Rough Diamonds

by Graham Ison

  “What about?”

  “Robin Skelton should have reported to the nick at four o’clock, guv, but he didn’t show.”

  “Is that all?” Fox was irritated at being interrupted for so paltry a matter as a prisoner on bail not complying with the conditions of that bail.

  “No, sir. They sent a PC round to his drum, but he couldn’t get an answer. To cut a long story short, guv, they eventually broke in. Skelton’s been topped, sir.”

  “Bugger it!” said Fox. “Who’s dealing?”

  “Well at the moment, sir, the DCI from Notting Hill.”

  Fox groaned. “I suppose I’d better take a look,” he said. “Get hold of Swann and tell him to be on the front in five minutes, Perce.” And, after apologizing to Jane for having to leave – and cautioning Gilroy to make sure she got home safely – Fox left for Skelton’s Bayswater flat.

  *

  Pamela Hatcher, the Home Office pathologist, was hard at work when Fox arrived at Skelton’s flat. The photographic team had taken shots from every conceivable angle and the scientific officers were meticulously examining the entire flat in their search for fingermarks or other evidence likely to lead to the killer.

  “What have we got, Pamela?” asked Fox.

  “Gunshot wounds to the body, Tommy,” said Pamela Hatcher as she stood up. “Four points of entry as far as I can see, but—”

  “Yes, I know,” said Fox with a grin, “but I’ll have to wait for the postmortem.”

  “Is this one of the Commissioner’s new policies, Tommy, dressing for a murder?” Pamela Hatcher cast an amused glance at Fox’s dinner-jacketed figure.

  “Very funny,” said Fox. “How long’s he been dead? Any idea?”

  “Between four and six hours is the best I can offer you, Tommy.” Pamela Hatcher spoke over her shoulder as she began to pack away her instruments and thermometers. “I might be able to narrow it down once I’ve done the postmortem,” she added. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Fox and turned to the detective chief inspector from Notting Hill police station. “What do we know?” he asked.

  “Nothing appears to have been stolen, sir, not at first glance, and there’s no sign of forced entry. Looks as though Skelton admitted his killer. Whether he knew him or not, well…” The DC I shrugged.

  *

  Hugh Donovan, the senior ballistics officer at the laboratory at Lambeth, grinned as Fox entered his workshop. “You’re doing well, Tommy,” he said. “One a week, isn’t it?”

  “Never mind the small talk, Hugh, what’s the verdict?”

  “Those are the rounds recovered from the body and the scene…” Donovan gestured at a kidney-shaped bowl on his bench. “They were .22 caliber and obviously not from the weapon that killed Proctor, because you’ve got that. Unless…” He grinned.

  “This is no time for jokes, Hugh,” said Fox. “Even though I might have felt like topping the bastard, I think I might have preferred to do for the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor who couldn’t be bothered to object to bail.” He smiled spitefully. “I shall have great pleasure in telling him about the demise of Robin Skelton.”

  “I’ve done tests on the rounds and they don’t match any ballistic records we’ve got, Tommy,” said Donovan, becoming serious again. “I’m afraid you’re out on a limb.”

  “Aren’t I always,” muttered Fox.

  *

  Detective Sergeant Rosie Webster was a very attractive six-foot-tall blonde. She weighed fourteen stone and was beautifully proportioned. Although unmarried, she was never without a boyfriend, but she had yet to go out with a policeman, preferring, as she put it, men who could keep her in the style, to which, she could easily become accustomed. But there was nothing soft about Rosie Webster, and many a female prisoner, and not a few men, had found that it was unwise either to cross her, or attempt to deceive her. Consequently, when Fox had to interview a woman suspect, he invariably took Rosie with him. And in Fox’s view, Julie Lockhart, formerly Strange, who had witnessed the murder of Jason Bright on the houseboat at Shepperton, fell into that category.

  The telephone directory contained two addresses for Julie’s husband, Peter Lockhart. One was obviously where he practiced dentistry and the other was his home address. Both were in Barnes, in south-west London, and Fox decided that it would be better to interview Lockhart’s wife when he was not there.

