by Graham Ison
“Anyhow, I happened to mention that I’d got some jewelery, quite a lot in fact, and that I’d thought about selling it. I never have occasion to wear it these days, you see. Never go out very much, not the sort of going out that involves getting dressed up, anyway.”
“Are you sure you mentioned the jewelery first? Or did he?”
“Oh, he might have done. I can’t really remember. Anyway, he kindly offered to make some enquiries. I asked him if he wanted to take it with him, but he said no, he’d find out first, but he did have a look at it.”
Fox shook his head in amazement. “You offered to allow a complete stranger to take your jewelery, the first time you’d met him?”
“Well, he did say he was from Peter’s old company. Anyway, as I say, he refused, but the third or fourth time he came, he said that he’d got a buyer and quoted a very good price.”
“So you handed it over and never saw him again.”
“Yes. He’d given me a phone number and after about six weeks had passed, when I’d started to get a bit worried, I telephoned him, but the operator told me that the line had been discontinued, or something like that.”
“What was the number, Mrs Harker?”
“I’m not sure if I’ve still got it. He told me it was the new number for my late husband’s old firm.” Mrs Harker rose from her chair and walked across to a Regency table and opened one of the drawers. She moved the contents about and then turned. “No, I’m sorry, I must have thrown it away.”
“Not to worry,” said Fox. “It wouldn’t have meant very much. I daresay a young lady would have answered, claiming to be your husband’s old company, and then she’d have put you through to a man who would have vouched for this Charles Beveridge. So why did you tell the police that you’d been broken into?”
“I didn’t. I just told them that I’d come back from Basingstoke and the jewelery had gone. Well, that was the truth. But the police seemed to think I’d been burgled, but then they said that they couldn’t see how anyone had got in. The detective, a nice young man, helped me fill in the forms for the insurance company.”
“Did he indeed,” said Fox. “Don’t happen to remember his name, I suppose?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Never mind,” said Fox. “I’ll find him.”
Did he but know it, a CID officer at the local police station was about to be subjected to a very uncomfortable interview with the head of the Flying Squad.
*
“Get on to Kingston and Chiswick nicks, Denzil,” said Fox, “And arrange for Mesdames Bourne and Harker to have a gander at the gear Jack Gilroy’s team found in Skelton’s possession. Never know, they might get lucky. Not that they deserve to. If they score, let Dickie Lord know. I reckon we owe him one.” He shook his head. “Isn’t it bloody marvelous. Some bastard turns up and because he’s well dressed and speaks with a posh accent, these old birds will give him anything he asks for.” He stood up and stared out of the window. “I ask you, Denzil, what chance do we stand?”
“But we’re no nearer knowing who topped Wally Proctor, guv’nor,” said Evans.
Fox turned and glared at Evans. “I am aware of that, Denzil,” he said.
*
“We’ve tracked down Julie Strange, sir,” said Semple. “The girl who witnessed the murder on the houseboat.”
“Good,” said Fox. “How did you do that?”
“Got one of the lads to do a trawl through the marriage register at St Catherine’s House, on the off chance that she may have got married.”
“I thought that was a bit of rare occurrence these days, Jim.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Getting married.”
“Oh, I see,” said Semple. He did not see at all, but then he had not known Fox all that long. “She’s now Mrs Lockhart. Her spouse was shown on the certificate as a dental surgeon so we looked in the Dental Register, found out where he practised and hey-presto!”
*
“I’m afraid Skelton got bail, sir,” said DI Jack Gilroy.
“What?” Fox looked up, stark disbelief evident on his face. “How the hell did that happen?”
“The Crown Prosecution Service bloke didn’t put up a very good fight.”
“That, Jack, is what happens when you send a boy to do a man’s job,” said Fox. “Conditions?”
“That he surrenders his passport and reports to police daily, sir. At Notting Hill nick.”
“It’s no wonder that crime is rife, Jack.” Fox stared moodily at the file on his desk. “There we have a bloody villain bang to rights and he gets bail. I sometimes wonder why the hell we bother.”
