, didn’t I?’
‘Where?’
‘Can’t remember,’ said Murchison sullenly.
‘And the woman you mentioned. Who was she?’
Murchison shrugged. ‘Search me. A blonde piece, she was. Quite tasty. I only ever saw her the once.’
‘Know her again, would you?’
Murchison shrugged again. ‘Might do,’ he said. ‘Who’s to tell? One bird looks much the same as another.’
‘Describe her, then.’
‘Medium height, I s’pose. Like I said, blonde.’
‘Age?’
‘Twenty-eight. Thirty, maybe. Dunno, really.’
‘Did she have a name, this woman?’
Murchison grinned. ‘I expect so. Most people do, don’t they?’
Fox struck the table top with the flat of his hand, and Murchison moved back sharply. ‘Don’t ponce about with me, sunshine. You’re not holding a very good hand at the moment. A hundred grand’s worth of tomfoolery’s gone adrift from this hotel, and right now it’s all down to you.’ Fox paused. ‘And that, Jim, is because you’re the one we’ve got banged up.’
Murchison looked decidedly nervous. ‘Yeah, well what I meant,’ he said, licking his lips, ‘was that I never heard her name. This Harry bloke never used it, see.’
‘As a matter of interest, Jim, where did you drop the said Harry and his female accomplice?’
‘Er …’ Murchison’s brow wrinkled in thought. ‘Park Lane. Well, Marble Arch, really.’
‘Did you indeed? Well, well, well.’ Fox stood up and walked across the room. For a moment or two he stood and read a few paragraphs of the Prison Regulations which were pinned to the wall. Then he turned and sauntered back. He sat down again and smiled disconcertingly at the prisoner. ‘And where did you meet this Harry finger?’
‘In a pub.’
‘Oh dear.’ Fox shot a glance at Gilroy. ‘I fear that we’re about to chart familiar territory here, Jack,’ he said. He turned back to Murchison. ‘Where was this pub, pray?’
‘Dulwich.’
‘Would be,’ said Fox phlegmatically. ‘And does it have a name, by any chance?’
Murchison scratched his head. ‘The Oak and Apple,’ he said eventually. ‘I think.’
‘Would that be the Oak and Apple or the Oaken Apple?’ Fox enquired.
‘Yeah!’ said Murchison, somewhat mystified by the question.
‘Never mind,’ said Fox. ‘No doubt the resources of Scotland Yard will find it, should that be necessary. And what happened?’
‘Well, I was in there, having a quiet drink, see, and this Harry come up to me and says how did I fancy a bit of an earner. No risks, and that.’
‘Beautiful,’ said Fox. ‘And you fell for it.’
Murchison looked contrite. ‘Yeah, well I never thought I was getting into nothing heavy.’
‘That’s your trouble, Jim, you don’t think, period.’ Fox lit a cigarette and thought. ‘So who’s idea was it to nick a motor?’
‘Oh, his, Harry’s,’ said Murchison a little too quickly.
‘Yes,’ said Fox. ‘I somehow thought it would be. And how much did you get for this little venture?’
‘Nothing, the bastard.’
‘Which particular bastard are you talking about now, Jim?’
‘Harry. He promised me a cut. A monkey, it was. But he welshed on me.’
Fox laughed, a grating laugh that quite upset Murchison. ‘Five hundred quid? Deary me, Jim, you have been seen off, haven’t you?’ He laughed again. ‘That little team calmly walks into a hotel, removes jewellery to the value of a hundred grand, and you’re the only one who gets ID’d. And all for five hundred notes that you didn’t get anyway. What frightfully bad luck. And here you are, all tucked up in Brixton, waiting to take the rap.’
‘It ain’t funny, Mr Fox.’
‘Depends where you’re standing, Jim. This Harry, incidentally. Ever see him before?’
‘Nah!’
‘Right. Let me see if I’ve got this straight.
A bloke you’ve never seen before comes up to you in a boozer and props a job that involves nicking a set of wheels and dressing yourself up as a chauffeur. He offers you a monkey for the inconvenience, and you just take it on. And you don’t even get paid. Is that about the strength of it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Now, about Wilkins, alias Harley.’
‘I told you, I never heard of him.’
‘When you took it into your head to terminate this interview earlier, Jim, and started walking towards the door, I mentioned the names Wilkins and Harley, and you stopped dead, like you’d walked into a brick wall. How come that the mention of someone you claim not to know had such an effect on you?’