  Julie Lockhart answered the door wearing jeans and a sweater. Her hair, a rich auburn, was tied at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon and she wore no make-up. She did not look much like the model that the police docket said she had been. The room into which she led them, on the front of the house, was tastefully furnished but untidy. There was an overflowing ashtray on the occasional table next to a pile of newspapers, and a dirty cup and saucer stood on the floor, near the settee. In the corner of the room, the television was switched on, but the sound had been muted. It was not an ideal setting for an interview about a murder that had taken place some five years previously.

  “You’ll have to excuse the mess, I’m afraid, but I haven’t got around to doing any housework yet.” Julie Lockhart sat down on the sofa and glanced distractedly at the two detectives. “What’s this all about?” she asked.

  “It’s about the murder of Jason Bright,” said Fox.

  “Oh that.” Julie Lockhart did not seem at all perturbed that the subject was being raised again. “I told the police all I know at the time.”

  “Perhaps, Mrs Lockhart, but I’d like to go over it again, if you don’t mind.”

  A sudden expression of fear crossed the girl’s face. “Have you caught him?” she asked.

  “No. Not yet. Tell me, Mrs Lockhart, what exactly happened?”

  “I’d been going out with Kevin—”

  “That’s Kevin Povey,” said Fox.

  Julie Lockhart nodded. “I’d been going out with him for about eight months, I suppose. He lived in Battersea and I had this houseboat on the Thames at Shepperton.”

  “Was it yours?”

  “Good heavens, no. I rented it. I was modeling at the time and making quite a good income, and I decided to leave home.”

  “Where was home?”

  “Newcastle,” said Julie, but there was no trace of a north-eastern accent. “There’s not much work for models in Newcastle,” she added with a smile. “Anyway, I’d got fed up with Kevin. He was so possessive. D’you know what I mean?” She glanced at Rosie. “And I began to feel stifled. Well, a couple of months before it all happened, I’d met Jason. He was a designer – a dress designer – and we kept bumping into each other at shows and so on. After a while he dated me and we started going out fairly regularly.”

  “And you were still seeing Kevin at this time?” Rosie raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “Go on,” said Fox.

  “But it all ended on that terrible Saturday night. I’d told Kevin that I wasn’t going to see him that evening. Said I was busy, or wanted to catch up on my letter-writing. Something like that.” Julie looked into the middle distance as though conjuring up the scene in her mind’s eye. “But I’d actually arranged to get dinner for Jason on the boat.”

  “And Kevin Povey turned up, I suppose?” said Rosie.

  “Yes. Frightful scene. I’d never seen him so angry.”

  “Were you still having dinner when he arrived?” asked Fox.

  “Oh gosh no. We were in bed together.”

  “And that upset him, I imagine?” asked Fox with masterful understatement.

  “I’ve never seen him so angry, or so violent. He dragged the covers off us and pulled Jason out of bed. He started calling him names and hitting him. Well, Jason wasn’t a big man, and he just tried to defend himself. I tried to pull Kevin away, but I wasn’t strong enough, and anyway I was naked, which is not the best way to start fighting. Not real fighting,” she added with a mischievous smile.

  “And then Kevin produced a gun, I take it?” aske
d Fox.

  “Mmm! Yes, he did. I was terrified. I’d never seen a real gun before, but Kevin started to wave it about, threatening Jason and telling him that if he didn’t leave me alone, he’d kill him. Well, I’m not sure what happened next, because I ran across the cabin trying to get back to the berth where Jason and I had been making love. But then I heard this loud bang and I stopped and turned round. And then I screamed. Kevin was standing there with this stunned look on his face and Jason was lying on the floor with blood oozing out of this hole in his head.”

  “What happened next?” asked Rosie.

  “Kevin bent over him and then stood up. And he said that Jason was dead. He said that it was an accident and—”

  “And was it? An accident?”

  “I don’t know. As I said, I had my back to them both when it happened.”

  “Go on, Mrs Lockhart.”