*
Lady Jane Sims was wearing a long baggy sweater and black leggings when she answered the door. “Tommy, I was just thinking about you. Come on in.” She led the way into her sitting room and pushed her drawing board into a corner.
“Working?” asked Fox. He had been mildly surprised, when they had first met, to discover that Jane Sims was a highly qualified architect.
“Just roughing out a few designs.” Jane pushed the hair out of her eyes and poured drinks for them both.
“What is it?” asked Fox, peering at the drawing.
“A new sports center. It’s only in the early stages. We don’t even know if we’re going to get the contract, but I’ve never done a sports center before. It could be rather fun.”
Fox nodded gravely. “Looks like an aircraft hangar to me,” he said.
“Oh, you!” Jane gave him a playful punch and handed him a glass. “Well,” she said, “It’s nice to see you, but is there a special reason for your dropping in?”
“Does there have to be?” asked Fox. “I thought you found my company irresistible, whatever the reason.”
“I do.” Jane smiled at him and sat down on the settee, crossing her legs.
“As a matter of fact, there is a reason,” said Fox hesitantly. “At least there was, but I’ve thought better of it.”
“Out with it, Tommy Fox,” said Jane. “What is it? A dirty weekend somewhere?”
“Worse,” said Fox and smiled at her.
“Oh, come on. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Every three months the Flying Squad has a dinner at the Yard. It’s usually for the senior officers only, but some fool suggested that we included wives this time.”
Jane laughed. “Tommy, this is so sudden.”
“Or girlfriends,” said Fox hurriedly. “I wasn’t quick enough to put the kibosh on it. I must admit that the file slipped through without my noticing what the secretary had proposed. I was going to ask you if you’d like to come, but then I thought better of it. It’s not quite your scene.”
“Oh rubbish. I’d love to come. When is it?”
“Thursday. The day after tomorrow. But look, I know it’s short notice and if you can’t make it, I shall quite—”
“Oh nonsense. Of course I’ll come. What shall I wear? How exciting. I’ve never seen the inside of Scotland Yard before.”
“Wish I hadn’t,” said Fox gloomily, regretting his impulse in mentioning the Squad senior officers’ dining club.
“Well, what do I wear?” Jane was clearly excited at the prospect of so unusual an outing.
“The men wear dinner jackets,” said Fox, “If that’s any help. Incidentally, it’s nothing like regimental dinners in the Guards, you know.”
“I never went to one,” said Jane. Her former husband had been an officer in the Guards, but they had divorced some nine years ago. “The Guards are a chauvinistic lot. Anyway, I’d prefer to forget that period of my life.”
“Sorry,” said Fox, realizing that it was a tactless thing to have said.
“Will I meet all your friends, Tommy?”
“I don’t have any friends in the Flying Squad,” said Fox. “They’re all slaves.”
*
Linda Ward was the third name on Dickie Lord’s list. According to the ex-DI, she was fifty years of age, but she looked at least ten years
younger. She had ash blonde hair, cut stylishly so that it curled under and was just clear of her collar, and her dress – obviously from one of the better fashion houses of London – was patently expensive. The brooch she wore was a silver and diamond depiction of a rose. Apparently she had not lost all her jewelery to the iceman, if in fact, Proctor – or even Skelton – had been the thief.
She sat down opposite Fox and Evans and arranged the skirt of her dress carefully. “I must say that I’m impressed by the attention I’m getting,” she said, giving each of the detectives a frosty smile.
“The police at Kensington have told me about the theft of your jewelery, Mrs Ward,” said Fox. He deliberately avoided mentioning burglary.
“So sad,” said Linda Ward. “I’d had some of it since I was a girl, you know.”
Fox nodded sympathetically. “I wonder if you’d just go over what happened.”
“Of course.” Linda Ward brushed absently at the arm of her chair. “I’d been on holiday in the South of France. My married daughter and her husband own a rather large villa there, in a charming little place just outside Cannes, and they very kindly invite me down every year. They really spoil me. Even pick me up from the airport in the Rolls. However, it was ruined by what happened when I got home.”
