by Graham Ison
“Mr Lord’s expecting you, Mr Fox.” The busty redhead spoke huskily as she rose from her seat at the computer station, smoothed her dress and moved towards the door leading to Lord’s office.
“How kind,” murmured Fox. Knowing him as well as he did, he suspected that ex-Detective Inspector Dickie Lord’s personal assistant had been engaged more for her looks than her secretarial skills.
“Mr Fox!” Lord walked across the office and held out his hand. “How are you?”
Fox shook hands with the former policeman and indicated DI Evans. “D’you know Denzil Evans?” he asked. He gazed around the sumptuous office and nodded approvingly. It was richly carpeted, and Lord’s desk, in front of an expensively curtained window, was curved and large. On a side table were a battery of telephones and a fax machine. Along an adjacent wall was a built-in bookcase containing an impressive array of books, legal and actuarial. “Seem to be doing all right for yourself, Dickie.”
“Bit hand to mouth,” said Lord with no hint of amusement on his face. “But I’m scratching a living, if you know what I mean?” He shook hands with Evans. “Must have bumped into you at the Yard sometime,” he said. It was the standard greeting from one detective to another whom he had never set eyes on before.
“Probably,” said Evans.
“Vicky, love, see if you can find three cups of tea, there’s a good girl.” Lord paused and glanced at Fox. “Unless you’d prefer…” he began.
Fox nodded. “I would.”
“Forget the tea, love,” said Lord. He crossed to the bookcase, opened a section of “books” and poured three large Scotches. “Now then, what can I do for you, Mr Fox?” he asked when all three of them were settled in his comfortable suite of armchairs.
“Wally Proctor,” said Fox without preamble.
“Thought it might be,” said Lord and crossed to a filing cabinet. He dropped a bulky folder on the small table between them. “You’re welcome to have a go through that,” he said, “but most of it’s probably rubbish. Titbits of information I’ve picked up over the years.”
“Thought you’d have had all that on your computer,” said Fox, making no move to read the file.
“Not likely,” said Lord. “I never put the ‘iffy’ stuff where someone else can read it.”
“Tell me the bones of it, then,” said Fox. He took a sip of whisky. “This is a decent malt.”
“Knockando. Gift from a grateful client.” Lord grinned. “Proctor…” He leaned back in his chair and gazed briefly at the ceiling. “Good iceman in his day.” The beauty of dealing with one’s own was that the conversation could be conducted in the verbal shorthand that was a feature of the profession.
“How good?” Fox knew that the late Wally Proctor had been an iceman, a jewel thief with a preference for diamonds. He had stolen either by confidence trick or, when the opportunity had presented itself, by a straight blagging.
“Well, he came out of the ’Ville about six years ago following a two-stretch—”
“Yes, I know,” said Fox. “Percy Fletcher’s been doing some ferreting for me. Who was his accomplice on that job, Dickie?”
Lord looked thoughtful. Eventually he said, “Skelton, first name Robin.”
“How appropriate,” murmured Fox. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him.”
“I suppose Percy Fletcher told you about the black pearl scam, as well.”
Fox nodded. “Yes.”
“But I’m in no doubt that he’s been at it since.” Lord leaned forward to top up Fox’s glass and then held the bottle towards Evans. Evans shook his head. “I’ve investigated one or two claims recently that seem to have his name on them.”
“In what way?”
“The method’s got to be Proctor’s.” Lord flicked open the file. “There have been two or three jobs recently where women, usually in their sixties, but some older, some younger, have reported the theft of jewelery. In most cases, the Old Bill have found no signs of forced entry, but the victims have been adamant that they’ve admitted no one they didn’t know, and that they made the discovery on returning from a day out, or a weekend with their families. That sort of thing.”
“And what d’you think?” Fox offered Lord a cigarette.
“I’m bloody sure that they were conned. In one case I got an admission that the woman had been befriended by a smooth-talking operator, almost certainly Proctor, and that he’d done a runner with the gear. About fifty grand’s worth, that one was. Did a bit of digging and it turned out that she’d given him permission to try and sell it on her behalf. She never saw the bastard again.”