  “I said that we ought to call the police – I had a phone on the boat – but Kevin wouldn’t let me. He dragged Jason’s body up on deck and dropped it over the side into the river. I think he was drunk, and he started waving the pistol about again. There was a wild look in his eyes. He said that he was going away, but if I told the police, he would find me and kill me. Then he left.”

  “And you’ve not seen him since?” Rosie looked as though she disbelieved the whole story, mainly because of the matter-of-fact way in which Julie had related it. But she realized that the girl must have told it many times before.

  “No. Never.”

  “What was his job at the time you were going out with him, Mrs Lockhart?” asked Fox.

  “I, er, I don’t think he had one. His father had a lot of money and I think that Kevin just lived on his allowance.”

  “What sort of car did he have?”

  “A Mercedes. At least that’s what he was driving that night.”

  “How d’you know that?” asked Fox.

  “I stood on deck and watched him drive away.”

  “What, naked?” asked Rosie acidly.

  Julie Lockhart raised her chin slightly. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  *

  “What did you think, Rosie?” asked Fox.

  Rosie Webster looked at Fox with a cynical smile on her face. “I didn’t believe her, sir,” she said. “She was much too offhand about the whole thing. I think she was lying through her teeth.”

  *

  Having been assured by Jack Gilroy that Jane Sims had been taken home and seen safely into her Knightsbridge flat, Fox left it until the next evening before he called on her.

  Jane threw the door wide and smiled. “Hallo, guv,” she said.

  Fox groaned. “I knew I should never have taken you there,” he said.

  “Why do they all call you guv?” asked Jane as they sat down.

  “Simple,” said Fox. “It’s because I’m the governor. Anyway, you got home all right, I see.”

  “Yes, and I’ve got a frightful hangover, Tommy.”

  “Oh?” Fox looked sharply at the girl. “How did that happen?”

  “After you’d left, the Commissioner made a speech.” Jane smiled. “I must say, he’s a bit of a bore, isn’t he, and so intense. Anyway, after the bigwigs had left, the party began.”

  “What party?” Fox was beginning to have grave misgivings about having introduced Jane into the doubtful company of the Flying Squad at play.

  “Well, the brandy and the port began to circulate…” Jane paused. “They drink a lot, your chaps, don’t they?”

  “Sometimes.” Fox nodded gloomily.

  “And the curator of the Black Museum was there—”

  “I know.”

  “And he opened it up and took a party of us down there. It was awfully interesting, Tommy.”

  “Matter of opinion,” muttered Fox.

  “Then we went back upstairs and had a look at the Flying Squad office with all those gorgeous hunky detectives of yours, and we had a few more drinks. And then Alec—”

  “Alec who?”

  Jane looked thoughtful for a moment or two. “Alec Myers. He is one of your chaps, isn’t he?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Fox, wondering how his commander had got involved in all this.

  “Well, he made me an honorary guv. And they all started calling me Lady Guv from then on. It was great fun, Tommy. Will there be another one soon?”

  “No,” said Fox firmly.

  “And then they put me in a police car and your Jack Gilroy brought me home. But he wouldn’t come in for a drink.”

  “More than his life’s worth,” said Fox darkly. “Lady Guv indeed.”

  Jane laid a hand on his arm. “Promise me you won’t be cross with them, Tommy. They’re a lovely crowd and I haven’t had so much fun in years.”

  Seven

  Fox had told Lady Jane Sims that his job as the officer in charge of a murder investigation accorded with that of the conductor of a huge orchestra. Today, in the incident room at Charing Cross police station, he had all his players assembled. Beside him, Detective Superintendent Jim Semple of Eight Area major investigation pool was beginning to wonder why he was there; the Flying Squad appeared to have taken over.

  “The story so far, gentlemen,” Fox began, “Is that Wally Proctor was murdered in a cab at Hyde Park Corner which, apart from being an arrestable offence, probably contravenes one of the multifarious regulations regarding the use of motor hackney carriages.” The audience laughed dutifully. “But to add to our grief, his erstwhile henchman, Robin Skelton, was murdered in his flat at Bayswater by person or persons unknown. However,” he went on, “I do not intend that the person or persons in question should remain unknown for much longer. Between them, these two undesirable icemen had hit on a profitable scam of befriending widowed ladies and relieving them of their tomfoolery with the aid of the guile and charm that is the stock-in-trade of the confidence trickster. Jack, what news from Bayswater?”