“And what happened?” asked Fox. He was unimpressed by people who felt obliged to tell him, albeit obliquely, how rich they and their family were.
“All my jewelery had gone.” Linda Ward raised her hands in a brief attitude of desperation, before allowing them to fall, once more, into her lap. “Apart from what I had with me, of course. Thank God, I’d had the sense to take my best pieces with me.”
“When you say it was gone, Mrs Ward, was there any sign that your flat had been broken into?”
“Now that’s the strange thing, Inspector—”
“Chief superintendent, madam. Detective chief superintendent,” said Fox.
“But there was absolutely no sign of anyone having been in.” Linda Ward ignored Fox’s correction to his rank. To her, all policemen were the same, regardless of what they chose to call themselves. And policemen, in her view, were best lumped in with tradesmen.
“Yes,” said Fox. “That’s the conclusion drawn by the officers who first investigated the matter.”
“Well, it’s obvious that someone had broken in.”
“The entire flat was examined scientifically,” said Fox, “And there was no evidence to support the theory that you’d been the victim of a burglary. No sign whatever of a forced entry.”
“Well, I can’t explain it, Chief Inspector. Perhaps you can.” Mrs Ward stared haughtily at the two policemen.
“Perhaps I can,” said Fox quietly as he took the photograph of Proctor from Denzil Evans. “When did you first meet this man, Mrs Ward?” he asked as he handed the print to her.
Linda Ward froze. Her face paled several shades, but the expression on her face did not change. After a few seconds, during which she studied the portrait closely, she looked up. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
“We took it from the flat of a jewelery thief with the uninspiring name of Wally Proctor, Mrs Ward, shortly after someone had murdered him.”
Linda Ward stared at Fox. “But what was this Proctor man doing with a photograph of James?” she asked.
“James who?”
“James Dangerfield. I don’t understand it.”
Fox picked up the photograph and returned it to Evans. “The man you knew as James Dangerfield was, in fact, Wally Proctor,” he said. “Small world, isn’t it?”
Linda Ward rose from her chair and, walking across the room to a side table, poured herself a brandy which she drank down at a gulp. Then she turned. “I’m sorry, would either of you gentlemen like a drink?” she asked.
“No thanks,” said Fox. “I never drink on duty.” Evans shot his chief a sharp sideways glance.
“No, of course not,” said Linda Ward, and sat down again.
“Now, Mrs Ward, would you like to tell me what really happened?”
“I first met James last year, when I was in the South of France,” began Linda Ward, and then went on to relate how he had struck up an acquaintanceship with her, wined and dined her, and arranged to meet her in London. “He was an absolute gentleman, so courteous, and obviously of good family.”
“Did he have a key to your flat, Mrs Ward?” asked Fox, rather brutally.
At first, Linda Ward looked as though she would take exception to the question, but then she just nodded. “Yes,” she said softly.
“He was living with you then?”
Again, the woman nodded. “He talked of marriage,” she said. “It gets very lonely when you’re a widow,” she added defensively.
“Why didn’t he go with you to the South of France this year then?”
“He said that he wanted to, but that he had business in London. He promised to keep an eye on the flat while I was away, but I never saw him again.”
“Why then did you not tell the police this, instead of pretending that your flat had been broken into, Mrs Ward?”
“I really thought it had. I couldn’t believe that James would do such a thing.” Linda Ward had been staring at the empty fireplace, but now she looked up. “He’s dead, you say?”
“Yes. He was shot in a cab at Hyde Park Corner.”
“Oh my God! I saw that in the papers. I didn’t realize it was him.” Mrs Ward clutched hopefully at a sudden thought. “Then perhaps he didn’t take my jewelery. Perhaps he was going to come back, but—”
“No chance,” said Fox. “He was well known to the police as a jewel thief. He had convictions stretching back a long way. His method, unfortunately, was to prey on rich and lonely widows. Like you, Mrs Ward.”
