by Graham Ison
Where Ronsard had been helpful was in fixing Crozier up with a reasonably priced hotel. Not an easy thing to do in Nice at any time, but particularly in the height of the season. And Crozier knew, with an instinct of more than twenty-two years’ service, that when he got back to London Fox would query his expenses. Detective chief superintendents always queried expenses. That was what detective chief superintendents were there for. Or so it seemed to junior officers.
Crozier’s first full day in Nice was a Wednesday. Dressed in a Breton cotton shirt and white trousers, he had driven, in a small Renault provided by the Police Urbaine of Nice, to the wide, tree-lined boulevard where Jane Meadows was staying. So it was said. But Crozier knew that Sod’s Law of Detection might come into play, and that she could have moved. He was lucky. Skilled in the art of covert surveillance, he had been parked up for Jess than half an hour when she emerged.
Crozier watched as she threw a beach-bag into the back of a small white Fiat and drove slowly out of the road.
Some twenty minutes later she drew into a parking place on the Promenade des Anglais opposite one of the less populated beaches facing the Baie des Anges. Fortunately there was a parking place behind her car and Crozier edged his way into it. Quite deliberately, and just as she opened the door of her car, he nudged the rear bumper of her Fiat, enough to give her the slight jolt that would tell her that she had been hit.
Crozier leaped from his car, a carefully contrived expression of anguish on his face. ‘Ah, ma’moiselle, pardon —’ he began and then intentionally faltered, holding out his hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jane Meadows. ‘I’m English.’
‘Oh,’ said Crozier with a smile, ‘thank God for that. So am I. I’m most awfully sorry. Not looking where I was going.’
The girl walked round and looked at the back of her car. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘There’s no damage done.’
‘I always have this horror of having an accident when I’m abroad,’ said Crozier. ‘Apart from the language problems, I always get the feeling that it’ll all become terribly complicated.’
‘Me too.’ The girl smiled. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m going for a swim.’
Crozier waved a hand. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said. ‘And, once again, I’m sorry.’
Jane Meadows smiled. ‘No harm done,’ she said and walked briskly towards the beach.
*
‘Had a call from Ron Crozier, sir,’ said Gilroy.
‘And?’ Fox looked up from a file he was studying.
‘He’s made contact, sir. Literally. Ran into the back of her car.’
‘Oh, bloody brilliant.’ Fox threw down his pen. ‘And had to show out, I suppose? Exchanged names and addresses? All that? Now we’ll have reports from the French police and the commander’ll be asking what the hell’s —’
‘No, sir,’ said Gilroy firmly. ‘He did it on purpose, just to make her acquaintance. There was no damage.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Fox looked slightly relieved.
‘Well, softly softly catchee monkey,’ said Gilroy.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Fox suspiciously.
‘It was one of Baden-Powell’s favourite expressions, sir.’
‘Oh yeah! In the job, was he, this Baden-Powell?’
*
Crozier left it for a day, during which he wandered through the narrow alleyways of tall buildings in old Nice, climbed the town’s highest point to watch the castle waterfall, strolled through the flower market and finished up gazing at the Palais de la Méditerranée, a casino he knew he could never afford to enter. Not on a detective sergeant’s pay anyway.
On Friday, Crozier parked his car near Jane Meadows’ villa again. She came out at the same time as on Wednesday, apparently intent on another visit to the beach. Once more Crozier followed, and once more parked on the Promenade des Anglais, but this time some way from where she had left her car. From a distance, he watched her as she walked along the beach until she found a reasonably uncrowded stretch.
Crozier leaned on the railing alongside the road and watched Jane Meadows as she undressed. When she was wearing nothing more than the bottom half of her bikini, she stretched herself out on her towel and started to cover herself with sun-tan oil.
Crozier waited until she appeared settled and then made his move. By the time he reached her, she was lying back and facing the sun through large sunglasses. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
The girl raised her head slightly and tipped her sunglasses forward. ‘Oh, hallo.’