‘Well, it was Harry, see.’
‘You mean that Harry was also Wilkins otherwise known as Harley?’
‘Nah, course not.’
‘I thought not. Well?’
‘It was what Harry said, before I dropped him and the bird off. He told me what the job was, and how this Wilkins was the boss. He said he was the inside man, and had been grafting there on the desk, see, so’s he’d know what rooms to screw. He said that Wilkins was the one what was going to knock out the gear, and that once he’d done that I’d get my cut.’
‘Oh, I see. And where was this pay-out going to take place?’
‘He said he’d get in touch. In the boozer.’
‘And you agreed to that?’
‘Yeah, but I said I never knew it was no jewellery heist. So I told him straight he’d better come across with more’an a monkey, or I might just get a bit nasty.’
‘That must have terrified the life out of him,’ said Fox mildly. ‘What did he say to that.’
‘He got a bit shirty at first, but then he said he thought it was reasonable and that he’d have a word with Mr Wilkins and see what he could do for me.’
‘Very generous,’ said Fox. ‘But he didn’t turn up, I suppose?’
‘No, he bloody didn’t, the shyster.’
‘What d’you reckon, then, Jim?’ Fox smiled.
‘I reckon that Harry done a runner, probably on his tod … or with the bird.’
‘And the shock of being thus defrauded gave Mr Wilkins, alias Harley, a heart attack, eh?’
‘Yeah, you could be bloody right there, Mr Fox.’
‘Mmm! D’you know, Jim, you’re thicker than I thought,’ said Fox. For a moment or two, he seemed to ponder Murchison’s IQ. Then he stood up. ‘I think it’s only fair to issue you with a government health warning, Jim,’ he said. ‘Don’t try and have me over. It could do your future career no end of harm.’
Chapter Eight
‘Well, Jack, there’s a pretty kettle of fish,’ said Fox.
‘What d’you reckon, guv’nor? Is he kosher, this Murchison?’
‘Quite definitely not, Jack. He’s bobbing and weaving like mad. He’s well into this little lot, but he’s been left holding it. He knows he’s in bother and he’s wriggling. Unfortunately for him, he’s not too smart. He’s yet another of your front-line expendables who’s been caught in the cross-fire. Just a soldier, you see, Jack. Just a soldier.’
Gilroy looked faintly bemused. ‘Right, guv,’ he said. ‘But what do we do now?’
‘We find this Harry. And we find Harley. And we find Jane Meadows. I suggest that you sit down in front of our expensive computer and play a brief concerto, Jack. See what sort of music you can make.’
‘Tried it, sir,’ said Gilroy. ‘A villain called Harry is not enough to put into the computer, let alone get anything out. And I’ve tried Wilkins alias Harley and a blonde who could be either Susan Harley in a wig, or Jane Meadows.’
‘And?’ asked Fox thoughtfully.
‘Nothing, sir. No previous in any of those names.’ Gilroy grinned. ‘Apart from a marker from Gavin Brace at West End Central who wants to talk to Harley about a missing ten grand from a certain hotel safe.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Fox. ‘I never did think that the purchase of all those expensive computers was a wise investment, Jack.’
‘Well, you know what they say, guv …’
‘No, Jack.’ Fox looked enquiringly at Gilroy. ‘What do they say?’
‘Rubbish in, rubbish out, sir.’ Gilroy grinned.
‘Exactly my point, Jack, but Harry — when we find him — may well be persuaded to give us some information about this distressing matter. Looks as though we shall have to rely on old-fashioned methods after all.’ For a few moments Fox lay back in his chair, an expression of tranquil contemplation on his face. Then he sat up, sharply. ‘Jack, pop round and see Lady Morton, well known friend of the police, and show her the picture of Jane Meadows that was obtained from that clown down at the golf club, and ask her if she recognises same as Mrs Benson.’ Fox stood up and buttoned his jacket. ‘I do believe we’re starting to motor, Jack,’ he said.
*
‘I’ve got an associate of Jim Murchison’s here, sir,’ said DS Crozier, pushing a computer printout in Fox’s direction.
‘Well, where is he?’ asked Fox, glaring round the office as if expecting him suddenly to appear.
‘Mr Gilroy said you wanted any we’d got, sir.’