“Anything come of it?”
“No,” said Lord. “The company I was doing the job for refused to pay out and the woman said she wouldn’t go to court even if the bloke was found. She seemed to think he might turn up one day, even though it was six months since she last saw him. By rights, she should have been done for making a false claim.” He grinned. “And who says insurance companies haven’t got hearts?”
“Is that the only one?” asked Fox.
“The only one I’ve proved, but I’m bloody sure there’ve been others.”
Fox leaned forward to tap ash into the ashtray. “What’s the latest one you dealt with, Dickie? One that might fit Proctor’s MO, I mean.”
“There’s about three, all within months of each other, that might fit.” Lord crossed to the filing cabinet once more and plucked out a handful of files. “Six weeks ago a Mrs Linda Ward, aged fifty with an address in Earls Court, reported a theft from her flat—”
“A theft? Not a break-in?”
“Well, she reported to police that she’d been burgled, but the local law couldn’t find any signs of a break-in. She confessed herself mystified. She’d been on holiday for a fortnight and claimed that she’d left about seventy K’s worth of jewelery in the flat, daft bitch, and when she came back it had gone. The company withheld payment of the claim pending a full investigation.”
“And how are you getting on with it?”
“Zilch!” said Lord. “She won’t budge from her story. She says she never met a dark, handsome stranger and that no one, apart from her married daughter, had a key to her flat.”
“Is there a porter at these flats, Dickie?”
“Yeah, but he’s been there years. Apparently he’s trusted by everyone.”
“Got any form, this porter?” asked Fox.
Lord grinned. “Well,” he said, “Now that I’m no longer in the job, I don’t have access to the PNC, but I’m reliably informed that he’s clean. The DC I at Kensington accidentally let it slip.”
“Careless of him,” said Fox. “He shouldn’t be telling civilians what’s on the Police National Computer.”
“That’s what I told him,” said Lord.
“What about Mrs Ward’s daughter? Suddenly looking more prosperous, is she?”
“Not that you’d notice. She’s married to some filthy rich architect nearly twice her age – she’s only twenty-three – and lives in Chalfont St Giles. Doesn’t look as though she’d need an extra seventy thousand.”
“Your clients going to pay, are they?” asked Fox.
Lord shrugged. “Probably have to in the long run,” he said. “Unless I can come up with something. Why? D’you want to have a go at her?”
“Might have a chat with her,” said Fox. “What about the others?”
“There’s one in Surbiton, a Mrs Joyce Bourne, and another in Chiswick…” Lord turned up the file. “Mrs Audrey Harker. They’re both widows. Mrs Bourne’s sixty and Mrs Harker’s sixty-three.” He flung the files on to the table. “Same story in each case. Both claim to have been broken into, but neither premises showed any signs of a forced entry.”
“And presumably they deny that they knew any smooth-talking bastards like Proctor.”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Lord.
“All right with you if Denzil takes a few details, Dickie?” asked Fox.
“Be my gue
st,” said Lord and pushed the files towards Evans.
“Well, one thing’s certain,” said Fox as he stood up. “You can close your file on Proctor now.”
Lord sighed. “He might be dead,” he said, “but I’m sure that he’ll trouble me for a while yet. But d’you think any of this could be connected with Proctor’s topping?”
Fox grinned. “Got to start somewhere, Dickie,” he said. “As a matter of interest, when Jim Semple turned over Proctor’s drum, he found about two hundred grand’s worth of jewelery. According to Property Index, it’s not listed as stolen, but you know as well as I do that the descriptions given by losers are often too vague to be certain. You might like to take a look at it.”
“Thanks,” said Lord as he shook hands.
“One other thing,” said Fox. “Who, in your opinion, is the best iceman now that Proctor’s no longer with us?”
Lord looked thoughtful, but only for a moment or two. “Robin Skelton, aforementioned,” he said.