Crozier grinned. ‘For one awful moment,’ he said, ‘I thought I’d made a mistake. It was you I bumped into the day before yesterday, wasn’t it?’
The girl smiled. ‘Certainly was,’ she said.
Crozier squatted on the shingle beside her. ‘Been in yet?’ He nodded towards the sea.
Jane Meadows shook her head. ‘Not yet. I might in a minute. How about you?’
‘No. But I was thinking about it.’ Crozier looked round. ‘Mind if I settle here?’
The girl put her sunglasses back on. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘It’s a free country, so they tell me.’
‘Oh? You don’t sound too impressed with France.’
‘I love it. This part, anyway. But it can get a bit boring in the evenings.’
‘You must be joking,’ said Crozier. ‘All these cafés … and the casinos.’
‘Not when you’re on your own,’ she said.
‘So am I,’ said Crozier.
‘It’s all right for you. You’re a man.’
‘How about I take you out for a drink this evening, then?’ he asked.
Jane Meadows opened her eyes and carefully appraised Crozier. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Name’s Ron Crozier.’ He reached across and held his hand out in the girl’s direction.
Slowly she put up her hand and took his. ‘Jane.’ There was a momentary pause. ‘Jane Spencer. You’re on holiday, I take it?’
‘Sort of. Business and pleasure, really. I’ve come over to buy a villa.’
‘What, here in Nice?’ Jane Spencer suddenly became interested.
‘Yes. Seems a decent place.’ Crozier grinned.
‘They’re fearfully expensive, you know.’
Crozier shrugged. ‘No sense in having money if you don’t spend it,’ he said casually. ‘Can’t take it with you.’ He pulled his shirt over his head and slipped out of his trousers. ‘Right, Jane,’ he said. ‘Race you into the water.’
*
‘Ron Crozier went swimming with her yesterday, sir,’ said Gilroy.
‘I don’t want a blow-by-blow account, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘I just want to know when there’s a result.’
‘He did say she’d made a clean breast of it, sir.’
‘You mean she’s confessed?’
Gilroy grinned. ‘No, sir, just that she went swimming topless. But I think he’s making progress. He took her out to dinner last night as well.’
Fox looked up and frowned. ‘Next time you speak to him, Jack, just tell him to watch the bloody expenses.’
*
They were sitting outside a café in the Rue Messena watching the world go by. It was five days since Crozier had engineered their meeting on the beach and since then he and Jane Meadows had spent most of their waking hours together, swimming, drinking in the cafés and eating out. And during that time, with careless throwaway comments, Crozier had convinced her that he was a rich and unattached playboy. It was useful that dress was no longer an indication of wealth in the South of France … but cars were. In order to further his image, he had returned the Renault to the local police and was now using taxis, despite knowing that Fox would have a seizure when he saw Crozier’s expenses.
But he had insisted on the relationship between him and Jane Meadows remaining strictly platonic. He knew what could happen to CID officers who crossed the boundary betwee
n duty and pleasure. He had seen colleagues wriggling in the witness box at the Old Bailey and had no intention of risking either his career or his reputation.
‘What made you come on holiday on your own?’ Crozier slipped off his jacket and put it on the back of his chair.
‘I was supposed to be meeting a friend. Last week, as a matter of fact.’
‘And she didn’t show up?’
‘He,’ said Jane holding Crozier’s glance with her clear grey eyes.
Crozier shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘None of my business.’
‘I tried ringing him, but I haven’t been able to get hold of him.’
‘Here in France?’
‘No, in England. I don’t know what can have happened.’
‘Are you worried?’ asked Crozier, adding, ‘Tell me to mind my own business, if …’
‘It’s all right. No, he’s a friend. A close friend.’ She shot a sideways glance at Crozier. ‘I’m sorry if that —’
‘If what?’