*
The lugubrious figure of Swann, Fox’s driver, appeared in the doorway of the detective chief superintendent’s office. “You wanted me, guv?”
“Yes, Swann. You know where Ladyjane Sims lives, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Pick her up at seven o’clock and bring her back here.”
“Right, guv.” Swann grinned.
“And give me a call when you’re ten minutes away from the Yard,” said Fox. “That’s ten minutes from arriving here, not ten minutes after you’ve left,” he added pointedly.
Swann looked crestfallen. “Of course, sir,” he said.
Six
Although Swann had duly sent the message to say that he was ten minutes from Scotland Yard, Lady Jane Sims was already in Back Hall, as the front entrance is perversely called, when Fox stepped out of the lift. Clearly impressed by Fox’s guest, the Back Hall Inspector, usually the most taciturn of officers, was enthusiastically explaining the Roll of Honor which was in a glass case by the door.
“Well, I must say you look rather stunning,” said Fox, once he had escorted Jane into the lift. She was wearing a calf length soft velvet black dress with a matching serape. Her hair, styled to a fringe at the front, was curled under at the ends so that it just reached her shoulders. “And you’ve had your hair cut.”
“Don’t look so bad yourself, officer,” said Jane with a smile as she admired Fox’s well-cut dinner jacket.
“This is going to be a bore, Jane,” said Fox as the lift reached the fifth floor.
“Don’t be such a spoilsport. I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to enjoy myself.” Jane stopped as Fox was leading her through the thickly carpeted foyer outside the dining room, and glanced around at the sporting trophies in a glass cabinet and at the portraits of bygone commissioners. “Is your picture here somewhere?” she asked teasingly.
“No,” said Fox, “And never likely to be either. Let me take your wrap.” As Jane revealed bare shoulders, he smiled and said, “I can see I shall have to keep a close eye on you this evening.”
The long dining room was crowded with Flying Squad officers, their wives and guests, but they parted with barely concealed admiration as Jane ma
de her entrance, followed by Fox.
“Let me get you a drink,” said Fox, “And then I’ll introduce you to some of the more acceptable of my colleagues.”
The next twenty minutes were taken up in small talk and introductions as, one after another, Squad officers vied with each other to be presented to the earl’s good-looking daughter about whom there had been so many rumors. It was not the first time that Fox had been seen in the company of a woman – he had brought a partner to each of the previous Squad dinner-dances – but this one was the most attractive so far.
“You know Jack Gilroy, of course,” said Fox. Gilroy had been Fox’s principal assistant into the investigation of Jane’s sister’s murder the previous year. “And this is another reprobate, Denzil Evans.”
“Evening, m’lady,” said Evans.
“Jane, please,” said Jane with a smile as she held out her hand.
Fox winced and made a mental note to refer Evans to Debrett’s Correct Form and explain to him that he was not a butler. “And this is the Commissioner, Sir James Gilmore,” he said.
“My dear Lady Jane, how good to meet you,” said Gilmore, holding Jane’s hand for a fraction longer than was necessary. “May I present my wife,” he added, steering a mousey little woman in a blue dress towards Fox’s guest.
Fox, as chairman, sat in the center of the long table with his back to the pictures of the Queen and Prince Philip. Jane was on one side of him and the Commissioner, as guest of honor, was on the other. Commander Alec Myers sat at Jane’s left hand. Opposite her was Detective Superintendent Gavin Brace, whom Fox had, at last, managed to bring to the Flying Squad as his deputy.
Jane clearly enjoyed herself during the meal, making animated converstion with all around her, and leaving Fox to talk to the Commissioner. Gilmore, as always, insisted on discussing the Metropolitan Police and all its problems.
But as coffee was about to be served, Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher appeared at the door of the dining room and hovered, waiting to catch Fox’s eye. Reluctantly, Fox excused himself and walked across. “What is it, Perce?” he asked.
“Sorry to butt in, guv,” said Fletcher, “but I’ve just had a call from Notting Hill nick.”
