by Graham Ison
“I’m going away for a few days.” Skelton smiled. “But I must commend you for your vigilance, Constable, and I’m very pleased to hear that you’re safeguarding our interests.”
“All part of the service,” said Gilroy. “So perhaps you’d be good enough to show me what you have in the holdall.”
“But I live there,” said Skelton.
Gilroy immediately adopted the role of the dim detective. “I’m sorry?”
“I live there, in that block of flats. The flats you were just talking about.”
Gilroy reached out for the pocket book that Fletcher was proffering. “According to the police national computer, sir, you are Mr Robin Skelton. Yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And this is your car?”
“Yes, of course it is.”
“But the computer gives your address as somewhere in Notting Hill.” Gilroy smiled sympathetically.
“Oh, I, er, I must have forgotten to change it when I moved,” Skelton said lamely.
“Mmm!” Gilroy nodded slowly. “Shall we look in the holdall now?” he said.
Slowly, Skelton got out of the car. He was a tall, slender man, in his mid-forties, and dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt and a discreet tie. In his buttonhole, he wore a red carnation. But as he turned to face Gilroy, he suddenly lunged forward and ran down the street.
Gilroy sighed and leaned against the car, watching as four members of his team set off in pursuit. Skelton had reached the traffic lights at the junction and was in the act of hailing a cab when DS Ernie Crabtree laid hands on him and hustled him, still struggling, back to his car.
“Ah, nice of you to come back,” said Gilroy. “Shall we open the holdall now?”
Glowering at the police officers now surrounding him, Skelton watched as DS Fletcher opened the boot of his car and took out the holdall. After rummaging among underclothes and dirty shirts, he produced a chamois leather bag. Inside the bag was a quantity of jewelery.
*
An hour or two later, Fox strode into the interview room at Notting Hill police station and beamed at the hunched figure of Robin Skelton. “I’m Thomas Fox… of the Flying Squad,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”
Skelton remained silent, glaring at Fox with an expression that implied that pleasure was not a term he would have used to describe this latest encounter with the police.
“And what have you to tell me, Jack?” asked Fox, turning to DI Gilroy.
“We found Mr Skelton to be in possession of a quantity of jewelery for which, so far, he has failed to account, sir.” Gilroy looked sorrowful. “And I understand from DS Fletcher, who is currently searching Mr Skelton’s flat, that more jewelery has been found there. DS Buckley is searching the address in Notting Hill but, so far, I’ve not heard from him.”
“Good gracious me,” said Fox and looked at the prisoner with renewed interest.
“I’m in the trade,” said Skelton sullenly.
“Oh, that’s all right, then.” Fox appeared to consider this statement for a while. “And where d’you have your commercial premises, Mr Skelton?”
“I don’t. I trade from home.”
Fox nodded understandingly. “Don’t blame you, really,” he said, “What with uniform business rate, and heating and lighting, and all that. But how do your clients like the idea of trotting into your flat to view the merchandise?”
“I’ve got nothing to say,” said Skelton, realizing that he had probably said too much already. The last time he had been arrested, his solicitor had reproved him for making a verbal statement and had cautioned him that, in the event of a future unhappy event of that nature, he should remain shtoom. “I want a solicitor.”
“Why? Is there some problem with unpaid VAT?” Fox nodded slowly. “Well, if that’s the case, I have to tell you not to bother. That’s all dealt with by Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Not the sort of thing we worry about.” Not unless there’s nothing else, Fox thought to himself.
“Why have I been brought here?” Skelton decided to go on the attack.
“Oh, didn’t the officers tell you?” Fox glanced at Gilroy. “Surely, Jack, you explained to this gentleman why you wanted him to assist us in our enquiries.”
“Not exactly, sir,” said Gilroy. “I told him I was arresting him for possession of a quantity of jewelery suspected of having been stolen.”
“Ah! Now we’re getting to the nub of it. What d’you have to say about that, Mr Skelton?”