‘What I want, Ron, is a body. The body of whoever that is.’ Fox waved menacingly at Crozier’s hand. ‘Not a bloody paper villain.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Crozier. ‘I mean, no, sir.’
‘Who is he, by the way?’
‘Oswald Bryce, guv.’
‘Is that a joke?’ Fox gave Crozier a penetrating stare.
Crozier looked hurt. ‘No, sir. He used to run with Jim Murchison. Known as Ozzie Bryce.’
‘Yes,’ said Fox, ‘he would be. What else do we know about him?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Nothing?’ growled Fox. ‘Well get something, for Christ’s sake. Get out and beat on the ground, Ron. And find him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Crozier. ‘Why me?’ he added. But not until he was back in his own office.
*
‘I wonder if you would be so good as to look at this photograph, Lady Morton,’ said Gilroy.
Lady Morton peered over Gilroy’s shoulder. ‘Is Mr Fox not with you?’ she asked.
‘No, ma’am. He’s very busy.’
‘I suppose so. Well, you’d better come inside.’
Gilroy stepped into the hallway but it was evident that that was as far as he was going to get.
‘Now,’ said Lady Morton, ‘what is this photograph that you want me to look at?’ She put on a pair of spectacles that were permanently attached to her by a gold neck chain.
‘Can you tell me, ma’am, if you have ever seen either of these people before?’ Gilroy handed her the photograph of Harley and his partner that had been taken at the golf club.
Lady Morton stared at it for some seconds before handing it back. ‘No,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ve not seen either of those people before.’
‘Oh,’ said Gilroy, somewhat taken aback. ‘You’re quite sure?’
‘Young man,’ said Lady Morton severely, ‘I may be getting on in years, but I haven’t lost any of my faculties.’
‘Er, no, ma’am, of course not.’
‘Why did you think I should know who these persons are?’
‘Mr Fox,’ said Gilroy, hoping that mention of his governor’s name might defrost Lady Morton, ‘wondered if they could be Mr and Mrs Benson.’
‘Good gracious!’ Lady Morton now thrust the photograph back into Gilroy’s hand. ‘Just wait one moment, young man,’ she said, and walked down the hallway and into a room at the far end. Gilroy heard the sound of several drawers being opened and closed, and then Lady Morton returned clutching a large magnifying glass. ‘Let me see that again,’ she said. For some time she stared at the photograph through the glass. ‘I suppose it’s just possible that that is Mrs Benson,’ she said.
*
‘I should like you to know that I strongly disapprove of this,’ said the vicar of Cray Magna, thrusting his hands deep
ly into the pockets of his waxed jacket.
‘I must admit I’m not greatly struck on it myself,’ said Fox. He too was wearing a Barbour. And a tweed hat that would undoubtedly have drawn some witty and sarcastic comments from his subordinates. If they had been there. And if they hadn’t been his subordinates.
‘It’s un-Christian, and it’s … it’s a desecration. That’s what it is.’ The vicar spluttered on. ‘And why does it have to take place at the unearthly hour of five in the morning?’ He turned so that his back was against the penetrating drizzle that was gusting up the exposed hill from the tiny church.
‘So that it will not be apparent to too many people what we’re up to,’ said Fox, gazing gloomily at the canvas screens. Behind the canvas a group of Devon and Cornwall police officers, under the supervision of DI Gilroy, were taking it in turns to dig up the coffin of the recently buried Thomas Harley.
‘But why? I don’t understand what this is all about.’
Fox sighed. ‘Vicar,’ he said, ‘I have satisfied the Home Secretary that there is a good and valid reason for the disinterment of the late Mr Harley. And we’re doing it at five o’clock in the morning so that if it turns out to be a monumental cock-up, there won’t be too many people who find out what complete prats we’ve been.’ Fox unscrewed the cap of his vacuum flask and poured himself some black coffee. Then he added a goodly measure of Scotch from a small silver hip-flask. ‘Care for some?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘You’ve got to admit, Vicar, that it’s a bit odd. A bloke arrives in London, allegedly from Tasmania, and drops dead. And his widow wants him buried in some out of the way place that nobody’s ever heard of … if you’ll excuse the expression.’
‘Well, I don’t see that —’
‘Furthermore, I would remind you, Vicar, that it was you who drew the attention of the police to the fact that Thomas Harley was the name of a man who had been reported missing from his home in Kingston upon Thames and whose photograph appeared in the newspaper.’
‘Yes, but —’