‘I hope you don’t think that I’ve been deceiving you.’ This was the first time that she had mentioned having a boyfriend.
‘Not at all.’ Crozier grinned. After all, he hadn’t mentioned his wife and two teenaged children in Orpington. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t hang on here much longer or my money will run out.’
‘Why not go home, then?’
‘I can’t afford to do that either.’ She turned to him, concerned. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t know what to do. You see, he paid for the rent of the villa up to the end of this week. Said he’d be here by now. Long before, actually. But now …’ She held her hands out. ‘What the hell am I going to do, Ron?’ There was an appealing look on her face.
Crozier studied her and wondered if she had been looking for someone like him to pay her fare home. Lying on the beach every day, wearing next-to-nothing, just waiting for the first punter who came along. Not that it mattered. He had, after all, been hoping that something like this might happen. Been working at it, in fact. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’m going home tomorrow myself. Come with me —’
‘But, I told you —’
‘I’ll put it on my credit card. Give me your address in England, and I’ll come and collect. Any time. There’s no rush.’
Suddenly she leaned across and threw her arms round Crozier’s neck. ‘Ron, you’re an angel,’ she said, and kissed him. She took out pen and paper. ‘I’ll write my address down for you.’
‘It’s no big deal,’ said Crozier. And if Harley was found at that address it would have been worth every penny.
*
‘I’m taking her back to England tomorrow, Pierre.’
Ronsard looked slightly alarmed. ‘You mean —’
Crozier laughed. ‘Don’t look so worried, mon inspecteur, I’m not kidnapping her. She’s returning voluntarily.’
‘But what about the little matter of trying to sell the stolen diamonds here in Nice?’
Crozier grinned. ‘Reckon you can prove it?’
‘No!’ Ronsard laughed. ‘So she’s going back with you, eh?’
‘She ran out of money, so I offered to pay her fare back to London.’
‘Ah,’ said Ronsard with an exaggerated Gallic gesture, ‘you English policemen are so generous.’
‘It’s my Commissioner who’s being generous, Pierre, but if you want another drink, just bloody well say so.’
Inspecteur Principal Ronsard of the Police Urbaine of Nice — a detective just like Crozier — pushed his glass across the table. ‘Pastis, you old bastard,’ he said and grinned.
*
British Airways Flight 342 from Nice arrived at Heathrow at just after half past three in the afternoon. More as an insurance than a courtesy, Crozier carried Jane Meadows’ travel bag for her, and escorted her through immigration and customs.
Once on the concourse, she turned to face Crozier. ‘I’m ever so grateful, Ron,’ she said. ‘And as soon as I get the money I’ll pay you back. I gave you my address, didn’t I?’
‘Sure.’ Crozier glanced over the girl’s shoulder and was pleased to see Gilroy and WDC Rosie Webster approaching, accompanied by another police officer, probably a Special Branch man stationed at the airport.
‘There is just one thing though, Jane …’
She looked surprised. ‘What’s that?’
‘You didn’t give me your right name. You’re Jane Meadows, not Jane Spencer.’
Crozier’s confrontation took her completely by surprise. ‘I — what d’you …?’ she faltered. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’m a police officer and I’m arresting you in connection with the theft of a quantity of jewellery.’ It was a pity really; Crozier had quite got to like the girl. She was attractive and good company. But he had a job to do.
Jane Meadows looked round and realised that she was surrounded by police. Not ostentatiously. More like a group of relatives who had come to greet her. Her first thought, that she might escape, was stillborn. Her shoulders drooped and she let out a sigh. ‘Fine friend you turned out to be,’ she said to Crozier.
‘The address you gave us last night, Ron,’ said Gilroy. ‘The one this young lady gave you …’
‘What about it, guv?’ Crozier had telephoned the Yard the previous evening to pass over details of where Jane Meadows said she lived. He had hoped that DI Gilroy was going to tell him that the Squad had arrested Thomas Harley.