“Nothing,” said Skelton churlishly.
Thoughtfully, Fox took out his case and selected a cigarette. After a moment’s hesitation, he offered one to Skelton. “These things have a way of sorting themselves out,” he said, applying a flame to Skelton’s cigarette. “But there are much more important things to talk about.”
“There are?” Skelton looked unhappy.
“Yes,” said Fox. “The unfortunate demise of Mr Wally Proctor. It was reported in The Times, although he was not accorded an entry on the obituary page.”
“What about it?”
“I understand from my informants, who are many and various, that you and he had a falling out. Something to do with the attempted theft of a diamond ring from a high-class firm of West End jewelers, as a result of which the pair of you went down for a couple of years.”
“So what?” Skelton’s pseudo-public school accent, and the phraseology that went with it, had started to slip since the start of the interview.
“Have you ever studied engineering?” asked Fox suddenly.
“Eh?” The change in tack obviously disconcerted Skelton. “No, never.”
Fox nodded amiably. “You see, Robin, old sport, someone of felonious intent rigged up a briefcase with a firearm in it, and when poor old Wally opened it up, it went bang, thereby sending a lethal projectile into his brain, such as it was. Cab driver’s none too pleased either. Quite unnerved him, apparently.”
“That was nothing to do with me.” Skelton’s reserve now began to crumble quite dramatically and an expression of mild panic crossed his face. Although he had never encountered Fox before, he, in common with many other villains, had heard of him. And his methods. And what he had heard did not imbue him with any sense of well-being.
“Well, I’m pleased to have your assurance on that point, Robin. But you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it, won’t you?” Fox turned to Gilroy. “I presume that you have enough upon which to frame a charge, Jack?”
“More than enough, sir,” said Gilroy. “Might even be enough to convince the Crown Prosecution Service.”
“From which, Robin,” said Fox turning back to Skelton, “You will deduce that my detective inspector is brimming with confidence.” He stood up. “I’ll leave you to deal with the paperwork then, Jack.”
*
“The murder you enquired about, sir,” said Detective Superintendent Semple, “The one in which the firearm was used.” “Ah yes,” said Fox. “You have intelligence regarding that outrage, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.” Semple turned up a file. “Took place on a houseboat between Dumsey Eyot and Dockett Eddy.”
“Is that in the Metropolitan Police District, Jim?”
“Just, sir. At Shepperton, on the River Thames. A man was shot dead and his body dumped in the river. It was a dispute over a woman—”
Fox groaned. “Isn’t it always,” he said.
“Apparently the victim had recently been seeing the girl, and her first boyfriend – the alleged murderer – didn’t like it. Happens all the time.”
“Really?” Fox affected surprise. “What, people shooting each other on houseboats? Well, who’d’ve thought it?”
“No, sir,” said Semple, who was still struggling to come to terms with Fox’s bizarre sense of humor. “The eternal triangle.”
“Any names, Jim?”
Semple thumbed open a file. “The girl was called Julie Strange. The deceased was Jason Bright, and the all
eged murderer is Kevin Povey.”
“You keep saying the alleged murderer, Jim. Am I to take it there was no conviction?”
“There wasn’t even a knock-off, guv’nor,” said Semple gloomily.
“Why?”
“Did a runner apparently. When Povey’s drum in Battersea was turned over, there were signs of a hurried departure. No one has the faintest idea where he went or where he is now. Might even be dead, I suppose. One thing that might be useful though – they found a picture of him in a photograph album when they searched the flat in Battersea. Here.” Semple passed Fox the photo. “I did a check with Hugh Donovan at the lab, sir, and he has no record of the weapon having been used between then and now.”
Fox glanced at the photo then handed it back to Semple. “Have you made up-to-date enquiries about this fellow? What was his name again?”
“Kevin Povey, sir. The only trace of him is that he’s still on the PNC as wanted for questioning in connection with the Shepperton job.”