  Gilroy passed a folder of scene-of-crime photographs to Fox and referred him to page five. “That is a fingermark found on the inside of the sitting-room door at Skelton’s flat, sir.”

  “Splendid,” said Fox. “All we have to do now is find the finger that matches the mark and we’ve cracked it. Maybe. I presume that this finger’s not on record, Jack?” Fox was accustomed to the misfortunes that normally attended his investigations.

  “It is, as a matter of fact, sir,” said Gilroy. “At least we think it is. I spoke to Sam Marland, the senior fingerprint officer, just before I came in here, and he’s matched it to marks found on a houseboat at Shepperton.”

  Fox eased down the cuffs of his shirt. “I hope you’re not going to tell me that they tally with the victim, Jason Bright, Jack.”

  Gilroy grinned. “No, sir. But they probably belong to Kevin Povey, who’s still wanted for questioning in connection with Bright’s murder.”

  Fox perched on the edge of a table. “Why only probably?”

  “Povey had no previous convictions and his dabs aren’t on record. But when the houseboat was done, after Bright’s murder, they found five different sets of marks. Four were identified almost immediately. One set belonged to Bright, another to Julie Strange, a third to a former boyfriend, and the fourth to the bloke who owned the houseboat, a chap called—”

  “Never mind what he was called, Jack. So that leaves the one, which probably belongs to Kevin Povey. Yes?”

  “That’s about the strength of it, guv,” said Gilroy.

  “Why the hell should a bloke who killed someone he found screwing his girlfriend suddenly decide to top an iceman? If they are his dabs, of course.”

  “There’s obviously a connection, sir,” said Gilroy and immediately he wished he had remained silent.

  “Now that is the sort of earth-shattering observation, Jack,” said Fox, “That could result in your being invited to lecture on it at Bramshill.” A ripple of laughter greeted this remark; Fox’s views on the Police College were well known to his audie
nce. He lit a cigarette and pondered the problem. But only briefly. “Seems to me, Jack, that we’ll have to find this Povey. What do we know about him?” He glanced around the room. “Anybody?”

  “There’s a description on the docket,” said Semple, “And, of course, the photograph that was found in his flat, but they’re both at least five years old now and he could have changed his appearance quite substantially.”

  “I know. It’s the usual sort of description that could apply to half the male population.” Fox looked around the room until he saw Rosie Webster. “Rosie, go and see Julie Lockhart again and see if you can build on that description. And take Kate what’s-her-name with you. See if you can rattle Mrs Lockhart’s bars for her.” Fox was the first to recognize that when it came to interviewing women under about fifty, Rosie Webster was more skilled at it than he was. “Denzil…” Fox switched his gaze to DI Evans. “Yes, sir?”

  “How are the enquiries into Proctor going?”

  “We’ve got no further with the hotel, sir,” said Evans. “It looks as though whoever deposited the brief-case at the Agincourt Hotel, the case containing the pistol that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that,” said Fox impatiently. “What about it?”

  “It’s gone cold, sir,” continued Evans. “I don’t think we’ll ever track him down now.”

  Fox nodded. Even he realized that some things were impossible. Not that he ever admitted it. “Associates, friends, family? Anything on that?”

  “Enquiries are continuing, sir,” said Evans with a grin. “You mean you’ve got nowhere.” Fox turned to Gilroy. “And Skelton, Jack? Anyone confess to knowing him?”

  “One possible lead, sir,” said Gilroy. “I spoke to the neighbors and one old dear claimed to have seen a young woman leaving Skelton’s flat a couple of times first thing in the morning. Quite accidental, of course. The informant reckoned she was putting out the milk bottles at the time.”

  “Of course,” said Fox. “You know, Jack, the investigation of crime in this country will undoubtedly suffer a severe setback if doorstep deliveries of milk ever stop. Keep me posted.”

  *