‘Duff,’ said Gilroy.
Crozier smiled at Jane Meadows. ‘And a fine friend you turned out to be, too,’ he said.
Chapter Thirteen
Thomas Harley was going down for the jewellery heist at the hotel, of that Fox was certain, and with any luck he would be able to put him on the sheet for the murder of Donald Dixon too. Although there were a few other odds and ends, like forgery and concealment of death, they were evidence of intent to murder rather than separate counts on the indictment. But first, the Flying Squad had to find him.
Based on Crozier’s account of his conversations with Jane Meadows in France, Fox thought that she was probably the weakest member of the conspiracy and he hoped that she would tell him where Thomas Harley was. Had she been found in England, Fox would have had her put under surveillance in the hope that she would have led the police to him. Nevertheless, Fox was convinced that she knew a lot about Harley’s activities both before and after the jewellery heist.
She had maintained a cool demeanour since her arrival at Bow Street police station, but there was always a possibility that deep down the episode had unnerved her. She had no previous convictions, and interviews with the police were, doubtless, a novel experience for her.
‘Well, Mrs Meadows, you seem to have got yourself into a spot of bother,’ Fox began. He glanced at Rosie Webster. ‘Turn on the tape recorder, Rosie,’ he said, and then redirected his gaze to the short-haired blonde sitting on the other side of the table. ‘I am recording this interview,’ he continued, ‘and anything you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes.’ Jane Meadows nodded. ‘But I don’t know what this is all about.’
It was the sort of defensive opening that Fox had come to expect from suspects. ‘Nor do I,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but I intend to find out. Firstly, you were living in a villa in Nice that had been rented by a man called Spencer.’
‘Yes. Is that a crime?’
Fox ignored the sarcasm. ‘That man’s real name is Thomas Harley.’ He was guessing now.
‘Yes, I know.’ Her response was listless.
Fox’s expression remained impassive. ‘On the twelfth of July last a quantity of jewellery was stolen from a hotel in the West End of London. Jewellery to the value of some one hundred thousand pounds.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’ Again an automatic response.
‘Thomas Harley, whom we know was concerned in this theft, left his employment at that hotel on the day of the theft. You also disappear
ed from London on that day. More than a coincidence, surely?’
Jane Meadows surveyed Fox with cool reserve, and it looked as though his hope that she might confess to everything was misplaced. She was certainly showing no signs of cracking. ‘It’s a free country,’ she said. It was the same phrase she had used to Crozier on the beach at Nice.
‘And why did he decide to leave … on that particular day?’
Jane Meadows remained silent for a moment or two. ‘Have you thought of asking him?’ she enquired.
‘Yes,’ said Fox, ‘but right now I’m asking you.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do.’
‘It’s difficult,’ she said. ‘You see, I don’t want to get him into trouble.’
Fox smiled. ‘He’s in so much trouble now, Mrs Meadows, that a bit more won’t make a great deal of difference.’
The girl began hesitantly. ‘He told me that when he was working at another hotel — a year or two back — some money had gone missing.’ Fox nodded. ‘And that he had been suspected because he had been the night duty manager. But he hadn’t taken it,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Anyway, on the day of the jewel robbery —’
‘The one you know nothing about, you mean?’
Jane shrugged. ‘Only what he told me. But neither of us had anything to do with it. Anyway, Tom said that he was bound to be suspected, because of the other business with the money, and that it would be best if he left there and then.’
Fox decided against telling the girl that Harley had not waited to find out whether he was suspected of the previous theft but had disappeared rather promptly. And had changed his name to Wilkins. ‘But why did you leave?’ he asked again and pushed his cigarette case across the table.
The girl shook her head. ‘I don’t smoke, thank you,’ she said.
‘Well?’ Fox allowed a small cloud of cigarette smoke to drift upwards.
Jane Meadows stared at him, her grey eyes unwavering. ‘We’re going to get married,’ she said.