“I should bloody well hope so,” said Fox. “But what do we know about him? Or the woman for that matter.”
“The docket’s got quite a lot about him,” said Semple. “He was twenty-four at the time of the offence, and apparently a bit of a waster. He came from a good family, went to a decent school, but never settled to anything. His old man was quite well off and indulged him. Got the impression that he would rather have given him fifty quid than fifty minutes, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I get the idea,” said Fox. “Were the parents interviewed?”
“Only by the French police, sir.”
“How original,” said Fox. “Is there a reason?”
Semple grinned. “Yes, they were living in Cannes at the time. Apparently hadn’t seen their son for some time. The officer in the case saw no profit in interviewing them.”
“Strange fellow,” said Fox. “Must be one of those dedicated bastards that we seem to be recruiting these days.” He shook his head. “Fancy turning down the chance of a trip to the Riviera. And the woman, Julie Strange?”
“There’s a statement on file, sir, in which she puts the killing firmly down to Povey. Witnessed it, apparently, but took no part in either that or the disposal of the body. She claims that Povey threatened her and that’s why she didn’t inform police immediately. The murder was only discovered when Bright’s body was found in the river some two or three days later.”
“What’s known about her?”
“Aged twenty-one at the time, sir, and a model apparendy. Whatever that means.”
Fox reached across the desk and took the file. He read through Julie Strange’s statement and glanced up. “She doesn’t say what happened to the firearm,” he said. “She doesn’t say, for example, whether it was thrown overboard, or whether Povey took it with him.”
“I suspect that he took it with him, sir,” said Semple. “She claimed he threatened her, and if he’d just slung the weapon over the side, she might not have been so intimidated. Apart from which, if it was thrown overboard, it’s unlikely to have been recovered to commit another murder. It would still have been in the mud, I imagine.”
“Good thinking,” said Fox. “But where’s this woman now?”
“No idea, sir. There’s a note on the docket that says the houseboat was sold shortly afterwards.”
Fox nodded slowly. “Perhaps it might be a good idea to find out, Jim,” he said. “See if she can remember exactly what happened to the firearm that, five years later, took poor old Wally Proctor out.”
*
Mrs Joyce Bourne was a sixty-year-old widow who lived in a house at the better end of Surbiton. Although she was well preserved and still boasted a good figure, she had begun to behave, since the death of her husband, as though she was just waiting to die.
When Fox arrived at her door, she was delighted that the police should be so concerned at her loss that they had now sent a detective chief superintendent from Scotland Yard to talk to her about it. No sooner had she ushered Fox and Detective Inspector Denzil Evans into her sitting room than she disappeared into her kitchen, intent on making tea.
Fox leaned back in the chintz-covered armchair and took a sip of tea from a bone china cup. “Mrs Bourne,” he began, “I am sorry to trouble you again about the loss of your jewelery.”
“Not at all,” said Mrs Bourne. “I’m most grateful that you’re taking such an interest.”
“Perhaps you could just run through what happened.”
“It’s funny you should ask that, but I’d been to see my married daughter. She lives in Cardiff, you see. She’s got a lovely house there, but then property’s cheaper out of London. At least, that’s what her husband said. He’s a surveyor, you know, and surveyors know about these things. They’ve been married for ten years now. Well, it’s her second marriage, you see. Her first husband was an absolute—”
Fox held up his hand. “Yes, madam, I’m sure that she’s very happy now, but could we get back to the jewelery you lost.”
“The what?” Mrs Bourne leaned forward as though she were deaf.
“The jewelery you had stolen, Mrs Bourne.”
“Oh yes, the jewelery. Er, would you like some more tea?”
“No, thank you. That was very nice.” Fox placed his cup and saucer on the occasional table.
“Inspector?” Mrs Bourne looked expectantly at Evans.