*
“This weapon,” said Fox, placing a .22 pistol on Detective Superintendent Semple’s desk, “was the one which killed Proctor, but a ballistic comparison shows that it was last used in a murder in Shepperton. Get one of your lads to find out what it was all about, will you.”
“Think it might be relevant, sir?” asked Semple.
“If it was a domestic murder, it might be,” said Fox. “On the other hand, it might have been doing the rounds before Proctor’s killer laid his hands on it.”
“I suppose…” began Semple and then stopped.
“What?”
“I suppose it is a murder we’re dealing with here, sir.”
“Oh! Don’t tell me you think it may have been a suicide.” Fox looked at Semple with an expression of despair on his face. “Because if it is, he went to a great deal of trouble when he could simply have shot himself.”
“No, sir. I was thinking more that he might have set the thing up himself, intending to plant the briefcase on someone else.”
“I see,” said Fox. “And just couldn’t resist the temptation to test it.” He gave the detective superintendent a withering glance.
*
Among Tommy Fox’s coterie of informants was a man called Arnold Bertram Pogson who, because of his initials, was invariably known as “Sailor” Pogson. Pogson had begun his criminal career while at university, where he had specialized in accountancy – and stealing other people’s credit cards. Because of his criminal conviction – and the sentence of three years that went with it – Pogson had been unable to secure membership of the more discerning professional bodies and made his money by creative book-keeping, advising dubious clients on the best way to invest their felonious profits and occasionally by “taking in laundry” as the cleansing of ill-gotten gains was known. At a percentage, of course, rather than for a straight fee.
Pogson’s role as a sporadic informant was not derived from an overwhelming desire to ingratiate himself with the police – he was usually too cautious to require the sort of protection that many informants mistakenly thought that aiding the police provided – but found that it was a useful way of dealing with those of his clients who welshed on him. In short, Pogson and Fox each found the other useful, when it suited them. Unfortunately for Pogson, it was Fox who always held the upper hand in these transactions.
Fox entered the suite of seedy offices that Pogson rented just off City Road, ascended the rickety staircase and, ignoring the receptionist-cum-secretary and sleeping partner, strode into Pogson’s office.
“Hallo, Sailor,” said Fox, and grinned as he slammed the door behind him.
Pogson looked alarmed at the sudden arrival of the head of the Flying Squad. Normally, they met in more discreet surroundings or even conducted their business by telephone. But Pogson recognized Fox’s presence as the detective’s customary way of bringing pressure to bear. “You want something, Mr Fox?” he said.
“Very perspicacious of you, Sailor,” said Fox and, after carefully appraising the poor-quality furniture, sat down in the armchair opposite Pogson’s desk.
“It’s not a good idea, you coming here, Mr Fox,” said Pogson. “People might talk.”
“That’s the whole object of my visit, Sailor.” Fox glanced around the office and wrinkled his nose before lighting a cigarette. “Wally Proctor.”
Pogson sucked through his teeth and rocked slowly back and forth in his chair. “A tragedy, Mr Fox, a tragedy,” he said.
“Think so?” Fox grinned at the accountant. “Why? Owe you some money, did he?”
Pogson removed his rimless spectacles and began polishing them with a handkerchief. “I don’t do business with people of that sort, Mr Fox.”
“Oh, do leave off, Sailor.”
Ignoring the jibe, Pogson held the spectacles up to the window and peered through them. Satisfied that they were clean, he replaced them on his nose and stared at Fox. “Is there something I can do for you?” He suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to get Fox out of his office.
“I understand that you gave some investment advice to the late Mr Proctor from time to time.”
Pogson silently washed his hands and smiled benignly. “It’s possible that I may have done,” he said. “A long time ago though.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did, Sailor.” Fox paused and gazed at Pogson. The accountant found it disconcerting. “And Robin Skelton, no doubt.”