“No, thank you, madam. One’s quite sufficient for me.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Bourne, “You’re Welsh, Inspector. Where d’you come from?”
“Wales,” said Evans.
“Yes, yes, but I mean where in Wales?”
“Just outside Cardiff, madam,” said Evans with a sigh. “A little place called Pen-y-groes.”
“Well,” said Mrs Bourne, “Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“The jewelery, Mrs Bourne?” said Fox.
“Oh yes, of course, the jewelery. Well, I’d been with my married daughter for a week and when I got back, it had gone. I called the police straightaway, naturally…”
“Naturally,” murmured Fox. He knew all this. Evans had got details from the investigating officer at Kingston police station. “But your house hadn’t been broken into, I understand.”
“No, at least that’s what the young policewoman said. She went all over and said there was no way anyone could have got in without a key. Apparently they can tell, you know.”
“So I gather,” said Fox drily. “And you can’t explain how your jewelery was stolen. What was its value, incidentally?” Mrs Bourne paused, and for the first time she hesitated. “About forty-five thousand pounds, I suppose.”
“You suppose? You mean that’s the amount you claimed from the insurance?”
“Well, yes.” Mrs Bourne gave a guilty little smile and poured herself another cup of tea. “Are you sure you won’t have another cup?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” said Fox and nodded to Evans. Fortunately, Wally Proctor had been a vain man and the police had found a good portrait of him, in a frame, in his flat. And it was a copy of this that Evans now handed to Fox.
“Have you ever seen this man before, Mrs Bourne?” Fox laid the quarter-plate print of Proctor on the table.
Mrs Bourne gave a little gasp and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my!” she said.
“When did you first meet him?”
“I, er, well, I suppose it must have been about six months ago…”
Five
Mrs Audrey Harker of Chiswick, one of the other losers whose names Dickie Lord had provided Fox with, was also widowed and was three years older than Mrs Joyce Bourne. But her story was similar. She had spent the weekend with her sister in Basingstoke and when she returned, she said, she found that all her jewelery, which she valued at about thirty thousand pounds, had vanished. She was unable to explain how the thief had managed to enter her premises, but pointedly suggested that the police ought to be telling her, not asking.
Fox placed the photograph of Wal
ly Proctor in front of Mrs Harker. “Have you seen this man before, Mrs Harker?” he asked.
Audrey Harker afforded the print the merest of glances. “No,” she said. “Why? Should I have done?”
Fox replaced Proctor’s photograph with one of Robin Skelton that had been taken just after his arrest. “This man, then?”
“Oh, God, it’s Charles. You know then.” Mrs Harker looked accusingly at Fox. “Why have you been wasting everyone’s time if you knew all along?” she demanded.
“We didn’t know all along, Mrs Harker. In fact, we’ve only just arrested this man. His name is Robin Skelton and he was in possession of a quantity of stolen jewelery.” Fox picked up the photograph and handed it back to Evans.
“What name did you know him by?”
“Charles Beveridge. He was absolutely charming. So helpful, too.”
“So it would seem,” said Fox. “Tell me, Mrs Harker, how did you come to meet him?”
No one likes to appear foolish and Audrey Harker was no exception. “I’m afraid I took him on face value,” she said. “He called here one day and said that he worked for my late husband’s firm. He said that he was in the area and that part of his job was to look in on pensioners’ widows, just to make sure that they were all right.” She shook her head, as if unable to comprehend her own stupidity.
“And you accepted that? Didn’t do any checking?”
“No, I’m afraid not. He seemed so, well, so caring and he didn’t seem to want anything. I mean, he just sat, there where you’re sitting, and he had a cup of tea and he talked about how difficult things were for people living on a fixed income.”
“At what point did you part with your jewelery, Mrs Harker?”
“It must have been the third time he called, I suppose. The first time, when he was talking about fixed incomes, he said that if he could help in any way, he’d be more than happy to do so.”
“I’ll bet,” murmured Fox.