Pogson contrived to look perplexed. “Skelton, Skelton…” He repeated the name several times. “I don’t think I’ve—”
“Let’s stop buggering about, Sailor, shall we?” Fox leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. “First and foremost, I have found about two hundred K’s worth of tomfoolery in Proctor’s abode, together with a wealth of paper about how he fenced previous acquisitions, and what he did with the money when he, how shall we say, realized his assets. I’ve no doubt that when we come to do the financial analysis of all this, your name will feature quite prominently.” He leaned back and waited. It was all fiction. Proctor had been a careful villain and there had been nothing in his flat to show how he had disposed of any of the jewelery that he had stolen over the years.
Pogson was fairly certain that there would have been no such documents, but despite being a shrewd operator on the financial markets, he was still naive enough to think that Fox would overlook any evidence that involved him in anything illegal. But that just proved that, after all these years, he still did not know Fox as well as he thought he did. “Name doesn’t ring any bells,” he said.
“Oh dear!” Fox looked genuinely distressed. “It looks as though we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” he said, and glanced pointedly at Pogson’s filing cabinet.
“Skelton. Yes, of course. Handles jewelery from time to time.” Pogson was suddenly overtaken by a restoration of memory.
“Nicks jewelery is the expression, Sailor, but yes, you’re thinking along the right lines. Where can I find him?” Fox had already told Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher to go out and “beat on the ground, just to see what came up”, but he believed in setting more than one trap. And if it upset the villainry in the process, so much the better.
“Ah, now there you have me, Mr Fox.” Pogson appeared to ponder the problem. He had always been paid what he called the laundry bill, for converting Skelton’s profit into something legitimate, and he had no reason to shop the jewel thief. But, when it came to it, it was every man for himself. “I could make a few enquiries, I suppose, and perhaps give you a bell.” He looked hopefully at Fox.
“Yes, why don’t you do that, Sailor?”
“It might take some time.”
“I’ve no doubt, Sailor. Shall we say tomorrow? At the latest.”
Pogson waited until he had seen Fox’s car pulling away from the kerb in the direction of Finsbury Circus, and promptly telephoned Skelton. “Robin? The Old Bill’s looking for you.” There was a pause and then he added the gladdening information that it was Tommy Fox o
f the Flying Squad who was doing the looking.
But Fox had known that Pogson would make that call, and he would not have visited the bent accountant unless DS Percy Fletcher had already located Skelton. It was all part of another of Fox’s little plans designed to upset the villainry and flush out the unrighteous. As he later said to DI Evans, “They never learn, Denzil. They never learn.”
Four
It had not taken Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher long to discover where Robin Skelton was living. Deploying his stable of snouts, as informants are known to the police, he had learned that the jewel thief s center of operations was now concentrated on an elegant flat in a modern block just off Queensway in the heart of Bays water. Ironically, it was less than half a mile from the flat that Proctor had occupied until his untimely demise.
Having passed the information to Fox, Fletcher had been surprised when told to do nothing. But now, Fletcher and the rest of DI Jack Gilroy’s team were secreted in and around the street where Skelton lived. Why it was necessary to complicate the operation by mounting a surveillance was a mystery to Fletcher, but then much of what Fox did was a mystery to him. To say nothing of the rest of the Flying Squad.
Within minutes of receiving the radio message from Fox that Skelton was likely to make a hurried departure – a message which had been transmitted the moment Fox had left Sailor Pogson’s premises – the one detective who had been left loitering saw the jewel thief emerging from his block of flats. He immediately alerted DI Gilroy who was parked around the corner, and maintained a running commentary on Skelton’s movements.
Carrying a brown nylon holdall, Skelton crossed the road and unlocked a Rover 400 parked in one of the side streets. Putting the holdall in the boot, he drove off only to find himself hemmed in by three Flying Squad cars before he had traveled fifty yards.
“Afternoon.” Gilroy approached Skelton’s car and produced his warrant card.
“What’s the problem, Constable?” Skelton addressed the detective inspector with all the dignity of a helpful citizen.
“We have had several reports of burglaries from the block of flats you’ve just left, sir,” said Gilroy, ignoring the slight to his rank, “and we’ve been asked by the residents to keep a look out. We just happened to be passing when we saw you come out carrying a holdall.”
